Chapter 16: Last Chance

WHITE MOUNTAINS

"Éowyn! Éowyn, no!" The pyre erupted into flames as Gríma put his torch to it, the yellow tongues hungrily climbing up the wood toward his sister’s flesh. Éowyn screamed, all evidence of her usual calm and collected demeanour gone in the face of a horrible death, but nobody moved to help her; all the citizens of Edoras who had gathered at the market square to witness her execution stood entranced and stared at the quickly building fire with blank expressions. In the front row, an inanimate Théoden sat on his throne, which had been carried down for him to watch the burning of his niece, and his voice was the only sound audible over the increasing roar of the fire and Éowyn’s screams.

"You sought to betray me. You must burn."

"Well-spoken, Master," Wormtongue complimented him silkenly as he slipped behind the king and placed his hands on the old man’s shoulders in a disgusting display of false closeness. "She would not listen. We warned her by sending her brother away, and yet she did the same thing. If she cannot listen, she must burn."

Jumping from Firefoot’s back into the crowd Éomer dashed madly toward the pyre where the first flames reached Éowyn’s feet, and her cries of pain froze his blood.

"I am coming, Éowyn! Hold on!" The guards stormed toward him, but he rammed them aside and jumped into the fire without consideration for his own safety. Already the flames tasted the flavour of his garments as he stormed up the pile of wood.

"Éomer! Éomer, no, don’t!"

Still climbing, he drew his knife to cut her loose, but then saw to his dismay that his sister was shackled to the post with iron-chains.

"No! No!" Dropping the knife, he tore at the chains with bare hands while the heat engulfed him, each breath searing his lungs. The roar of the fire was deafening, yet not loud enough to drown out Gríma’s words as he said: "Brother and sister burning side by side for their sins against Rohan. Isn’t that most fitting indeed, my lord?"

"Éomer!" Éowyn’s eyes widened in horror. "You cannot help me. Go and save yourself, for Rohan needs you!" The fire reached her legs, and she issued a bloodcurdling scream. Helplessly, he tore at the chains, but it was already too late. There was but one thing left that he could do for his sister now, and so Éomer gave up his efforts and instead closed his arms around her as the heat and the brightness and the roar of the flames engulfed them. He could not save her, could not shield her from the fire but at least they could die side by side. As the air grew too hot to breathe, Éomer turned his head and saw the faint outline of their uncle through the flames, and Gríma standing beside him, holding his hand. It was the image he took with him…

... when he awoke with a gasp to darkness; a thick, solid blackness that was all the more confusing in contrast to the firestorm he had just escaped. Strangely though, the heat seemed to have followed him from his nightmare: his garments and the blanket were drenched with sweat and stuck to his skin. For a moment, Éomer could not tell where he was.

"Éowyn?" Was this the afterlife? But why could he not see? Wasn’t he supposed to go to the Halls of his Fathers? What was this dark place? Sweat stung in his eyes, and slowly, it seeped into Éomer’s conscious that the horrible scene he had witnessed had only been a dream. His heart still pounding in a frenzied rhythm against his ribs, he sank back and wiped his sweat-beaded forehead in an unconscious gesture… and paused when his cold fingers touched his hot face. ‘Bema, no…it cannot be!’ But there was no denying: the more Éomer became aware of his surroundings, distancing himself from the last echoes of the nightmare, the more he felt the dull throbbing of his racing pulse behind his brow, and as he looked at the fire although he already knew that the sensation could not originate from there, the brightness of the flames assaulted his eyes like needles. Alas, he knew those signs well, and a sinking feeling spread in his stomach.

He had been too slow in tending his wounds, or not thorough enough, or there had not been enough of the spirit to clean all the gashes and tears. Perhaps he should not have weakened the brew by stretching it with water, but what good were regrets now? While he had been asleep, infection had developed in his wounds, and now fever burnt him alive. Tremors already ran through his muscles, telling him that the poison had already spread far through his body. What now?

"Firefoot?" Blindly reaching for his water skin to soothe his dry throat, Éomer turned his head… and found the cave deserted. There was no sign of the stallion. From the entrance, only the ominous roar of the wind penetrated into the sanctity of his retreat and he shivered underneath his wet blanket as a bone-chilling cold seized his body, making his teeth clatter and his hands tremble. He spilled half of the water before he could hold the opening of the water skin still enough to drink. The liquid soothed his raw throat on the way down, yet it was only la drop in the bucket and a moment later, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth once more. Fighting the urge to drink the rest of it, Éomer fought with the stopper, and suddenly, the vessel slipped from his grasp and emptied its precious contents into the straw. "No…"

His hands in the puddle as if he could shove the water back into the pouch somehow, Éomer stared in dismay at the disaster… when he suddenly felt with all distinctiveness the tiny hairs at the back of his neck rise. It was another shiver, but not caused by the fever, and after the many years of riding with the Armed Forces, Éomer immediately understood the meaning of the telltale prickle of his scalp: death was in the neighbourhood, looking for him. Its shape was yet unknown, and although he was painfully aware of the fact that he stood no chance of defending himself against anything greater than an orc babe, Éomer clenched the hilt of his knife. The deadly threat resulted in a burst of fresh energy surging through his body and enabling him to push himself up into a sitting position against the wall. Frantically, his gaze darted through the impenetrable darkness beyond the fire.

Something was moving where the light ended; several invisible shapes he could sense but not see. For a heartbeat Éomer hoped that it was Firefoot who had returned from his foray, but with the next beat, he wiped it away. This was not the sound of iron-shod hooves on stone he knew so well; no, these were stealthy, fast steps on padded paws and although the clicking of the claws on the rock was almost too low to be audible, his battle-experienced subconscious registered it nonetheless. This was the sound of predators. He had not even ended the thought when there was suddenly the reflection of the fire in three pairs of luminous eyes before they turned away, and Éomer inhaled sharply. Wolves.

The knife was of no use. Dropping it, Éomer picked up one of the burning branches instead, quickly throwing another piece of wood into the fire to strengthen it, followed by two more. Perhaps the flames would discourage them, even if he did not dare to hope. The thick stench of death must have led the predators to the cave, and while they usually preferred fresh meat, Éomer knew that in the hard wintertime, no wolf would let an easy meal get away, even if it was carrion. They had initially come for the orcs... but now they had found something far better. Once again their eyes gleamed maliciously in the darkness as they halted to stare at him, trying to estimate the strength of their prey. Menacingly, Éomer waved the branch toward them, his energy already waning, and he gritted his teeth in effort, knowing that once he went down, not even the fire would protect him any longer. Again the wolves shifted and turned, still undecided whether to attack or not, but finally, a nasty snarl rose from the other side of the fire, lowly at first, but quickly increasing in volume as it was picked up by the others. They were hungry… and ready to charge.

"You will not get me! Go away!" Éomer shouted at them without much hope, struggling to remain upright although the interior of the cave was already spinning around him. Wolves were smart hunters and possessed of great senses. Of course they smelled his illness and knew that they would be rewarded if only they remained patient. The thought was still unfinished when the three predators suddenly advanced by spreading in a half-circle. The first one moved at him in a feint, snapping, and as Éomer lashed out at it, the one on the other side jumped, almost making it around the fire before Éomer could turn. Sinking its jaws deeply into the blanket, it jumped back just in time to avoid the burning branch and retreated into a corner to secure its prey. Yet one bite was enough for the beast to understand that the thing it had claimed was worthless, and it quickly rejoined the others in the attack.

Rivers of sweat ran down his face, burning in his eyes and blurring his sight as Éomer waved the branch to ward off another attack, his strength fading fast but yet kept upright by his growing anger. How could it be Béma’s will to let him be killed by a pack of wolves after all he had done for his people? How did he deserve this fate? His fury lent him the energy for another thrust, and the branch hit the wolf’s head and seared its sensitive nose and eyes. With an anguished yelp, the beast retreated – and knocked the weapon from his hands and out of his reach!

For a second, wolves and man stared at each other in perfect understanding: they were the hunters and he the prey, and they had given him his chance. He had committed a mistake, and now he would die. They jumped at him in unison, but suddenly their angry snarls were drowned out by a piercing shriek and the deafening sound of thunder in the narrow hollow. Like a demon of wrath, Firefoot charged into the cave, too fast for the stunned predators to evade. A vicious kick catapulted the first wolf to the side with a broken shoulder, and it screamed in pain and only barely evaded the stallion’s teeth as it turned on the spot to follow its fleeing brothers on three legs, not prepared to fight prey of this size and furious temper.

Chasing after them, Firefoot snorted furiously and stomped the ground in display of his terrible weapons as he stopped at the entrance, half-rearing in expectation of the beasts’ return. Yet their scent weakened quickly and finally vanished from the night breeze, so he sent a triumphant scream after the pack and pranced, tossing his head with the thick mane frothing around his neck before he returned to his master, the proud victor.

Éomer smiled weakly at the advancing grey shadow, both amused by the stallion’s pride and deeply grateful, but then slumped into a heap under the assault of yet another wave of heat. His hand seemed to weigh a ton as he lifted it in greeting at his animal ally…and something else was wrong with it, too. Blinking, he stared at the swollen thing at the end of his arm, briefly wondering whether the fever distorted his vision or if his fingers were really so deformed. They had swollen to the point where he could hardly bend them, and the colour of the skin around the holes had darkened to an angry red. Realisation of the meaning of his finding slowly seeping in his conscious, Éomer sat transfixed for a moment longer. Those stinking orcs. Now he’d have to leave the caves, or he would die here, adding his bones to those of all the rabbits and mice that had ended their lives here in the stomach of the filthy brood. Of course chances were also good that the first living thing he encountered outside would kill him, but if he remained here, his fate was certain.

An irritated whicker rose from the depths of Firefoot’s throat, and Éomer looked up. The stallion pawed the ground, anxious to leave this horrible place that assaulted his instincts with the stench of sickness and death and foes. Éomer understood the horse’s nervousness, for though he had no plan nor knew where to turn to for help yet, one thing was sure: he’d have to make haste, or all would be too late. Another look at his hand revealed the dark pattern of thickened veins through which the poisoned blood flowed, and the sight chased another shiver down his spine. He had seen riders with such infections; he had seen them lose limbs or even die once the bad blood had spread too far through their body. And at the same time he knew for certain that he would not be able to mount his horse the usual way; he didn’t even have to make the attempt to know. There was only one option.

Supporting his head against the wall because it felt too heavy to keep upright on his own, Éomer muttered tiredly: "I know, Firefoot. You want to leave. I assume it does not matter; we might as well try it. But I fear that I cannot stand. You must come down for me." He patted the ground and looked up. Firefoot towered above him like a statue, and his large eyes stared at Éomer as if he contemplated whether his master had truly lost his mind now. Éomer would have laughed over the incredulous look on his horse’s face if it had not been for another cramp seizing him, stronger this time, and he gritted his teeth and groaned as he waited for the pain to subside. This had to be the way a raw piece of steel felt while it was bent and hammered into shape above the fire.

The next moment he snorted, bewildered by the strange shape his thoughts were taking and blaming it on the fever. Even his eyes hurt when he looked up at the restlessly shifting stallion, rising what was left of his voice: "Down, lad. Here!" Again he patted the ground, and the horse tossed his head in indignant refusal. There was no misunderstanding the meaning of Éomer’s gesture, as it was taught to all Rohirric horses, no matter whether they belonged to the Armed Forces or the farmers. In a land as dangerous as the Mark, it was vital that one was able to mount one’s horse at all times, even if one could barely move. Their horses’ unusual intelligence and fierce loyalty along with their strength and endurance were the reasons for their renown in the rest of the world; they were no common beasts. If only this big, bull-headed example in front of him would remember his heritage and stop fussing!

And yet Éomer knew well that he was being hard on the stallion: the reasons for Firefoot’s reluctance were perfectly understandable. The training had always taken place on soft ground, and if the horse lowered his bulk onto the hard surface, Firefoot could hurt himself considerably, even more so since freedom of movement was limited within the caves. Also, while they could fight, even their magnificent horses were beasts that preferred flight to battle. If the wolves returned while Firefoot lay on the ground, he would be able to do neither. He’d be easy prey. Horses never lay down in a place they felt not completely safe at, and the stallion had hated the caves from the start. Now they reeked of death, and his master was asking him to expose itself to perhaps lethal danger. Of course the task was risky. But it was not something Éomer could take into consideration now.

Torn between his instincts and loyalty to his master, Firefoot circled the narrow confines of the cave once more, and for a moment, it looked to Éomer as if he wanted to leave, but with an angered and at the same time resigned huff, the Half-Meara turned at last on his hind legs and returned, and from the awkwardness of his movements Éomer could tell that he was looking for a favourable spot to lie down.

"That is my boy," he breathed, silently wondering whether he would succeed in mounting even if Firefoot lowered himself for him. "Thank you, lad." He looked at the things strewn around him. The waterskin was empty, no use in taking it along. The knife… yes, perhaps he would still need it. ‘At least I could hurt the first orc that attacked me before he bites my head off.’ He secured the blade underneath his belt. What else? Provisions? He had no strength left to saddle Firefoot, so where should he leave them? No, this being his last attempt of survival, there was no use in taking anything else.

Reaching for his cape and cautiously slipping into it, Éomer observed the horse’s efforts to lie down from the corner of his eye. Each of the grey’s movements expressing his reluctance and discomfort, Firefoot shifted and turned endlessly before at last seemed to have found a suitable spot. Awkwardly bending his front legs, he dropped at last with a heavy thud, and Éomer grimaced compassionately upon hearing the deep groan the grey issued in response to the impact. Very well, his horse had done for him what he could; now it was on Éomer to make the last effort. Only a few steps separated him from the stallion, who had almost lowered himself onto the fireplace. One last time collecting the pitiful remains of his strength, Éomer bent to the side with a hiss, simultaneously dragging and pushing himself over the ground. The roar of his rushing blood in his ears drowned out all other noises before his hand finally touched the grey hide, and his vision threatened to leave him with small white explosions dancing in front of his eyes.

"It is good, my friend. I am here." Affectionately, Éomer patted the mighty shoulder and grasped a handful of the thick mane to literally drag himself onto Firefoot’s back. Shivering with exhaustion, he finally slipped his injured leg over the side with a pained hiss and clicked his tongue, hoping that he would not fall when the stallion rose to his feet. Gods, how he would make Wormtongue suffer for this! "Up. Up, Firefoot." The great muscles worked underneath him as Firefoot spread his front legs. A strained groan emitted from the depth of the stallion’s broad chest in effort as he struggled to rise with the additional weight on his back. Swaying like a foal that tried to gain its footing for the first time in his life, a precarious moment passed when Éomer thought they would both fall back and he would be crushed by the grey’s weight, but with a last mighty effort, Firefoot thrust forth his bulk, and at last he stood. Thin rivulets of blood ran down his strong legs from the abrasions he had suffered by letting himself fall, but in his relief of finally being able to leave the deadly trap of the caves, he felt nothing.

His fingers clenching the dark mane so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms, Éomer squeezed his eyes shut against the searing pain in his leg and side upon his steed’s first steps, and an awful surge of nausea rose from his stomach. He was not certain for how long he would be able to remain on Firefoot’s back, had no inkling of where to go. Putting all his faith into the senses of his horse because he knew that the grey would search the wind for signs of his kin, Éomer tightened the cape around his shivering frame and committed himself to chance. Together, horse and rider left the darkness of the caves to enter the narrow mountain path in the first faint light of the new day.