CHAPTER 5

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Even though the conditions worsened by the minute and it seemed as if all the snow winter had in store for the Mark was going to fall in the course of this one night, the tracks were getting clearer and easier to follow the more they advanced. They were gaining on their fleeing prey , oh yes!

And once they had them, Gríma Wormtongue pondered, eager with anticipation, he would make the king watch how the Uruk-hai killed off his kinsmen one by one. He would make them suffer for the little trick they had played on him. He had lost valuable time through their unexpected manoeuvre, and part of his carefully bred Uruk-hai. Replacing them would not be as effortless for him as it had been for the White Wizard. His breeding pits were much less sophisticated, and his overseers not equipped to handle the newly bred half-orcs’ training by themselves. He would have to supervise them, and in the meanwhile, a hunt for him of the likes the people of the Riddermark had never experienced before would be initiated. Wormtongue was certain that even now there were Rohirrim messengers on the way to spread the tidings of his survival across Rohan. He had lost his most valuable advantage, thanks to whom he did not know yet. He would have to be infinitely more careful in the future about entering the domain of the horse-lords, so he would have to make this presumably last chase count. Chances were that he would never again come this close to killing his foe of many years. He had to succeed! And he would!

            The counsellor woke from his inner musings as he saw the bulky shape of the warg and its rider approach. Both the orc’s and his steed’s eyes reflected eerily silver in the weak light.

            “My Lord, the enemy is close. I have seen them with my own eyes on the next mountain pass. We should be upon them very soon… and on this path, they will have absolutely no way of evading us. They were stupid to choose this way. Very soon, it shall become their doom!”

            Gríma allowed himself a small, satisfied smile under the relative warmth of his hood. “Very well, Âshgnak. Spread the word. It shall bring new strength to your brethren.” The orc looked indignant of being named in the same breath with his towering half-brothers, but he nodded nonetheless and urged his mount to turn its massive bulk around on the narrow way. Up ahead, a low but growing thunder shook the mountains…

***

            Thor had been right: It was utter madness to attempt the crossing under these conditions, Elfhelm had to admit as his gaze wandered back from the ice-encrusted men and horses of his éored over the black abyss to their right side, and to the backside of his scout. The storm was raging over the mountain peaks and through the narrow gorges, and while the rock walls sheltered them from the elements at one place, it channelled the wind in others, making it increasingly harder to move on on the slippery path without being pushed over the edge. They were advancing even slower than Elfhelm had anticipated, and the marshal found himself looking over his shoulder and scanning the way they had come for the enemy more and more often, but the winding mountain path did not allow for wide, sweeping views. Wormtongue and his Uruks had to be there somewhere, even if he couldn’t see them. He sensed them. At one point, he even thought he could hear a distant bellow over the roaring storm behind them, even under the heavy fabric of his hood.

            He wondered if Thor had heard it, too, but if he had, the scout gave it away with no sign. No looking back, no acceleration, no hurried attempt to put more distance between them and their pursuers. It would have been impossible anyway. They were proceeding as fast as they could without running an even higher risk of losing men and horses. His dark-bay steed trembled beneath him, and Elfhelm would have given much to take the strain from his exhausted horse. It looked pitiful with its ice-encrusted face and chest, and he could feel the strength it took Éon just for each new step in the almost knee-high snow. Under normal conditions, he would have liked to dismount, since they proceeded slowly enough to walk, but the path was so narrow occasionally that he did not dare to. Another look back, but again sheer granite walls blocked his view. All he could see were dark, slumped shapes hunched under heavy cloaks, looking like chimeras as their silhouettes merged with those of their horses. A procession of fantasy creatures…

            A shudder ran from the ground up Éon’s legs, the vibrations travelling all the way up through Elfhelm’s body to his head. At first, he knew not what to make of it – but then there was suddenly a hasty movement of the shape in front of him and a low, but quickly growing growl from the top of the slope they were passing told him that their worst fear had become reality.

            “Avalanche!” Even as Elfhelm spotted the crest of a white tidal wave rushing their way, Thor spurred his horse to reach the shelter of a narrow canyon up ahead. “Run! Run!” The scout’s voice was drowned out in the rock-shattering thunder as Elfhelm kicked his heels into Éon’s flanks. The stallion jumped forward – and slipped! For a moment, it danced precariously alongside the gaping abyss before another jump brought it back on solid ground, racing blindly through the mist of tiny snowflakes preceding the force of nature that was about to devour them. “Run for your lives!”

            The mouth of the canyon was close, but now the entire mountain shook beneath their feet. Thunder drowned out everything as the night became a white, furious hell…

***

            The procession of Uruk-hai came to a halt. For a moment, there was a strained silence as the great orcs listened to the sound of the white inferno. From where they were, they could see nothing more then a great bright cloud of loose snow being spat into the darkness up ahead, but they, too, had felt the earth tremble beneath their feet, and more than one head turned towards the mountain peaks that towered over their own position.

            “Master?” Amber eyes reflected in the ghostly pale light. “It sounds as if-“

            “The mountain is killing them, yes.” Gríma Wormtongue’s expression could not be made out in the shadow of his clothing, but he sounded disappointed. After all the effort he had put into his plan and now their pursuit, he was loath to be denied the pleasure of killing King Théoden’s nephew himself. Éomer could not be dead yet! The orc seemed hesitant. Clearly, he was uncertain whether he should speak the words that were on his mind out loud.

            “But… if they are dead already…”

            “We will not have to proceed?” Pale blue eyes, as frosty as the chilly night, tore into the creature’s face. “You are not telling me that you are afraid to follow them, Gârlâk?” The voice was silky, but the underlying threat clear enough. The orc tried to look indignant at his master’s accusation, but he failed.

            “Their fate could quickly turn into ours, my lord. I was just-”

            “-admitting that you and your brethren are cowards? I would not have believed it, if you hadn’t told me. I have never heard that that Uruk-hai were afraid of anything. It has been a common believe for many years, I might say. But it appears to a falsehood like so many things people say about things they don’t understand. A fairytale... or maybe it was my mistake. Maybe I failed to include the one ingredient that turned Saruman’s Uruks into such fearless killers. I should have looked over his shoulder more attentively, then I wouldn’t be stuck in the middle of a snowstorm with a bunch of cowardly orcs!”

            The yellow eyes sparkled with open anger now.

            “There is nothing the Uruk-hai were ever afraid of, and there will never be!”

            “Fine,” Gríma sneered, pointing a gloved finger in the direction they had been riding. “Then proceed.”

***

            The silence was complete. The world had turned white and quiet, and for a moment, Elfhelm wondered whether this was indeed the afterlife. Had they all been swept off the mountain-side by the masses of snow and rock? He had felt nothing, no falling sensation, no pain. If he was indeed dead, then this had been a good way to go. But even as he continued to wonder about his fate, the outline of the rock walls surrounding him began to shine through the settling whiteness of the snow and the laboured breaths of his exhausted stallion reached his ears – and the cries of the men of his éored could be heard from behind.

            “Thor?”

            “I’m here.” The scout’s black horse appeared from out of the mist like a ghost. “The king?” Even his unusually sharp eyes had difficulties seeing Éomer’s dapple grey stallion in the swirling black and white. Elfhelm looked back and saw his friend’s slumped shape still in the saddle. He even saw movement as Éomer turned his head just the slightest bit to follow their gaze back. All in all there were about twenty, twenty-five horses and men crammed into the safety of the canyon along with him… but where was the rest?

            “Findárras?” Behind him, he heard Thor call out the names of the men he recognised. His second-in-command was not among them. “Findárras!” He urged Éon to turn around.

            The mist had settled enough for Elfhelm to finally see the full scope of the catastrophe that had befallen them, and the sight of it knocked the breath from his lungs: The entire shoulder of the mountain they had passed under was cold, icy rock, there was no snow left on it. Everything had tumbled down on them and fallen into the abyss – and the path was gone. It had broken off on a length greater than the reach of two or three ropes, leaving nothing but a gaping, sheer cliff.

            Something moved behind the hole! Apparently, some men of his éored had managed to turn back in time to evade the deadly masses… but now they were cut off, and there was no chance in hell for them to cross the gap, not even if they left their horses behind. Among them, Elfhelm saw the tall brown horse of his second-in-command, and a mix of heated rage and shattering despair seized him. What had they done to deserve such a fate? What had they done to anger the old gods? This was their second night in consecution without sleep; they had been on their feet for longer and putting more leagues behind them than Elfhelm could count, all in faithful service to their king and people, so how could this be? Why had that avalanche not knocked their enemies from the mountain-side? Why them?

            “Findárras!”

            “Sarabande! Valar, no!” Árdwyne’s high, distressed voice cut through the shouts and muttering. Elfhelm’s stomach took another plunge – so the healer was on the other side, too! “Please, Marshal Elfhelm, we must do something!”

            “We can’t.” The head of his scout’s steed emerged at his side, and a moment later, the half-Dunlending came to a halt next to him. His voice sounded low… and beat. He had already grasped the terrible meaning of what had happened. “There is nothing we can do to help them. We must leave. Findárras would want us to. He will attempt to take as many of the Uruks with him as he can, and he would want for us to make the most of the time he’s buying us. We cannot let his last effort be in vain.”

            “Maybe, if we throw them a rope-“

            “We do not have enough rope,” Elfhelm muttered dully without being able to take his eyes off the men on the other side of the gap. He counted nine. Together with the men here in the canyon, it meant that some had died on the foot of the mountain, as well. He hated how hopeless his own voice sounded. They were maybe only three hours away from the relative safety of Helm’s Deep, and yet there were only less than half of the people left he had led into this ill-fated rescue mission. Never had he anticipated such losses. “And in this storm, we could never throw it over to them.” He hated the sound of his next words. “Thor is right. We must move on.”

            “But what about Sarabande?” Frozen tears glistened on the young woman’s cheeks as she reached out for the marshal. “She saved the king’s life! You cannot desert her now!”

            “I am sorry-“ Elfhelm began, but he was cut off by a husky voice. He turned his head and looked into Éomer’s face. The hood had been blown from his head by a gust of wind, and his eyebrows, lashes and beard were full of ice, but at least he appeared to be lucid.

            “I am sorry, Árdwyne. I will be forever indebted to –“ he hesitated, not knowing the relationship between the two women.

            “She was my teacher.”

            “Your teacher. Aye.” He nodded slightly, suppressing a wince. “And I am certain she taught you good. And that she also taught you to recognise a lost cause.” His words were bitter, and Árdwyne’s tears made it even harder for him, but they had to be said. “She would have told you to move on if she had ever anticipated this situation. To not wait for someone who will not be able to follow. It is one of the first rules you learn in the field - to not throw one life after another senselessly, not even after a friend. Your friend would want for you to go on, not die a senseless death.” He had to pause and fight to catch his breath. The few sentences had robbed him of the strength he had possessed for a short time as his eyes swept over the lost men and the woman behind the gap. The lines of pain on his face deepened as he added in a low, finite tone: “We must move on. There is still a good chance that we share their fate ere the night is over… I am sorry, Árdwyne.” He turned to his marshal, whose eyes were likewise still fixed on the other end of the gap. For a moment, none of the survivors spoke. Their thoughts went out to their doomed comrades-in-arms, and silent prayers were spoken for them. Then, suddenly, a faint shout could be heard over the storm, and the small group of riders headed back from the brink of the cliff to a formation of rock that would grant them an advantage once they faced the hostile army, however small.

            Éomer forced himself to look away. He met his friend’s knowing, desperate eyes and braced for the effort of the continuation of their path. A cloud of despair, darker than even the black night, hung over the small group of survivors as they slowly disappeared in the whirling snow…

***

“Where are they headed? Speak, and I may end your suffering quickly.” Wormtongue’s gaze pierced the mortally wounded man his Uruk-hai had half-carried, half-drawn to him. He was the only one still alive of the little group which had been trapped on their side of the gap, although he would not last for long. His carefully crafted cuirass indicated that he was a soldier of high rank, and as the counsellor’s scrutinising look continued to linger on the pale, pained face, he recalled having seen the man before, during his service under the late King Théoden, although he could not remember his name. Three bolts had punched into his torso through his armour and thin rivulets of blood were running from the corners of his mouth. He would be dead very soon, but not so soon that Gríma could not threaten him with making his passing even more painful. He drew a thin, jagged blade from his belt and pressed it against the wounded man’s throat to add impact to his words – and found himself taken aback as the prisoner spit into his face – saliva and blood. Then he laughed at his captor, even though his breathing sounded raspy and laboured.

            “You are helpless now, snake, aren’t you? You cannot follow them, and you will not find them again when you turn back now! And soon, you and the filth that accompanies you will be hunted down by my brethren like rabid dogs! You cannot threaten me! I am not afraid of death!” Findárras gritted his teeth at his enemy in a bloody grin. His men were dead, and he would rejoin them very soon, and his agony would end. They had done what they could for Elfhelm and the king. They had managed to kill the warg and its rider, and even a few of Wormtongue’s Uruks before a hail of arrows and crossbow-bolts had punched through their defences with deadly accuracy, killing horses and men alike. There was nothing more for him to do.

            A malevolent sparkle glistened in the watery eyes in front of him, but all Findárras saw was his own image mirrored in the dark pupils as Wormtongue moved so close that he could actually smell the scent of his sick-looking skin.

            “If you choose these words to be your last, so be it, nameless rider of Rohan! Laugh at me, if you like, but we will find them, and when we do, their fate shall be even worse than yours! Enjoy your last laugh!” Slowly but forcefully, he drew the blade over the soldier’s neck, and his cold stare stayed on the dying man until the Rohirrim’s eyes broke and all ridicule died with him…

***

            It was a pale morning, and the sky was the colour of old, dried bones as the line of utterly exhausted horses and men stumbled into the rift of Helm’s Deep. Somewhere shortly before dawn, the snow-storm had blown itself out, but there was still a thick layer of clouds above their heads that prevented the sun from warming the refugees’ freezing shapes as it finally began its ascent in the sky.

The great fortress of the ancient sea-kings loomed as mightily and forbidding as ever in front of them, nestled into the niche in front of the sheer granite walls, but even from afar the great breach Saruman’s magical fire had blown into the Deeping Wall gaped at the tired, beat men and indicated that they were vainly looking for safety in this place. Further over to the right side, at the end of the long stone ramp, the great wooden and metal gate was likewise still broken. The Hornburg would not be their unbreakable refuge, so Elfhelm had decided that they would make their last stand in the caves. He had been loath to dispatch two of his freezing, hungry, exhausted soldiers to man the watchtower closest to the fortress, but they had to know when the enemy came. It did little for his conscience that he would send them relief around midday. They were all yearning for a sheltered place and a little comfort and warmth, but someone had to keep watch. He was glad that the men had accepted their bad luck without so much as a cross glance, or even a complaint.

The Rohirrims’ hearts froze as they rode in oppressive silence over what had been the bloodiest battlefield in the history of Rohan only half a year ago. The bodies of their fallen had long been properly buried, and the carcasses of their enemies been burnt, and still the men felt as if the malevolent eyes of thousands upon thousands ghosts were watching their every step, just waiting to assault them once the sunlight was gone again.

“I cannot believe we made it,” Thor muttered to himself as his gaze went up to the highest part of the Hornburg. Against better knowledge, he had found himself hoping that through some miracle, Erkenbrand’s reinforcements would already be waiting for them at their destination, but the pure, undisturbed white blanket that covered the ground before them had quickly turned his hope to dust, long before his hawk-eyes had been able to determine that there was nothing moving the way they were headed. His heart sank, and as he urged his exhausted black steed into the valley that marked their final approach, he could not help looking back over his shoulder in search for the enemy. But Gríma could not be here so fast. It was not humanly possible. And even Uruks had to have their limits!

“Aye. It feels like a dream. But that is probably because we haven’t slept in over two days now,” Elfhelm answered him, even though he was aware that his scout had not been explicitly talking to him. But after the last hours which they had spent in utter, devastated silence, he felt the distinct need to hear his voice again to chase away the ghosts of the horrible night that lay behind them, as well as the ghosts of the battlefield they were crossing. Despite the layers of thick clothing, he felt completely frozen and hissed in pain as he attempted to roll his stiff, aching shoulders. The grey shape of the Hornburg did not look as encouraging as he had hoped. In fact, the view rather stirred up the ghosts of agonised cries and shrieks, growling and angry bellows, the sound of metal against metal and the forceful swishing sounds of flying arrows… and, of course, the deafening explosion and the thunder of falling debris all around him. He even felt as if he could sense the earth-shattering concussion again, and smell the burnt stench of whatever the White Wizard had used for his deadly fire.

Involuntarily, Elfhelm’s eyes went to the part of the wall where he had stood when it happened, and he shivered. He had come so close to not only being blown straight into the realm of his forefathers, but without leaving a recognisable body, something that could be buried, too. True to the Rohirrim belief, no soul could ascend to the realm of the deceased if their mortal remains had not been tended to in the right way… like the men they had left behind on the mountain path. The knowledge that their spirits would be lost forever stung the marshal like a blade straight into his gut. It had been the worst decision Elfhelm had been forced to make in his life, because Findárras and the others had not even been wounded when they had abandoned them. All these years those men had trusted him to lead them through even the worst battles, and now his decision to come to their king’s aid had resulted in the death of half of his éored, with not one man having been properly burred. The very thought sickened the warrior. At least, Éomer had helped him to carry that burden when he had explained Elfhelm’s decision to the distraught young healer in their midst. He had been thankful for that, and suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to let his friend know. He turned around in the saddle… and frowned.

The man under the cloak and blankets was sitting slumped in the saddle, his entire weight resting on the construction that had kept him upright over the night. The way his head lolled from side to side with each of Firefoot’s steps indicated that his strength had deserted him completely now, but his eyes were open, and his gaze directed at the ruins of the Hornburg before it glided down to meet his friend’s questioning gaze. There were deep shadows under his sunken eyes, and his face looked gaunt and drawn with a pale complexion that smashed Elfhelm’s vague relief over Éomer’s being awake to dust. The king looked indeed like a wraith! Determined not to let his immense concern show, the marshal untied Firefoot’s reins and pulled the grey stallion next to his side as they approached the ramp together.

“We are there, brother. We made it. And I am certain that Erkenbrand’s men won’t let us wait for very long, either. If Gríma really finds us here, he shall be in for a nasty surprise!” Elfhelm was not used to lying, and the optimistic words felt strange in his mouth. He fell silent, knowing fully well that Éomer would pick up the doubt behind them, too. If he wasn’t able to convince himself, how should he convince a man as shrewd as the king?

            “You are a bad liar, Elfhelm,” Éomer muttered rightly, looking ready to fall from the saddle as soon as they cut him loose. “But thank you for the effort.” He noticed that the scout’s attention had turned to him as well and met his eyes for a moment, affirming that he was still with his kinsmen. It took him another moment to collect his breath for a question. The question. “What now?”

            “The Hornburg, as you see, lies still in ruins. We could probably repair the gate until Gríma arrives – “Elfhelm’s tone left no doubt that he absolutely counted on the appearance of their enemy – “-but it wouldn’t hold for long. I believe that we will have a better chance of defending ourselves in the caves. The tunnels beneath the mountains are very narrow, and the Uruks will have to move through them in single-file. They will not be able to make as much use of their greater number... and we will use the hours until they arrive to prepare a few... surprises for them. If we do this right, we may be able to greatly reduce their numbers before we have to meet them in head-on battle...” He paused, then stared at the younger man as a sudden thought hit him. “How well does Gríma know the caves?”

            Éomer’s gaze swept the white ground until it came to rest at the shadow that marked the outside entrance to the Glittering Caves. There was also another one that granted them access from the Hornburg. So Gríma would be able to come at them from two ways... His brow furrowed as he contemplated Elfhelm’s question, not liking the most likely answer.

            “I cannot say. But we would be well-advised to assume that he knows each rock within them. As much as I hate the slithering filth, I have to admit that each part of his attack has been well-planned and executed. He may be just as cunning as his late master...” He grimaced as his steed stumbled over rock. Firefoot was about to collapse, he felt it with every fibre of his body. “What about our horses? We cannot put them in the stable, where they would become easy prey for his Uruks. But to leave them outside in these conditions...” He did not have to finish. Obviously, Elfhelm had been thinking about this problem, too.

            “Aye, I know. They need the rest as much as we do. We will let them rest in the stables for at least a few hours. Thor’s shortcut should at least grant us that time, even it came at a very high price.” Elfhelm’s thoughts went out to the doomed men of his éored again. “We will let them rest and feed for as long as we can, and when the fire is lit, we will drive them out into the valley. They should be smart enough to evade the enemy.” He directed his great bay onto the ramp towards the smashed gate.

Éomer’s gaze went back to the men following them. It was a pitiful small procession. His mouth tightened to a grim line. He wanted to believe that they still had a chance, he really did. But his heart sank with each step that brought them closer to the Hornburg. Once again, their fate would be decided here. The first time, their victory had come virtually at the last second, and while the men of Rohan had praised his reckless ride then, Éomer knew that they would nonetheless not have made it if Mithrandir’s power had not turned the tide towards their side. This time, the scale of the battle would be much smaller, but the odds were at least as unfavourable for them as before. Only this time, there would be no Istari-wizard coming to their rescue. This time, they would have to make it all by themselves...

***

Finally, the storm had blown itself out. It had seemed to ravage their half-frozen bodies forever when they had been forced to turn around on the mountain, unable to bridge the long gap where the path had broken away under the force of nature. Wormtongue had been standing at the edge of the cliff for a long time, closer than reasonable under the extreme conditions, and peered down into the darkness below. Was Éomer dead? Had the mountain swept them all from its shoulder in its fury? The scrawny Rohirrim soldier he had interrogated had not given him the least clue, and for that, the counsellor had wanted to make the man suffer even longer, but the truth was that they had no time. If the refugees had indeed survived the avalanche and proceeded on the path, it would give them a lead that would make it impossible for Wormtongue to ever get his hands on them again before they reached their destination. Ah yes, their destination…

            He looked up from the improvised shelter under a natural cornice, where they had finally chosen to rest for an hour shortly before dawn. Just after they had reached the plains they had found that the wind had been even harder on themm, and proceeding had become a matter of will against elements to the point where Wormtongue had – for the first time – encountered serious problems with his company. Even though he had been fatigued and half-frozen himself and his horse exhausted almost to the point of collapsing beneath him, his hate had been driving him on and he had not wanted to pause… His surprise had therefore not been small when he had to discover that finally the Uruks’ patience had been at an end with him, and his host had been close to mutiny. The smart inner voice of self-preservation in the back of his mind had advised him urgently to follow their demand, even though he ached to go on. For the first time ever, a slight quiver of fear had twitched in his stomach when his orc-captain had approached him to growl his demand into his face, and suddenly the dark counsellor had found himself the centre of attention of hundreds of pairs of brightly gleaming, not exactly benevolent looking eyes. What had he done wrong with this breed? Why were they not as easily controllable as his late master’s? He would have to work his breeding pits once they had returned to the Misty Mountains.

            Intimidated, but still able to sufficiently mask the feeling to his army as his own need for a break and having to consult his maps, he had then wrapped the cloak tighter around his thin frame and hunched down in a relatively sheltered corner to do just that. With the warg gone and the conditions being the way they were, it was down to him to figure out where his prey was headed. He had not known of that particular mountain path they had used before, and he would have passed it if it had not been for the orc-wolf’s sharp senses, for it had looked like a trail that would – at best – accommodate goats. Now, where did it lead to? The map rustled in the wind and was almost ripped from his stiff fingers by another violent gust, and he cursed and squinted in the twilight of the early morning as he attempted to decipher the writing on the map, which had been drawn by an experienced Dunlending scout, also his own creation.

It was a rare enough incident that the primitive Dunlendings knew what to do with a quill and paper, and he had sought a long time after that man. He had been a mud-blood, Gríma remembered. Three-parts Dunlending, one part Rohirrim. The usual story: Grown up on the wrong side of the river Isen where the population was mingled and regarded with great distrust by the ‘strawheads’, as Éorl’s descendants were called by the Dunlendings. Never allowed to join their exclusive company. Not allowed to let their cattle graze on the rich meadows, even though the vast land was empty for leagues. The one time he had trespassed, a Rohirrim patrol had caught and punished him severely, kept his cattle and chased him back over the river, now another hate-filled enemy more. Gríma had made the man’s acquaintance while he had been constantly travelling between Isengard and Edoras in Théoden’s, or rather, Saruman’s service, and, having instantly recognised his potential, had tutored him to read and writ and in the art of drawing maps. Combined with the man’s vast knowledge of the Westmark, he had bred himself a very valuable scout... and now all the years of his scheming had come in handy as he stared onto the map.

            The light was weak and the lines on the paper thin, but the path was there! Excitement replaced frustration and cold as Gríma Wormtongue traced the winding line with his finger to the point where they had been forced to turn around... and then all the way up to... Helm’s Deep.

            Helm’s Deep... yes indeed, this had to be the place the king’s men were headed for! There was nothing else in the vicinity for leagues, and they would have to seek shelter very soon, especially if they still had the wounded king with them. A fire burnt in the counsellor’s eyes when he looked up again, suddenly not feeling the cold anymore. The nearest orc, feeling his master’s sudden excitement, stared at him questioningly as he chewed on a piece of half-frozen meat.

            “Âsghnak? I have figured out where they are. Spread the word that we will continue our march as soon as I give the signal. You do not want to linger here when your prey is sitting trapped like a mouse, stuck in a place they cannot defend with no way out... do you?”

***

            Elfhelm felt beat. Like death on two legs. That they were still carrying him after the hardships of the past two days and especially what he had done over the course of the last three hours was no small miracle, but now he had reached his limit, just like every one of his men. He had outlasted the first shift for an hour, but now he had reached the point where it was inevitable that he would have to fetch at least a few hours of undisturbed sleep himself, approaching enemy or not. He would only have another look at his friend, he decided, and then he, too, would lie down for a few hours rest. Just like the men who had worked that shift with him, desperately preparing for battle and turning the Hornburg as well as the caves behind the fortress into a treacherous terrain full of deadly traps. The preparations were still ongoing, but now Thor, whom he had proclaimed the new second-in-command, was supervising them and the men Elfhelm had sent straight to sleep upon their arrival at the Hornburg. Together with his scout, he had first helped to bring Éomer into the king’ chambers where Árdwyne had once again tended to his wounds, and then summoned what was left of his once proud éored to discuss their course of action.

            All men had agreed on choosing the caves as the location of their last stand. And together, they had developed a strategy to gradually reduce the enemy’s numbers through a variety of simple, but effective traps. There were more than enough weapons available in the armoury, a wide variety of Rohirrim and orc-instruments of war that had been found on the battlefield after the clash with Saruman’s army: range-weapons like bows and mighty Uruk-crossbows, cruel-looking blades of all forms, swords, axes, lances...Elfhelm could not have wished for more. There was plenty of firewood, too, which they could easily transform into deadly spikes, and barrels filled with oil they could ignite to let it rain down onto the unsuspecting enemy... They had ropes, they had the complete accessory of a smithy at their hands, even if they didn’t have a blacksmith to work them... all they had to do was get to work. For the first time, Elfhelm felt something like a tiny ray of hope as he watched the half of his men he had not sent to sleep begin their preparations.

            Éomer’s still form was lying on the bed as he entered, and the young healer was in the middle of redressing his shoulder. The room was a little warmer than the rest of the Hornburg, thanks to the fire they had lit in the fireplace opposite the bed. A bowl was hanging over the flames from where a pleasant smell emitted. Elfhelm had not eaten for a long time, but the sight of the blood-stained old bandages on the table close by dampened his sudden fit of hunger, and he cringed inwardly as he came to a halt at the foot-end of the bed, his intense gaze on the king’s face.

            “Éomer?”

            The younger man did not react to the sound of his voice. Even though it was anything but warm in the room, there was sweat running down his face, which, in the flickering light of the fire, looked deadly pale, except for the dark shadows under his eyes and the slightly bluish tinted lips. At his sight, Elfhelm felt fear coming back with a sudden jolt, and his gaze went down to the king’s chest. It was still rising and falling with each of Éomer’s breaths, but all in all, his condition seemed to have vastly deteriorated since they had ridden up the ramp together into the keep. Although exhausted to the point of collapsing, Éomer had still been lucid then, even if his strength had completely failed him when they had brought him inside. That time, they had had indeed to carry him in. Fearing to ask the one question he needed to know the answer to, Elfhelm finally cleared his throat and spoke.

            “How is he, Árdwyne? He looks horrible!”

            The young healer’s head turned around, and it was not surprising to the marshal that she looked just as beat as him. A very hard night lay behind them, and there was also her own personal loss. Elfhelm was determined to send her to sleep, too, as soon as she had finished tending to his friend. Even if it were just for a few hours. He and his men were warriors, they were used to extreme hardships, and even they had reached their limit. That woman had to have passed hers a good while ago. She sighed at his question, and toned her voice down as to not to wake her patient, as she applied the finishing touches to his bandage.

            “I cannot say, my lord. He was still awake when I bathed the wound again, but he passed out from the pain, and the movement made it bleed again, too. He is also still feverish.” She paused as she saw the marshal’s gloomy expression and could tell that he was expecting the worst. It made her want to say at least something a bit more positive. “But I may have good tidings as well: I managed to get a little broth into him an hour back, and as far as I can determine, the infection has not further spread. While it is true that he is very weak right now, I deem it not entirely impossible that he might pull through – if the enemy allows us to live, of course.” She swallowed and averted her gaze again to fasten the last end of the bandage before she decked two woollen blanket’s over her patient’s unmoving shape and tugged them in under Éomer’s back. “Do you think they will, Marshal Elfhelm? Or do you think they will find us here and…?” She left the sentence unfinished.

            “I cannot say.” Elfhelm’s gaze followed her as she took a wet cloth from a water-filled bowl close by and wiped the king’s face. A fresh odour drifted across the room. “All I can say is that if they do, they will find us prepared. We will make them fear this battleground once again. No enemy has ever defeated us here, not even last time, when their number had been many times as much as ours. Our chances are much better this time. They are still made only of flesh and blood. They are not invincible... and Erkenbrand’s men must arrive soon, too. With a little luck, they will be here before the enemy does, and then the outcome of the battle will not even be a question anymore.” It sounded good, but he felt no inner conviction in himself to lend strength to his words. Maybe it would do for the woman nonetheless.

            Having finished with her task, Árdwyne leaned back in her chair and sighed. Her drawn features were filled with the memory of a distant dread as she stared through the marshal back into the blackest night of her young life.

            “Last time… it was awful. I was with the other women in the caves, and we heard the footsteps of the approaching army through the rock. We even felt the vibrations. The whole cave was filled with them. It sounded as if there had been enough of them to fill all of Rohan’s plains.” She looked up. “When we heard them roar - I had no hope left. You know what we were talking about as the night went on and the sound of the battle did not abate?” A heavy breath. “We were contemplating killing ourselves… and our children, to save them and us from a worse fate. We swore that the orcs would not get us alive. We were so close to actually doing it… Some women had daggers with them, and those without were grouping around them, so that each would have a means of escape if the enemy ever broke through.” She ran a nervous hand through her tangled hair, and her gaze was urgent when she looked up again. “Please, Marshal Elfhelm, I am not armed. Can you give me at least a dagger to take care of that if the battle turns ill this time? I cannot envision a worse fate than being captured by orcs… alive. I have heard horrible stories during the war… and I’ve treated the women who told them.“ She shuddered and gazed at the unconscious king again. “I would take care of him, too, in this case, if you want me too… before the enemy recaptured him. I can fight. You know there are no women in the Westfold who never had a sword in their hands. The Lord Erkenbrand sees to it that both boys and girls learn the basics at an early age at his domain. Once a year, his men go through the villages and take all children with them for a month to teach them.” The blue eyes traced back to Elfhelm, and their gaze became hard. “Do you want me to take care of the king if the enemy finds him, my lord?”

            Elfhelm cringed. He was tired. He was beat! The least thing he wanted right now was to make a decision about life or death, and not even his own. He could not think properly anymore.

            “Let us not talk of death now, Árdwyne. There is still hope. We will make it.” Another glance at Éomer. There was a bed close by that Elfhelm was determined to send the young woman to. He himself would be satisfied with the chair. He had always been able to sleep where he lay or sat, even in a saddle. As a Rohirrim warrior who was constantly roaming the Mark, that ability had been pure necessity. It was seldom that he had a bed to sleep in. Whenever he had the opportunity, it even took him a night or two to get accustomed to it again, so used was he to sleeping on the ground with nothing but a blanket beneath him. Stepping up to the young healer, the marshal gave her a slight, dismissive nod. “See that you get some rest, too, Árdwyne. We all shall have needs for it ere this day is over. I will sit here with the king in the meantime. I have a very light sleep, I will hear if anything is wrong with him. Go, take that bed over there.”

            Her face lit up in thankfulness... and doubt.

            “But… my lord, won’t you-“

            “That chair looks very comfortable.” A very weak smile, which she returned. “In fact, it looks much better than this bed.” He motioned her to stand up and, with a last look at the sleeping king, leant back and closed his eyes. He was asleep even before he heard the young healer lie down…

***

“Do you think they will come in here, Éomer? Do you think they will come in here and… kill us?” Éowyn was huddled in a blanket that looked huge on her tiny frame. She was nine years old, and the long hard winter and ensuing lack of food as well as their narrow escape to Helm’s Deep had taken their toll on his little sister. She looked scrawny like one of the peasants’ children, instead of a well-fed member of the royal family, and she looked tired… and scared. Scared to death. And his sister was not one to be frightened easily. Even though Éomer, from the superiority of his thirteen years, liked to tease his younger sibling on occasion, he would also be the first to defend her against others as the ‘bravest girl he knew’. And she was, undoubtedly. Apart from their parents’ deaths, there was hardly an incident Éomer could remember when he had seen his little sister cry. Pain certainly did not make her. There had been numerous occasions apart from the usual scraped knees and bruises children collected on their way to adolescence when he had been proud of her. Once she had been bitten by a horse that had gone wild in the stables. On another occasion, she had taken a bad fall from a horse and broken her arm, and yet she had always clamped down her teeth, and even though her eyes had been moist and betraying her pain, not a single tear had made it down her cheeks. No, pain, obviously, could not touch his little sister. She was not afraid of it.

She was afraid of the wild men and ghoulish creatures outside their temporary refuge however, and again, Éomer could hardly blame her, for he was afraid himself. The sounds of the battle, the terrible grunting and roaring, the cries of the wounded and dying in the pitch-black dead of night just outside the caves – though distant - were hard to listen to… all the more since so many of the people they knew and cared for were outside, fighting. Like… their uncle... and their cousin. It also did not help that they had been confined to this sparsely decorated room, which was little more than an empty niche built into the rock shortly before the path led into the mountains. It was the safest place possible, because the enemy would have to plough through their entire army first to get here, built over a century ago to accommodate the present and succeeding kings’ families in times of war, and hard to find. It had one obvious entrance and a hidden one, one that had been built in laborious work over the course of years, a secret passage through the granite nobody knew of. Yes, they were safe here...

Still, Éomer rather wished they were sitting in the main-cave along with their friends, talking with them to keep the fear at bay, mocking death and not letting panic have the rule over their emotions. He had tried to talk to their uncle about his idea, but King Théoden did not have the mind to listen to a 13-year old boy then when he had to prepare for battle. So all they were left with to keep them company was a grim-looking guard who did not speak with them at all. Inwardly, Éomer suspected his uncle had left the man with his niece and nephew in order to take care of them in case the battle went ill. Now, that was a truly frightening thought! He shoved it into the back of his mind and concentrated on his sister instead, who was sitting in the back of the rectangular room with her back to the wall, hugging herself.

“Éomer?”

He ripped himself out of his brooding stupor and fought to think of some encouraging words.

“We are safe here, Éowyn. No enemy has ever breached the Deeping Wall… let alone entered the Keep! Nothing will happen to us… and if they’d ever get in here, I would kill them!” Unwittingly, the fingers of his right hand had been playing with the hilt of his sword the whole time, and now he drew it and waved it around in a few exercise moves, meant to calm down his sister... as well as himself. It was his first real sword, a heavy, beautifully worked piece of Rohirric craftsmanship with bronze horses rearing on both sides of the blade. His uncle had given it to him only a few months ago on his thirteenth birthday, with a slight smile and the words that he was a man now, a true warrior with his own sword, ready to defend the Mark against all its enemies. But even then, his great joy had been mingled with a touch of sadness, as most things had been in his adolescence so far: Usually, swords were passed on as an heirloom within each family from one generation to the next, and he had always looked forward to one day carrying the one of his father… but it had been lost in his ill-fated last battle, never to be retrieved. Chances were that some filthy orc was carrying the noble blade into battle now against those it had been made to protect. A depressing thought. A thought that filled him with rage.

Pushing back the melancholic thoughts about their once happy family, Éomer had to admit that he still had been incredibly proud over his new possession. ‘Guthwine’, he had called the shining blade, as every sword needed to be named by its owner, and he had hardly been able to wait until he could show it to his lower-standing friends, who had had a hard time at hiding their jealousy. He had found it almost impossible to lay it down in fact, until Théodred had jested it would stay stuck to his hand for all eternity lest he’d re-sheath it every now and then. Always having a sword ready for battle, his older cousin had smirked, would maybe impress his enemies later on, but still pose a serious hindrance in his future interactions with the ladies. Everybody had laughed and Éomer’s cheeks had flushed with embarrassment, even as his cousin – having noticed his discomfort - had ruffled his hair and proclaimed that he could already see ‘Guthwine’ becoming the most sought-after possession of the Mark, as it would certainly become the heirloom of one of the greatest warriors of Rohan. That remark had turned Éomer’s face an even deeper shade of crimson, but still, the memory of that day was something he treasured.

Surfacing from his memory, Éomer heard his sister snort at his boastful last remark. Even at her young age, she hated being treated like a dumb child who knew nothing of the ways of life, especially by her always well-meaning, but still sometimes patronising brother. All she ever wanted to hear was the truth, no matter how grim it would be. Somehow, that little annoyed sound made Éomer feel bad, and he picked himself up to walk over to her and, sitting down next to her on the cold ground, put an arm around her shoulder in a protective, comforting way.

“I would protect you from them, little bird,” he whispered, his eyes on the guard who had turned his back on them. “For as long as I could. But it will not be necessary. They will not come in here. Théodred and our uncle will drive them away. They are great warriors. And there are also Elfhelm, and Grimbold, and Gamling...” He gave her a slight squeeze... and jumped as he suddenly found himself looking into the adult Éowyn’s eyes.

“Aye, brother... you would protect me with your life. I know that.” There was a smile in her stormy eyes, a rare enough sight, and one he had not expected after all the accusations he had heard from her in the wake of his captivity.

‘But Elfhelm said they had been Gríma’s doing. That they were not real…’

Was this reality? She felt real enough in his arms as he returned the hearty embrace and then looked at her, still insecure.

“Éowyn… about my over-protectiveness… I never meant to–“

“Hush, mighty king of Rohan!” Her smile widened as she placed a finger on his lips to close them. “It was but in your imagination. I never said that, and I never thought that, either… and I know that everything you ever did was in order to keep me safe. I would have never thought about complaining to Wormtongue about you, and I never thought that your injury was well-deserved. I valued your protectiveness, brother. Really, I did. It made me realise each day just how much you loved me. That Wormtongue has always been a notorious liar, and we both have known it for years. The snake wanted to break you, and since you’re a fierce and valiant warrior with hardly any deficiencies, he took the only approach he knew would work. Your only vulnerable spot: your honour… and your kin. He knew exactly where to pry his greedy little fingers in to hurt you the most. Nothing that he said was true. You must believe me, Éomer!” Her hand caressing his face, she whispered into his ear: “I love you, brother.”

For a while, they just held each other, comforting each other, and it was as it had been in their youth, a good, pure feeling of closeness and understanding. Finally, Éowyn looked up again and began to free herself from his arms. A knowing smile played around the corners of her mouth as she stood up and motioned for him to follow.

“There is someone I would like you to meet…”

***

“They are coming! Marshal Elfhelm! They are already in the valley!”

The words tore through the void Éomer had been drifting through for a time-span he could not name. They confused him. Elfhelm? Elfhelm was outside, at their uncles side, fighting! What- He woke with a start, just as the heavy oaken door was forcefully thrown open and a breathless Arnhelm burst into the room. The voice, he noticed as he fought to open his eyes for a brief moment, belonged to him.

“Marshal Elfhelm-“

“Arnhelm!” his friend’s alarmed voice came from the other side. The chair the marshal had been sleeping in was pushed back against the wall as Elfhelm jumped to his feet. “What are you saying? They are in the valley? But how-”

“Approaching the ramp. It won’t be long before they’ll be here. We repaired the gate as good as was possible in the few hours, but-“

“Why were the fires not lit? They should have alerted us long ago!”

“Harrdrás said he tried, but the storm was too strong. He hardly made it back before the enemy reached his outpost.”

Elfhelm shook his head in helpless frustration as he turned to the king. Was everything against them? “We must make for the caves, son, and fast!” Again addressing the esquire, Elfhelm went for the litter that was leaning at the wall. They had found it in the vacated healing room and taken it to the king’s room where they now had good use for it. Éomer did not look to the marshal as if he was ready to take even one more step. “Summon two men to carry the king down, and make it fast.”

Éomer’s first instinct was to object, but he did not have to hear into his body for long before he had to admit – grudgingly – that he would have to swallow this indignity as well. Even sitting up by himself turned out to be a major battle. Cursing at his ineptitude, he scrambled pathetically with his feet to push himself up, but it was Elfhelm’s strength that finally helped him to accomplish this deed. It was another fight to make it onto the litter.

“Let me help you, Sire,” a female voice came from behind. The healer. She laid an arm around Éomer’s waist and transferred some of his weight onto her shoulders. At last, they had the sweat-soaked king ready for transportation. Éomer was just laying back and squeezing his eyes shut against the searing pain in his side as the esquire entered again, this time with two more men in his wake who immediately rushed over to their marshal.

“The men are ready, marshal. Battle will soon commence.” He cleared his throat. “ They are asking for you, my lord…”

“I am coming.” Elfhelm motioned his men to take up the litter and rushed forth to hold open the door that led to the secret tunnel into the vast system of tunnels and caves. “Is it too late to man the wall of the Keep? I want for Gríma to pay dearly for the breaching of the gate.”

“We have five men with crossbows on the wall. You want them to stay there, or shall I send more?”

“Send five more men up. This might be our best chance to decimate them before we engage in head-on battle. But I want all of them off that wall before the gate is breached! We cannot afford to lose even one more man! Tell them to be careful! Also tell the rest to take up their positions in the caves. Make haste! I will join you in a moment!”

“Aye, Marshal!” Arnhelm gave his superior a curt nod and raced out of the room, shouting his orders even before he had reached the men. The flurry of frenzied activity filled the corridors of the fortress as the men left the room with their wounded king. Elfhelm eased open the door with one hand and kept it open until they had passed, then grasped his friend’s hand as he was carried past him.

“Éomer, I need to go. Árdwyne and my men will bring you to the hidden room. – And we don’t have time for your protest! You are in no condition to fight!” he added as he saw the king open his mouth for what he thought had to be objection. Éomer’s voice was low with weakness, but determined.

“No protest. But I need a sword. If it comes to the worst...” He did not finish his sentence, but the meaning was clear. Elfhelm shuddered and just did not want to think about that possibility any further.

“Aye…I understand... And you shall have one. I’ll order one of my men to-“

“Spare your man, my lord,” the healer injected eagerly. Had she understood what Éomer wanted the sword for? Or was she thinking that he wanted it for the eventuality that an enemy actually made it this far into the caves? She, of all the people here, should see best that – in his current condition – the king would not even be able to fend off an orc-babe! “I can get it for him. I know where the armoury is, and I know where to find the hidden room. I shall need no guide. Let me do it.”

“Very well, Árdwyne. Go then. But I need you back with me afterwards. You said you knew what to do with a bow.”

She paled, but there was also a grim expression to her face Elfhelm liked. It was the face of a warrior. The gender did not matter, it was the right mindset they needed to have. After all, it had been a shieldmaiden who had slain Sauron’s mightiest weapon, and if the people of Rohan wanted to survive, each and every one of them had to do their duty. In the battle they were faced with, every man - or woman - would count...

“Aye, my lord marshal. I know that well enough. I shall be back before long.” She left. Sighing and hating himself for having to recruit women, Elfhelm turned back to the wounded king to give him a curt, reassuring nod.

”We shall see each other again soon, my friend... if the Valar are in the mood this time.” He turned to his men and motioned them to go. “Quick, take him down!” A moment later, his fast steps echoed through the corridors as he ran towards the ruckus that had begun in the hall behind the main gate.

***

“They repaired the gate, Master. But it will not hold for long.” The orc’s face was barely recognisable under the thick crust of ice, but now that its prey was finally within reach, the creature did no longer seem to care. Blood-lust was beginning to fill up every fibre of its being. Killing was what it had been bred for, and killing was where it found its greatest satisfaction.

Wormtongue had felt truly miserable for the last hours in the storm, too, frozen to the core, but the sight of the Hornburg straight ahead - even if it was but a faint shadow in the whirling snow and twilight - was enough to renew his strength one last time. Alone the prospects of finding shelter from the elements were something to look forward to, even if they were headed straight into battle. But he was not worried about the battle. He had his strategy down, and the counsellor harboured no doubts that his host of Uruk-hai would tear into the few remaining refugees like starved wargs into a flock of sheep.

He narrowed his eyes as his gaze swept over the walls, searching for enemies, but the elements were against him. Still, it was safe to count that they were there, likely armed with range weapons, just waiting to pick his army off one by one. They had found the tracks of two guards from the watchtowers that marked the final approach to the fortress, had in fact almost captured the first one before he had made it onto his horse to alarm his trapped brethren. Why he hadn’t simply lit the fire was beyond Gríma, but all the better for them. Maybe the storm had been blowing too hard for the flames to catch. Very well. Thus their prey would have less time to prepare for the fight. There could not be many left waiting for them. It would be over quick.

As he looked on, there was sudden movement at the gate, as it was opened and a herd of horses came charging down the ramp towards them. Excited bellows were exchanged behind him, and weapons raised. His Uruks were eager to kill something, and this was the first visible prey. It would be good for their morale. Get them into the right mood. He raised his arm in signal – and lowered it in an abrupt chopping motion. Arrows and bolts were released from bowstrings hundredfold, whispering death as they raced towards the fleeing horses. Just before they hit, their great grey leader, having almost reached the end of the ramp, jumped down on the inside of the curved ascend, as if he knew of the deadly hail coming their way. The others followed him in a brown and grey wave, and the arrows passed them by without hitting a single target.

“Reload!”

The horses charged in a parallel line along the Deeping Wall, away from them. Already, they were almost out of reach and quickly disappearing in the whirling snow. Again, Wormtongue held up his arm, but this time to call his army back. As much as this first little failure angered him, there was no use in wasting their precious arrows on horses. They would need it for worthier targets soon enough…

“The horses made it past them!” Thor watched the great white cloud of whirling snow disappear behind the next ridge. To him, it was a good omen. They had not even lost a single horse. He didn’t have to turn his head to know that the marshal was approaching him and kneeling down next to him on the wall of the Keep. Stone and the elements protected them from the enemy’s eyes.

“How many, what do you say?”

“Visibility is very poor,” the scout admitted. “But well over a hundred still, I would say. Look, part of them is heading for the other entrance now.” He pointed a finger at a dark shape that separated from the main body of the advancing army to make for the breach in the wall in the deepening twilight.

“They’ll soon learn that admittance there comes at a higher price than they’re willing to pay,” Elfhelm growled, hoping that the two men he had left to guard what was left of the tunnel would suffice. It would be a catastrophe if the Uruks would be able to come at them from both sides. But why was he fretting? They had thoroughly blocked that tunnel. Two men were more than enough to hold it.

 “Come, snake,” he whispered, taking his own bow from his shoulder and fetching an arrow from the quiver, laying it on the string. Maybe, if he was lucky; fate would present him with a chance to kill Rohan’s bane himself …

***

The procession of ghoulish creatures came to a halt at the foot of ramp, where Wormtongue raised a hand and turned his horse. As he faced his army, he was satisfied to find that there was already bloodlust glowering in their predatory eyes. Despite the hardships that lay behind them, they were now eager to fight.

“Listen, my fighting Uruk-hai! This is it – the reason why we have been fighting the elements for the last few days with barely a break. We wanted to chase down the accursed human filth that killed your brethren by the thousands, and avenge them. I promised you a bloodbath… a feast. And you shall have it, right now! The enemy, or rather, what is left of them, is waiting for us behind those walls. Before last year, the people of Rohan thought that these walls could never be breached by any foe… but your brethren already accomplished this unthinkable deed. They did not only breach them, they even made it all the way into the Hornburg, and I expect you to do no less. Even more, I expect you to find these cowards in their hiding places in the caverns, where they will no doubt try to evade battle altogether. You shall find them, you shall draw them out of their holes and you shall tear them apart! I have no further orders for you, for I know that you are as anxious as I am to make them suffer! There is only one demand I have: Do not kill the king if you find him there, and do not kill their leader, either. I suspect it must be a marshal. You will recognise him when you find him. Bring them to me alive. I have some personal business with both of them before we shall dispose of that filth. Everyone else you find beyond those wall – is yours! Go now, mightiest of the orc-race! Do what you do best – make the enemy fear you!”

A black wave of deadly accurate steel, raw power, sharp fangs and ferocious hate and hunger swept towards the scantily repaired main gate with a terrifying roar; all the single-minded purpose of one being with a hundred heads…

***

“Faster! Faster!”

“Why have all the torches been lit? Wouldn’t it be better if we waited for them in the dark where they couldn’t see us?”

“Didn’t you hear the marshal? The disadvantage would be ours. Orcs can see well in the dark, and they would smell us, too. – Sire? Sire, are you still with us?”

A grunt was all Éomer was able to answer. His thoughts were flowing apart as they hastened down the steep, narrow stairs of the secret entrance that went down from the back of the Hornburg into the caves. Twice they had almost let him fall when they bumped the litter into the wall, but now they had reached the main system and raced through the widening hall of glistening stalactites and stalagmites while the sound of the beginning battle echoed to them from the other entrance, reflected by the stone walls and multiplied, evoking the notion of a far greater number of enemies in the narrow tunnels than was actually coming at them. Still, they were seriously outmatched. What was coming at them was bad enough…

***

“Éomer? Here she is. You know her, don’t you?”

He had been following his sister for a while now, not even surprised that they were in his tent again all of a sudden. Éowyn had pulled the flap aside for him and was waiting with a half-smile for him to pass through. Just what was his younger sibling up to? Knotting his eyebrows at her, Éomer risked a glance into the room… and froze. The delicate figure inside had her back turned on him, but all he had to see in order to know who it was was the artfully bound buckskin tunic and the flowing golden hair. The sight left him breathless and his eyes widened as he stared back at his sister. She was still smiling… and nodding for him to proceed.

“She wants to tell you something, brother… Go ahead. Fear not.”

***

In the darkness of the narrow tunnel that led from the eastern part of the main cavern to the side-entrance, something could be heard on the other side of the barricade. Something heavy was scraping over the rock, dragging itself up. Muffled grunting echoed in the narrow space. The two heavily armed Rohirrim left to guard the tunnel raised their crossbows… as a dark shape blocked out the last remainders of the fading daylight…

***

Another turn. Deeper into the mountain. The torches were getting fewer and the spaces between them greater, the twilight deeper. The sounds of the battle sounded like they were coming to them all the way from the other end of the Ered Nimrais. A light draft of fresh air indicated that the secret path into the mountains behind the Hornburg was not so far away anymore. Harrdás, the man at the foot-end of the litter, turned another corner and saw with relief the roughly worked entrance to the last refuge. The room had been added to the system over a hundred years ago as the safest place to keep the kings’ families in the times of battle. Now it would accommodate the king himself.

“My lord, we are there.” No answer from Éomer. No reaction. Eomund’s son kept his eyes closed, and no movement below the blanket they had decked over him indicated that he was still with them as the two men carried their burden over to the stand where they finally set the occupied litter down. “Careful, Fraccas. Let’s not wake him. Good.” They straightened and looked down on their fallen king in concern.

“I have a bad feeling about him…”

“Éomer is strong. And I firmly believe that he will come out of this even stronger.” Harrdrás looked around in the confined room to see whether everything was set for the eventuality of a siege. Not that their marshal was counting on one. Erkenbrand’s men had to come to their aid momentarily now, and Wormtongue probably knew that. He would force his way into the fortress with all ferocity he could muster. Harrdrás thought of the preparations Elfhelm had ordered and prayed to Eru that they would suffice to keep the upper hand over the foul flood that was about to invade Helm’s Deep once again.

Satisfied with what he found, the wiry, wild-looking man turned to his taller subordinate.

“I have to go back. You stay here with him. Guard him with your life… although if they come this far, there will be nothing left to do anymore. If more than one’s coming your way, kill him. Make it fast and painless … for they won’t. ” A deep breath as he turned to go. “May the Valar have mercy on our souls.”

***

“They are coming through! Faster! Faster!”

The retreat was still organised, but hurried nonetheless as the men spurted through the empty corridors of the fortress, their steps reflected by the granite walls. Behind them, the main-gate shook under another heavy blow. An ominous creaking sound could be heard as wood planks gave way under raw Uruk-hai power.

Elfhelm raced down the narrow stairs three steps at a time. He had been on the wall of the Keep and managed to down three attackers before a hail of arrows had forced him to take cover. Others had been similarly successful, but now Gríma had organised his defence, and while a dozen of his half-orcs were pounding and throwing themselves against the weakened gate, the rest had their crossbows pointed and there was no way for anybody to stick his head over the wall without being shot at. They had inflicted all the damages that had been possible from this position. Time to retreat to the main site of the coming battle. Thor, at the back of his group, was locking the heavy oaken doors behind them, even though they all knew that they would not stop the nightmarish creatures on their heels for long. They had rehearsed the scenario time and time again over the last hours, and agreed that even what little time those barricades would grant them would be worth the risk of slowing down their own retreat.

The main cave. They reached it just as a thunderous inferno from above indicated that Grima’s army was entering the fortress.

“Thor?” Elfhelm slipped on the wet rocks and almost fell as he ground to a halt, looking for his second-in-command. A faint, telltaling scent reached his nostrils and made him worry again. They had prepared a nasty little surprise for their enemy with the oil they had found in the Hornburg. Most of it they had poured into the shallow pools of water to incinerate it as soon as the main body of the enemy was wading through it, but on some parts of the vast system of caves and narrow tunnels, they had used it quite extensively. Their task was to draw the approaching Uruks to those parts and then… But what if they smelled the trap? Were Uruks intelligent enough to understand what their enemies were up to? Of course, once the first fires were lit, their sense of smell would be seriously impaired by the heavy smoke, but what if they retreated before that? And what if the smoke became so thick that his own men would suffocate in it? So many ‘ifs’, and no alternative. They’d have to try their best and see.

“Marshal?” Fire reflected in the scout’s dark eyes. Elfhelm gave him a short nod and clasped hands with the man who had proven himself on this mission. Acknowledging his shown skill and loyalty. He and half of the men that were left would take the other tunnel that led into the mountains to defend. Would they see each other again?

“Eru is with those that help themselves, Thor. We will defeat them.”

“Aye, Marshal.” A very, very faint trace of a smile in the guarded face. “With you as our leader, I have no doubt of that.” He returned the nod, and, woken from his reverie by the thunder of another door giving way to the advancing enemy, motioned for his men to follow him into the shadows…

***

The cowards were fleeing. They were actually too afraid to engage in combat! This was most unusual for the Rohirrim, Wormtongue pondered while he strode through the corridors of the Hornburg in haste, his glance sweeping the surroundings for possible traps. There were none that he could see. Apart from the locked doors that took his Uruks only moments to tear down, there were no means of defence whatsoever he had been able to detect. A look into the armoury had revealed that they had started on turning pieces of firewood into sharp stakes, presumably to be used for deadly traps, but something had made them abandon their plan... or maybe there had not been enough time. How great had the advantage been they had paid for so dearly on the mountain path? A few hours? Half a day? Or less than that, had something delayed them in the mountains? Whatever it was, this was not what Wormtongue had expected to find. After the first damage the riders of the Mark had inflicted on his army on the ramp, they had done nothing but running away. A most unusual strategy, and unheard of from a people that, above all, held honour in such high esteem.

"They were here for a while," one of the half-orcs growled as they tore down the door behind which the royal chambers lay. A fire was flickering in the fireplace over which an iron bowl hung. The bed had been used, and there were blood-stained bandages laying on the table close by. A grim smile spread over Wormtongue’s face. So the king was indeed still here. He had not become a victim of the elements. Very well. Personal revenge was still a possibility.

"They’re not in the fortress, Master." Another Uruk-captain approached him from behind, tensed, angered, barely able to restrain its eagerness to engage in battle. But where was the enemy? To Gríma, it was no question. He knew the system of tunnels and caverns behind the Hornburg very well.

"They will be in the caves, maybe making for the mountains again. But without their horses, we shall be upon them very soon." He turned around and pointed down the corridor where another group of Uruks were throwing themselves against another locked door. "That is the way."

***

The noise of approaching steps on the stairs. The sound of heavy bodies moving in the narrow tunnel, the creaking of armour. Distorted shadows dancing menacingly in the flickering twilight. The enemy was coming. So convinced were they of their triumph, they did not even care to advance in silence. What were they thinking? That the sound of their approach alone would send their enemies into a rout? They were not about to panic. They were not about to give in to fear. True to Rohirric tradition, they were prepared to sell their lives at the highest price possible, and as Elfhelm took a brief glance over his shoulder and saw the grim determination he was feeling himself in the expressions of the others he was sharing this tunnel with, he was satisfied. The woman was there, too, a bow in her hand. Her expression was tense, but concentrated. She was trusting him with her fate. They all were laying their lives into his hands. The feeling was both one of great pride – and fear. Was this incredible trust justified? Had he chosen the right strategy? They would know soon.

As the sound of the approaching enemy drew nearer, arrows were dipped into barrels of oil they had brought down. Their tips were wrapped with thin stripes of cloth and soaked up the liquid.

Closer.

The first hulking figures appeared at the foot of the stairs, armed with intimidating looking black blades. Ready to hew their enemies to pieces, and more spilling into the vast main cave behind them. More and more of the foul creatures entered, their crossbows readied and pointing into the flickering twilight ahead, ready to rip the life out of their enemies. Fire reflected in yellow, murderous eyes.

Elfhelm nodded at his men and held the tip of his arrow into the pot with hot ash they had brought along. It flared up at once. In the other tunnel, he knew his Dunlending scout would imitate his actions, and behind him, his men followed his example. A careful glance through a hole in the rock. Still more Uruks poured into their sanctuary, searching for their precious man-flesh. Their army was now a single dark shape with many heads and many voices, snarling, growling, bellowing.

Not yet.

They advanced, all senses strained. The first set foot into the standing water, waded through.

Closer.

Not yet.

More orcs passed the pool. The main body of the hostile enemy was now inside the cavern, befouling their sanctity; their purity. They fanned out like a group of seasoned hunters, forming a wide line to drive the enemy towards the other entrance, which they knew by now was blocked. Many of them in the water now.

Closer.

Bows were drawn.

One of the Uruks, a particularly huge shape, started forward into their tunnel – and was greeted with a rain of fire-arrows! Two embedded themselves into its chest and forced a pained roar that made the rock reverberate with its fury – but the sound was drowned out as the other arrows found their aim in the pool, and the water erupted into flames!

"Forth, Éorlingas!" Elfhelm had traded his standard short sword he used in mounted attacks for a two-handed broad-sword, and his first strike clove the stumbling Uruk captain apart in the middle. It fell like a hacked tree. Infernal roaring greeted him in the main cave as he ran towards the twisted burning shapes, finishing them off one by one as he went, his men close behind. Ducking to the side, he cleared the way for the archers, and another hail of deadly arrows passed him to find their targets. From the corners of his eyes, he saw more men pouring out of the other tunnel that was held by his scout, but he did not have the time to see how his kinsmen were faring, because a burning silhouette was running towards him, the black blade risen over its head. Less than a heartbeat to anticipate his defence! Whirling and ducking simultaneously, Elfhelm evaded the blow that landed in the rock next to him with flying sparks, and thrust his sword into the creature’s middle with his entire body-weight behind the strike. Skewering his foe. He had barely drawn the blade out again when five more came charging his way.