Chapter 10: Evil Schemes

MEDUSELD

Twilight had once again turned to darkness when the expected knock at Gríma’s door was finally heard. With a sharp twinge of both anticipation and anxiety, Gríma opened it and found himself face-to-face with Felrod and Mordred, the two Half-Dunlendings in his service. The men looked wet, weary, dishevelled and half-frozen, but in their hands they held a large grey bundle that caused the counsellor’s heart to skip a beat. Still, what in the name of the Gods had caused their delay? To his experienced eye, they did not look as if their plan had worked flawlessly. Bidding the men into his study, Gríma closed the door behind them and turned around.

"You are almost a day late. I already feared the worst. Even the blacksmith’s horse returned hours ago, so you can be certain that the tidings of Élric’s death have spread through Edoras by now." His eyes became narrow slits. "He is dead, isn’t he? He didn’t escape you somehow?" The cloak in Felrod’s hands told a different story, but Gríma knew better than to trust anyone but himself.

Although Felrod felt miserable after his long exposure to the elements, the muscular Half-Breed still managed to look satisfied.

"He is fodder for the crows now. We stopped him an hour’s ride from Edoras, and he spilled it all. He had weapons for the marshal in his saddlebags and claimed that the King’s niece had asked him to take them to a hideout only known to them. He also said that his parents knew nothing of this, but this little wench serving the White Lady… she is involved as well." He gave his master a frozen grin.

"I do not suppose that Élric shared the information willingly?" Again, Gríma’s gaze sank to the grey bundle in his henchman’s arms.

"Not quite." The grin widened. "It took a bit of convincing on our part, but we hid his body well away from the road. Nobody will be distressed by the sight of it, even though I doubt that it will be found before spring, and by then there will not be much left of it. Nobody will be able to say who it was or what has befallen him. That is also why we waited until nightfall to return. We wanted to make certain that the people did not see this." He unfolded the treasure in his arms to great effect and beamed in expectation of his master’s praise.

"So he was there indeed…" Gríma muttered thoughtfully, surveying the damage done to the garment and the broad patches of dried blood around the several large tears in the leather. There was no doubt that it was Éomer’s cloak; he had seen the son of Éomund wear it many times. "How disappointing. I would have taken the marshal to be smarter than this." Even in the twilight of the room, he could see that the blood had soaked the material thoroughly. Whoever had shed it could impossibly be still alive. He extended a hand to let his fingers glide over one of the tears.

Felrod nodded, and his eyes were hopeful. No doubt was he already pondering what his reward would be.

"Aye, counsellor. He turned up just like you said he would. A sitting duck would have been harder to miss."

"Is that so?" The stains concentrated mostly around three jagged tears on the back, and the sight of them was somehow … wrong. Gríma frowned, and the omnipresent voice in the back of his head started to whisper its words of suspicion again while his fingers probed the slashes. "These are from a knife, not from arrows." He looked up with cocked eyebrows, waiting for an explanation, but Felrod only shuffled his feet and avoided his gaze. No, something was definitely not right here. "Will you not tell me what happened, Felrod? If Éomer walked right into your trap unsuspecting like you said he did – why did you not simply riddle him with arrows from a distance instead of putting yourself in danger by fighting him at close quarters? He is, after all, a valiant warrior."

"I am afraid, Counsellor, that things did not go entirely as planned. Somehow, the marshal sensed us at the last moment and evaded our shots. We had to hunt him down, but in the end we got him." He pointed at the cloak. "Isn’t that what counts?" The Half-Breed seemed nervous and still avoided Gríma’s glance. The Counsellor’s brow creased further. He could have told from a league away that the man was lying. He could almost smell it!

"So it was not like shooting a sitting duck at all, was it, Felrod? Did you hunt him down… or shoot him at your leisure? What is it you want me to believe? Or no, spare the answer, for I will believe neither." Gods, was he glad that he had sent the orcs after Éomer! Somewhere in the deep pit of his black mind, he had known beforehand that it would turn out this way. It was slowly becoming uncanny even to Gríma himself how his intuition was always correct. The ruffian in front of him was now obviously at a loss, for his stumble could no longer be taken seriously.

"We hunted him down… but it wasn’t very hard. There was no way he could have broken through our circle. And after we had surrounded him, I decided that--"

"You do not want to tell me, Felrod of Westland, that you killed Éomer of Rohan, admittedly one of the Mark’s most powerful warriors, yourself and armed with nothing more than a knife? In a battle of man against man?" Gríma felt an insane desire to laugh in the man’s face. How much of a fool did that mountain of muscle take him to be? Yet incredibly, Felrod did not understand that his lie had been uncovered.

"We were five, my lord. He stood no chance." Desperate now to prove his point, Felrod tugged at one of the tears as if it explained everything. "You see what we did to him. I wanted to make this battle personal and kill him with my own hands. I knew I could take him down."

"And still I do not believe you. Your eyes are lying. Your voice is lying… and it is not so hot in here that you should break into a sweat unless you knew you were fighting a lost battle here." Gríma’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What is it that you are trying to hide from me so inadequately? Éomer escaped, didn’t he?"

"We… I cannot tell how he…"

"Did he get away? Yes or no, Felrod? I have no patience for your pathetic excuses! If he is gone, I must take immediate action!"

Thrown into submission, the big man stared at the ground and clenched his jaw.

"Yes, my lord, he did. And he killed Dorlâk. Broke his neck. Gartloff is wounded too, that grey beast the Marshal rides kicked him. Broke his leg." He inhaled deeply and, with an even lower voice, admitted: "And we had to leave Thorloff behind. He was guarding the horses and… was ridden down when that filth stole them."

"You mean that not only has he escaped you, but he stole your horses, too? And killed two of your men in the process?" Gríma clapped his hands in morbid delight. Béma, could he have found men any more incapable of the task than these had proven to be? And now it also made sense why the man who accompanied Felrod stood so hunched over, not daring to look at him. "And you are wounded, too, I take it? Let me see!" The man straightened with a grimace and revealed a blood-stained tear in his cloak around the left shoulder. Since he had decided not to cry over the inadequacy of the men he had chosen, Gríma laughed. "So out of the six men I sent to kill him, six men who had the advantage of being armed as well as that of surprise, the good marshal managed to kill two and wound another two. He stole your horses and provisions and has armed himself now, I suppose. I would call that a strong contender for the greatest failure in the history of the Mark, save perhaps the vow King Théoden swore to serve his people. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?"

Felrod’s face flushed with embarrassment.

"He cannot have acquired more than a knife, counsellor. It will not give him much of an advantage."

"No. Not against what I am about to unleash now." With another pensive look at the cloak on the floor, Gríma turned away, the wheels of his mind already turning. There was still a possibility to turn this failure into an advantage if he played his cards right.

"I must say I am disappointed, Captain. Not only did you fail to carry out your errand successfully, but even more seriously, you tried to hide your failure by lying to me. I must admit that I do not know yet what to make of this. I cannot think of a single thing at the moment that you could do to heal this breach of trust." He turned back to the uncomfortable men. "Trust, as you know, is more important than ever these days. Tell me, how am I supposed to still trust you after this disaster?"

"You can trust us with anything, my Lord," Felrod rushed to say, his throat tight with fear. "Please, I promise that we will make up for this! We will hunt down the Marshal for you, and I swear, this time, we will not fail! We will bring you his head should you wish so."

Gríma shook his head.

"No. This time I have entrusted someone else with this most important of tasks, someone capable. I took the freedom to alert them before I even knew of your failure. They will have begun their hunt even as we speak, and they will rid me of this problem once and for all. I am most confident of this." His gaze fell again on the bloody heap at his feet. "Yet I may have use for this thing that you brought me. It is, in fact, the only reason I will forgive you this time, Felrod, but do not fail me again and most importantly: never ever lie to me again! Believe me, you do not want to see me angry."

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

Once daylight had faded again, the temperatures dropped fast, and it was with relief that Éomer finally detected the narrow, steep path that led up to another one of his secret hideouts. He directed Firefoot there with a slight nudge of his thighs. The stallion complied, the weariness of his steps indicating that he needed rest urgently after a day of moving through rough, dangerous terrain. Many times, Éomer had dismounted and led his steed along the steep, ice-covered ridges, careful not to slip into the deep drop-offs. Progress had been slow once they had entered the path, and Éomer was well aware that no rider in his right mind would ever have chosen to travel it under the current conditions. His boldness could easily cost their lives if he had misjudged the situation. So far, his daring had paid off; except for a few birds, they had not seen another living soul all day, neither man nor beast, and no tracks either. It seemed that they were all alone out here in the eastern fringes of the Ered Nimrais… the way he had hoped it would be.

Once again Éomer shifted in the saddle, and his gaze swept the stark, forbidding landscape for the umpteenth time searching for signs of his enemies. Visibility had grown poor in the thickening twilight, but a dark shape moving over the snow would be easy enough to detect. Yet nothing moved. Satisfied, Éomer turned around again as Firefoot abruptly rammed both forelegs into the ground and snorted in protest at the dark shadow in front of them. Sighing, the Rohír ran a hand over the stallion’s neck. He understood his steed’s reluctance, as it was not in a horse’s nature to seek shelter within a cave where escape would be difficult in the case of an attack.

"Aye, Grey One, I know that you do not like this place, but it cannot be helped," he whispered, checking the bare rock in front of the cave-entrance for signs that his shelter was already occupied by unbidden guests. "It will be easy to heat, though, and it will only be for one night anyway, so stop complaining." Grasping the short-handled axe Forlorn had given him and enjoying the feel of it in his hand, Éomer slid from Firefoot’s back to investigate. The stallion, for once content to remain where he was, followed his master’s stealthy approach with pricked ears and flared nostrils.

All senses strained, Éomer edged closer to the narrow opening and his fingers involuntarily renewed their grip around the handle of his weapon. Orcs reeked of death and decay, and even with the wind not blowing into his face, he could usually smell them before he saw them. Yet he detected no trace of their vile perfume in the air before the cave, and no sounds indicated that his hideout might be occupied. Lifting the axe, he advanced further, hesitating at the sight of the pitch-black entrance that granted him access into the mountain he had travelled alongside for the last part of his journey. But deep inside, Éomer already knew better. It was almost dark now, the preferred time of orcs. If any had been in here at all, it was likely that they had moved out with the beginning of twilight and were long gone by now.

Half relieved but still knowing better than to walk into the dark cave blindly, Éomer looked back to Firefoot, clicking his tongue and smiling thinly as the stallion obeyed his command with an all-too-human expression of indignity. From his saddlebags, Éomer carefully removed a clay pot that contained still red glowing embers and lit the oil-lamp the couple had given him behind the shelter of a rock, safe from potentially hostile eyes. Once again he proceeded into the cave, and one look in the flickering light was sufficient to establish that the place was as deserted as it had seemed. Inspecting the walls and the ground, Éomer lifted the lamp… and tensed at the sight of prints left in the fine layer of sand. Some had been made by booted feet, and some featured claws and indicated that someone had dragged himself along rather than lifted his feet. Orcs. His lips a thin, bloodless line, he squatted and brushed his fingers slightly over his find. There was no way of telling how old these prints were, but the discovery that the filth had found one of his best hiding places darkened Éomer’s mood as he stared at the hideous forms. They seemed to be the tracks of three or four creatures, one of them substantially bigger than the others – or perhaps it had just bigger feet; it was impossible to tell. It seemed that there was no end to the variety of the foul creatures’ forms.

Rising again, Éomer proceeded deeper inside to cast a glance into the second chamber of the cave: the pile of dried wood in one corner had definitely been touched, and the amount of ash in the fireplace in the middle of the sheltered niche had likewise changed. Also, the ground was covered with the bones of small animals, neatly stripped of all meat. From their sheer number, Éomer concluded that the orcs had used the caves repeatedly, not just once because they had accidentally stumbled over them. His expression darkened further as he looked back toward the entrance, considering his options. What could he do? It was definitely not wise to stay here when the enemy knew about this place. The remains of their meals, however, looked old. He furrowed his brow, uncomfortable with the realisation that he had not much of a choice left. With the terrain as treacherous as it was and temperatures dropping far below freezing since sunset, moving on in the darkness would be a shortcut to the halls of his ancestors. Éomer looked forward to seeing his parents and Théodred again, but he had not planned to do so in the near future. No, as much as he hated to admit the fact to himself, it looked as if he was trapped here for the night.

Having made up his mind however reluctantly, he gathered some of the straw from the ground and together with two blocks of wood, arranged them in the firepit. Carefully and patiently nurturing the flames until they settled in the thick wood and danced merrily in the darkness, Éomer then rose to his feet again and went to fetch Firefoot.

In the outer cave he stopped and clicked his tongue, rightly suspecting that he would have to drag the big grey in like a stubborn mule. Not that he could blame Firefoot when he himself felt reluctant about staying. The only thing he could do about his unfavourable situation was stay alert and set out again with earliest dawn, just in case the orcs returned from their nightly forays to seek shelter from the sun. Even if the evidence of the creatures’ presence looked old, he would not commit the mistake of falling asleep in the wolf’s den. Although he had already gone almost without sleep the night before, Éomer knew that another long, lonely watch lay ahead of him. He sat the lamp down upon a protrusion and stuck his head out of the opening, seeing Firefoot lift his head.

"I know you heard me, Meara-mule. You want to stay here and give our presence away to our foes? Is that it?" Éomer reached for the reins and narrowed his eyes in beginning anger as Firefoot retreated. "Come on, you’ve been in here before. Stop making this so hard; Béma knows I’ve got enough problems without your bullheadedness already." With a quick move, he got hold of the reins and pulled. Surrendering only very reluctantly, the stallion followed him with stiff steps into the cave.

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MEDUSELD

"Ah, that must be Maelwyn now. And it is about time, too," Hildegard said in a tone of forced cheerfulness in response to the rap on the door. She looked at Éowyn, who sat in her bed with the pillows propped against her back and sipped her soup, looking much better than the evening before. "She said that she would return in the afternoon, and it is already late. Enter!" Anxious to go home, the old serving maid came to her feet and gathered her belongings while her lady’s gaze rested fondly on her.

"I suppose she needed to spend some more time with her family," Éowyn offered with a little smile. "Bidding her boys a good night, perhaps telling them a story to send them off to sleep… It is all right. I feel so much better already, I may not even need someone to sit by my side watching me sleep tonight. I--" her voice died in her throat upon the sight of her visitor. It was not her handmaiden. Alarmed by her lady’s sudden silence, Hildegard turned around.

"Counsellor Gríma! I believed that you had already gone to bed, therefore I did not--"

He raised his hand, smiling amiably.

"There is no need to apologise, Mistress. I just wanted to see with my own eyes for once how the King’s niece is faring. I told Théoden-King of the recent developments, but of course such statements are made with greater conviction if I have seen that of which I speak." He turned to Éowyn. "It is wonderful to see that you seem to recover very quickly, my lady. Yálanda certainly knows her craft."

Suddenly feeling frozen despite the fire in the hearth and the warm soup in her stomach, Éowyn put the half-empty bowl down on her nightstand, deliberately suppressing the violent shudder that threatened to make her hands shake. Her tone was chill when she replied: "Aye, she does indeed, Counsellor, and I am most grateful for that. However, I was just about to go to sleep myself, so I would greatly appreciate being left alone now that you have seen for yourself that there is no reason to worry." Warily, she eyed the strange bundle Wormtongue held firmly tucked under his left arm. "Would you happen to know whether my handmaiden has already been seen in the hall?"

"I do indeed." Still smiling, Gríma inclined his head to the older serving maid. "Mistress Hildegard, I thank you for your service today. Please, do not hesitate to retire for the night. I just need a quick word with the White Lady before I go."

Clutching her shawl against her ample bosom, Hildegard lowered her gaze in obedience.

"Thank you, Counsellor. I trust it that someone has already been assigned the task of sitting with Lady Éowyn tonight?"

"Your concern honours you, Mistress Hildegard, but rest assured that everything has been thought of. I bid you a good night." Gríma gaze followed the servant to the door and briefly his smile flashed up again as she turned around once more.

"Good night, Lady Éowyn. I will be back in the morning. And good night, Counsellor." Hildegard bowed her head and then quickly slipped out of the room. The silence in the wake of her departure seemed deafening.

All too aware of the fact that the man in her room and the guard outside, who was possibly one of his own, were likely to be the only waking people within earshot if Gríma tried to move against her, Éowyn tensed, her gaze briefly grazing the nightstand where she had hidden the dagger she usually kept under her pillow. Knowing that she might not be fully conscious once the potion took effect, she had hidden it in its heavy drawer before she swallowed the contents of the phial... out of her reach should she really need it now.

"You look tense, my lady," Gríma began at last, slowly stepping over to the foot of her bed. He narrowed his eyes and his gaze intensified. "Or shall I say ‘guilty’? Surely there would be no need for such agitation just because of my presence if your conscience was clear?"

"I do not know what you are insinuating, Counsellor," Éowyn forced herself to say, past the great lump forming in her throat. She sounded cold… and nervous. "By now you should have grown accustomed to my dislike of your person, so I don’t see why my anxiety should surprise you. What is it you want?"

Gríma’s smile broadened as he looked at the thing he had brought with him, patting it with his free hand before his attention found back to her.

"Are you not curious to learn what I have here?"

Angered by his impertinence, Éowyn lifted her chin. How dare the filth play games with her inside her own chambers!

"Would it be of any importance to me?"

"I would believe so," Gríma replied, taking the grey thing with both hands now and holding it out before him as it unrolled. Her mouth already opened for an acid rebuke, Éowyn suddenly froze and all breath left her lungs while a deadly chill travelled down her spine. Unable to avert her eyes, she felt herself blanch.

"I see you recognise it."

Gríma’s cool voice seeped into her conscious from leagues away. It was as if all of a sudden, she had been cast into a different realm, a place without air where she was trapped all by herself. She thought she was about to faint. This cannot not be! Éomer? Could her brother be dead?

"I hate to say this, My Lady, but I fear that it was actually your little trick that lured your brother into our net. If I was a cruel person, I would in fact thank you for your help. However, since I do understand your distress…"

"You are not a cruel person, you are a beast," Éowyn spat, breathless with horror. It took all of her remaining willpower to tear her eyes away from the bloodied coat, and with the connection cut, her voice steadied. "You are worse than any orc could ever be. Orcs kill because it is their nature, but you thrive on causing misery. Your whole life is an endless quest to cause others grief and harm."

Gríma smirked.

"If you say so…"

"But I don’t believe you." Summoning what courage she had left, Éowyn looked at the torn garment again, clenching her blanket so tightly that her knuckles went white, and still her hands shook. "This is only his cloak. The blood on it may not even be Éomer’s. Do you want to hear what I believe? I believe that your men stole this from him. They followed him and when he put it down somewhere, they stole it because they would never have dared to fight him, and then they slaughtered an animal on the way back to smear its blood onto it to make it look as if they killed him." She uttered a mocking laugh even though she felt dead inside. Could it be true what she said? Or was it desperation trying to make her believe in something even though the opposite was already proven? "It is but another of your petty little ploys. You cannot fool me, carrion bird! Go and show this to the King, if you are so proud of it!"

Seemingly unfazed by her outburst, her adversary calmly rolled the cloak together and directed his steps over to the fireplace.

"Believe what you may, Lady Éowyn, but your brother is in my hands. He is alive yet, and in the hands of a capable healer, who might help him to survive his wounds… but if you choose to remain a nuisance to me, I may just decide to tell him to withhold his help. I might even, in fact, tell him to cause your brother yet more pain. He is a master of the Dark Arts, he knows how to make your brother feel every ounce of pain he is capable of enduring for a long, long time. Trust me when I tell you this."

The trembling travelled up her hands to seize her entire body as she stared in shock at Wormtongue, gasping as her adversary carefully laid the cloak into the fire.

"No! No, you will not get away with this! I will tell the King! He said nothing about killing Éomer, and nothing about torture! He will have you executed before the sun goes up tomorrow morning." Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed although she still felt weak, Éowyn ripped open the drawer of her nightstand and took the dagger from it. Alarmed by the noise, Gríma’s head snapped around. He narrowed his eyes.

"I would not do that if I were you. If you think you can threaten me, I would advise you strongly to reconsider. What you did yesterday could easily land you in the dungeon yourself, My Lady. Or even worse, it could cost you your beautiful head. I have irrefutable proof of your treason. Several people ssaw your handmaiden talking to the blacksmith’s son, which is why she won’t return, in case you were wondering. I have no doubt that Élric himself will testify against you if he is being properly motivated… if he recovers, that is. I am keeping him somewhere close, as well, in the same place as your brother. They are both in my hands, and believe me when I say that I will not hesitate to make their lives even more miserable than they are now if you give me so much as the faintest reason!" His gaze pierced Éowyn with open brutality, all pretence of friendliness or compassion long gone. "And before you go and wave that dagger in my direction, or whatever else you might come up with to dispose of me, know that the men guarding your brother and Élric are under orders to kill them both in the most painful way they can conceive should they not hear from me each and every single day. Do you understand me?"

Gríma allowed himself a malicious smile at the sight of the young woman’s helpless rage. Once more poking at the remains of the burning cloak in the fireplace to make certain that nothing would remain, he straightened and put back the iron into its stand. Cleaning his hands on his dark robe, he walked over to the door without haste, and a victorious smile spread over his pale features as he depressed the handle and looked back over his shoulder. "Anyway, I do not have to remind you whose words the King really listens to these days, do I, Lady Éowyn? I bid you a good night."

The door closed behind him, and Éowyn no longer cared whether he could hear her as she threw herself onto her bed and gave herself over to despair…