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?”

“Aye…”

“Findárras, help me!” Elfhelm was certain that Éomer had not actually understood his question as he seized his friend’s bad arm and pulled him to his feet while his second-in-command supported him from the other side. Another pained yell, but there was no time to do this in a gentler way. “Thor!”

“I’ve got him. Go ahead!” The scout held Elfhelm’s dark-brown steed tightly and watched anxiously as his two brothers-in-arms wrestled the limp king into the saddle while the noise of the approaching Uruk-hai began to rise behind them as they swarmed up the hill. “Ready?”

Elfhelm nodded and - breathing hard, slid into the saddle behind Éomer’s slumped form., sweat-drenched from the effort. Mounting his own horse, Thor cast a sceptic glance at the two men.

“I hope he remains in the saddle.”

“If he falls, we are dead,” Elfhelm muttered and – seeing the first dark shapes of their enemy appear on the top of the hill behind them, kicked his heels into his steed’s flanks.

***

The darkness had faded to a pale, grey dawn, a light that promised snow from the thick clouds over their heads when the four men on their three steeds came to a halt. Elfhelm’s dark bay was drenched in sweat, vapour was rising from its heated body into the cold morning air and it was breathing heavily from the effort of carrying its double burden over many leagues at a frantic pace. To the marshal, it was painfully clear that his horse had almost reached its limit. But if he knew one thing about their pursuers, than that they needed no rest. Uruks were known for their incredible stamina, and each moment they would take to give their horses a much needed break would bring their enemy closer again. There was no question that they were being followed. Whoever it had been he had seen running their way in the night while he had been dangling from the rope, occupied with keeping his friend from slipping out of the sling, he would do everything in his power to recapture the king, this much was clear. Maybe their little ploy with the éored splitting up into three groups had put the enemy off-track, but Elfhelm knew better than to count on it. Still, the fact remained that their horses were in desperate need of a break, even if it would just last for a few minutes.

But who was their enemy?

            As he pulled the reins, his tired gaze swept the surrounding landscape. Since they had headed north-east on the lesser travelled paths through the White Mountains towards Helm’s Deep, the terrain had increasingly become more rugged and treacherous, but so far he could not make out any distinctive marks that would tell him for how much longer they would have to ride before they would reach their destination. An inner voice told him not to linger here for too long – the king definitely needed to see a healer fast. Éomer had not said anything for the duration of their ride, and his slumped form in Elfhelm’s arms had told the marshal that the younger man had been barely conscious enough to stay on the horse, even after they had tied him to the saddle as soon as they had gained a big enough advantage over their pursuers. The heat radiating from his still form had the marshal worried more than anything and prompted him to urge his mount on though he knew that Éon would hardly be able to go on much further at the sharp pace they had been travelling at.

Turning around in the saddle, Elfhelm only had to look at the faces of the two men accompanying him to know they were just as tired as himself, but equally determined to go on. Still, there was something else written all over his scout’s uncharacteristically dark-toned face, something he could not lay his finger on or name. He did not ask. The half-Dunlending would tell him as soon as he was ready to share his knowledge. In the two years the since the younger man had been assigned to his éored, Elfhelm had quickly learned to trust and even more - to depend upon the black-haired soldier with the dark, keen eyes. It had not been easy for Thor to become accepted among the traditionally suspicious Rohirrim, but through his calm, yet self-confident attitude and undeniable skills, he had won over the Lord of the Eastmark who had made it a point from early on to give the ragged young man from a devastated village at their western border a fair chance. The seasoned warrior’s approval had then done the rest for Thor. None of the warriors riding he commanded would ever have had the mind to question their marshal’s decision, so their unusual kinsman had been unanimously accepted among the warriors of the Riddermark, and by now, two years later, his descent was no longer an issue for any of them.

Elfhelm raised a hand as his two companions looked at him in expectation.

            “The horses need a rest. Let us halt here and let them drink and graze for a moment… I also need to look at Éomer.”

            Careful not to knock his friend off-balance, he slid out of the saddle and they untied the king and managed to lay him down on a blanket which Findárras had quickly untied from his own horse and spread on the ground. Leaving their horses to themselves as they knew they would not run, the captain and the scout watched their commander kneel down next to the freed captive and helped him to lift Éomer’s head to offer him water from a canteen. The unconscious man’s reaction – an anguished moan, a half-finished curse and sudden jolt to the side – came unexpected. Elfhelm tried it once more, but again could not pour a single swig between the firmly shut lips. With deep lines on his forehead, the marshal abandoned his initial idea and chose instead to run his hands over the younger man’s body in search for injuries. At last, he pulled his dagger to slit the mud and blood-stained tunic around the shaft of the bolt to have a look at the apparently most serious wound. A tell-taling, sweet stench reached their noses and turned their faces grave.

            “Sweet Eru…” Findárras muttered as he saw the angry red of Éomer’s skin around the black wood. Together, they gently turned the unconscious man on his side… and saw his bloodied back. “It pierced his shoulder. If we pull it, we will only worsen the damage already done to him.”

Elfhelm nodded, his mouth a drawn line. This was even worse than he had thought.

“Aye. We need to drive it through. But it has to come out!” Carefully, he ran a finger over the thick wood shaft. The lines on his weathered forehead deepened. “It really sits in there…” He grasped the bolt and moved in with his dagger to cut off the black feathers … and paused to look at Éomer’s face. There was no sign that the young king was anywhere near waking, so this was the right time for his grisly task. He went to work. Behind him, Thor and Findárras took in a deep breath.

“I am not sure whether it is wise to do it out here, marshal” the scout finally spoke, hesitant. “If the arrow comes out, it is likely that the wound will bleed heavily and we are not equipped to handle that. He looks already very frail to me. He needs a skilled healer, no improvised first-aid.”

“All I know is that it has to come out fast! It is poisoning him! We all know what orcs to with their arrows…” Elfhelm continued, determined – until, with the last cut, the shaft suddenly fell off under the pressure, the long, splintered end clearing the wound. He cursed and picked up the broken piece to inspect it. The other end was still lodged in his friend’s flesh, no longer visible. Swearing, he looked at Éomer’s back in hope to be able to pull the remains of the bolt out from behind, but no sooner had he closed his fingertips around the protruding iron tip to pull, when it, too, came loose with absurd ease, also splintered. For a moment, Elfhelm just sat on the ground and stared down at the blood-encrusted tip in his hand. This was bad. On the ground, the king began to moan.

“We cannot pull it out here,” his red-haired second-in-command repeated their scout’s statement calmly, hoping to reach his marshal. “We need to reach the next settlement first. As far as I remember there is a woman who has a good reputation as a healer among the soldiers. She will know what to do.”

Cursing, Elfhelm thrust the remainders of the bolt to the ground. His sinister gaze swept the path they had come. So far, not a sign could be detected of their enemy’s presence. He turned his head to look at their horses, which were still standing by the river-bank, drinking, oblivious to their plight.

“It appears as if we have no other choice then,” he mumbled, under his breath. A brief nod in the direction of their steeds. He exhaled. “Let us give them a few more moments. They have run far this past night. And the settlement may yet lie another five or six leagues ahead. It will not help us if they collapse under us.” The scout was not looking at him, and he did not seem to listen. Elfhelm’s eyes narrowed. “Thor?”

“Someone is coming our way….” The dark eyes scanned the horizon in the direction they were headed. The marshal and his second-in-command spun around. “Looks like four riders… and a riderless grey horse.”

            “Must be Hárrdras. I told him to bring Firefoot, if he could get a hold of him,” the red-haired Findárras sighed in relief. “I figured that if we freed the king, the weight of the both of you would become too much for Éon to bear over a long distance.” He took a deep breath. “They made it then! Praise Eru!”

            “Good thinking,” Elfhelm admitted, angered at himself for not thinking of it first. The riders approached, and indeed he recognised their armours, helmets and horses now, if not their faces until they had approached them and brought their steaming steeds to a stop. The oldest of them, a wiry, weathered-looking man with a long, dark-blond beard and a face that looked as exhausted as their own, addressed them.

            “My lord Elfhelm, I report that your éored is already halfway on the road to Helm’s Gorge. The three groups have reunited at the mouth of the gorge, as ordered, and should arrive at the village by nightfall.” His eyes widened as he spotted the unmoving shape behind them. “I see you succeeded, Marshal… but how is our king faring?“

            “He is alive, but he needs a healer, and fast.” Elfhelm eyed the men in deep concern. They looked wearied, and one of them had blood smeared all over the right side of his face from a nasty cut on his brow. “Did all men make it back?”

            Hárrdras’ face darkened.

            “Alas, no, my lord. The attack cost us the lives of seven men… and five more were wounded, one of them grievously. He might not make it.

            “Seven!” Elfhelm paled. “Valar...” He shook his head. “These are bad tidings.” A short glance at Éomer. He would spare his friend the details of his rescue if he could. Éomund’s son would be devastated to hear the hefty price of his own survival. “Did you kill the warg?” It had been an elemental part of their plan, for as good as the Uruk-hai’s sense of smell was, the warg’s was much better, and all efforts of throwing their enemy off their track would ultimately be in vain if the orc-wolf would be able to pick up their scent through the air from leagues back. But the expression in his opposite’s face told the marshal that his hope had been in vain.

            “I am afraid we did not succeed. We wounded it, but I cannot tell how seriously. It was still fighting when your signal came and brought down two of our men and horses alone. I fear that it may not be too badly wounded after all.”

            Elfhelm let out air in frustration and shook his head.

            “So they are very likely still on our track.”

            “It would be safe to assume that, aye.”

            His eyes went over to their horses again and Elfhelm had to fight the sudden inner urge to call them back and continue their flight immediately. ‘Patience’, he told himself. ‘Let them rest a little bit longer, and they will be able to go on much swifter and further.’ His glance returned to Hárrdras.

            “I assume that none of you has spotted our real enemy, the foe behind that army of Uruk-hai? For I do not believe that the Uruks attacked us of their own accord.”

            “I am afraid we did not, Marshal. We were not close enough to-”

            “I did.”

            Eyes turned to Thor, who had been silently following the debriefing from behind and returned their stare with an uncomfortable expression on his face. Elfhelm furrowed his brow, not wanting to believe what he had just heard, and when he spoke, his voice sounded tense with only barely suppressed anger.

            “You saw him? You recognised our enemy?”

“Aye, Marshal.”

An incredulous look.

“So why did you not tell me? It is the one thing I need to know most urgently! Thor?”

The dark eyes turned to him. Yes, this was the expression he had seen on his scout’s face just before they had stopped. It was one he had seen there only on very rare occasions. One that made him queasy: uncertainty. What was going on?

            “It cannot be.” Dumbfounded silence. “I mean... it is impossible. It must have been a trick of the light as he came running towards the cliff. His face was partially in shadow, but –”

            “Who was it?” Elfhelm felt like throttling his opposite. Why was he still waiting to deliver this vital piece of information? The scout opened his mouth for a reply, but it was another voice that answered.

            “It is Wormtongue.”

Éomer had been listening to the discussion for a while already while he had gradually risen from a black, bottomless pit through a stream of fragmented thoughts, images and barely hinted notions to the surface of reality, even though he was by no means certain that it was in fact reality he was listening to. It sounded rather like a continuation of his perpetual nightmare – men losing their lives because of him, long-time friends putting themselves in mortal danger even though they despised the man they were doing it for...

He cringed at the prospects of having to address them, of submitting himself to their well-earned disgust by claiming their attention, but if – through his knowledge – he could prevent yet another bloodbath, he would have to do so. So he spoke, and at the same time, forced himself to open his eyes.

His sight was blurry and unfocussed, but even so, it could not be missed how much his unexpected words had startled his men as they jumped and turned around. Under different circumstances, Éomer might have found the sight amusing, but his own shame as well as the open concern in his old friend’s eyes killed the impulse immediately as Elfhelm hastily took the few steps separating them and kneeled down at his side.

            “Éomer! How-” The question died on his lips. It was quite obvious how the king was faring, so Elfhelm swallowed it and instead laid a hand on his shoulder to give him a reassuring squeeze. The expression on his face was one of disbelief. “Wormtongue?” He shook his head firmly. “Wormtongue was killed in the Shire. We have proof of that.”

            “What proof?” He was so hot... it was almost impossible to hold his concentration up as Éomer stared into the marshal’s grey eyes. “There were only words... rumours... no body.”

“Did you not say for yourself that the Halflings would not have lied to us in a matter of this importance? I thought you believed them!”

“And I still do. They did not lie – they did not know better. Gríma set it all up.” His throat was dry and hurt when he spoke, and this time he accepted the water his one-time mentor offered him willingly. Exhausted, he sank back. “No, he is very much alive, Elfhelm. And he has a devious plan to avenge himself on the people of the Mark...” He closed his eyes, too weak and too ashamed of himself to keep them open. But he had to finish this, had to keep up his concentration at least long enough to share what knowledge he had. “He is breeding Uruk-hai in the Misty Mountains...” The collective gasp around him could not be overheard. A hand tested his brow, and as Éomer forced his eyes open again, he saw it in Elfhelm’s face that he was not being believed.

            “My friend, you are delirious...” The older man shook his head in denial. “You are burning up. Surely you can no longer distinguish between-“

            “I know what I saw! I know what I heard!” Éomer’s hot temper flared up from out of nowhere. “For Eru’s sake, I was his captive over two days, Elfhelm! I may be feverish, but I still know what I am talking of! You better start believing me – or Thor, for that matter. He saw the same! Did you not, Thor?”

            “Aye...” The scout nodded, discomfort over having been caught between his marshal and his king plainly written on his face. His gaze locked on Elfhelm. “In fact, I saw him quite clearly... yet I dared not to say anything for I doubted myself. I knew how unlikely it was.”

            A leaden break. The seriousness of the situation was beginning to dawn on the men as they stood in a silent circle around their king, contemplating the meaning of what they had just heard. Finally it was Elfhelm’s second-in-command who ripped himself out of his stupor first to glance at the horizon the way they had come.

            “I believe we should be on our way again, marshal. The horses appear to be ready to leave, and we should not abandon more of our advantage over the enemy lightly. The way still ahead of us will not be easy to travel. Not so in daylight and much less during the night.” As he spoke, his eyes followed a white something from his line of vision to the ground, and he sighed inwardly. Snow. It would further complicate their flight and make it harder to wipe their traces. It was with relief when he saw Elfhelm nod.

            “Aye. You are right.” Still kneeling, the marshal turned to the fallen king. “I am afraid you will have to stay on horseback for a while longer yet, brother...” He seized Éomer’s shoulders and was taken aback when his hand was slapped away.

            “No. Leave me here.”

            “What?” He could not have heard that right.

            “You’re faster without me...” The wounded man did not open his eyes. “And I don’t want to come with you.”

            Elfhelm gaped at his men in utter consternation and found his expression mirrored in their faces. A moment later, he shook his head, pushed aside what he had believed to have heard and gestured Findárras to help him sit the king up.

            “I don’t know what is going on in your mind, my friend, but if you believe that we attacked those Uruks to get you out of their grasp only to leave you lying here now, you are mistaken! You are coming with us. Findárras?” He renewed his grasp on Éomer’s arm and met with resistance as they slowly pulled the king up. Suddenly, dark eyes met his in seething anger, a sight he was not prepared for.

“’Friend? You are calling me ‘friend’? Stop your lies, Elfhelm! At least you should be honest with me. I have heard enough lies from Wormtongue already.” The king turned his arm, yet could not break the men’s grasp on him. “Let go of me!”

“This confirms it: You are delirious, my friend – and you are coming with us, no matter what!”

Elfhelm decided he would have none of this. Even though the younger man’s erratic behaviour troubled him deeply, they had no time to search for its causes. With a combined effort, the éored’s two commanders brought their king up on his knees. And now Thor came to their aid, as well. Together, they put the swearing Éomer on his feet and at the grey stallion’s side. Firefoot was carrying a saddle that was not his own and even though he had not been used to having others handle him before, it was almost as if he understood the situation and his master’s need, for – even though Hárrdras’ hold on his bridle was loose – he did not stir when the men bumped into his side.

“Let go of me, Elfhelm! That is a direct order!” Éomer’s strength was failing him fast, but still he fought against being lifted into the saddle.

“I am not taking orders from delirious men. – Findárras, Thor?” Together the three men wrestled the king onto the grey’s back. “Now tie him to it! Make sure he stays up there!” For a moment, the marshal observed the preparations for the continuation of their flight, and when it soon became clear that his friend was in no condition to commence his unexplainable resistance, he turned and gave a sharp whistle in the direction of their horses. A moment later, his trusted Éon was at his side, and he took Firefoot’s reins and tied them to the back of his saddle. “Hárrdras, you and your men lead the way. Thor, Findárras – for as long as it is possible, you ride at Éomer’s side. Support him if needs be, just make sure he stays in the saddle. We need to make haste. The morning is already half-gone, and my gut tells me that the weather is going to get worse. Let’s see that we reach our destination as soon as possible!” With a last glance back at a – thankfully - still empty horizon, Elfhelm urged his steed into motion again...