Chapter 21: In the Wolf’s Den

“Captain? Captain Elfhelm? Please, you must believe me, I did not mean to betray you, but they said they would kill my family if I did not deliver you. I have two little daughters! Please, I did not--" A dull sound interrupted the anxious flow of words and replaced them with a pained grunt.

“Enough of that disgraceful whimpering,” a rumbling voice spat disdainfully. “You betrayed your commander, get used to the thought! I don’t think he wants to hear your blabbering now. You did it, now live with it.” Another rush of air, then breathless gasping. This was what Elfhelm woke up to. He opened his eyes to the flickering light of fire... and a headache that felt as if someone had buried an axe in the middle of his skull. Instantly, a debilitating wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he spilled the sparse remainders of his evening meal onto the ground in a violent retching fit.

“Now will you look at him, your proud Captain of Aldburg!” The same dark voice sneered with unmistakable glee. “Look carefully, all of you who think you are something better! Scrambling on the ground like a pig he is, ready for the slaughter. If I wanted, I could kill him right now without breaking a sweat!” A foot prodded Elfhelm in the side and turned him around less than gently, and the warrior could not suppress an anguished groan. “What? Are you in pain?” the voice snorted. “Believe me, this is only the beginning. Once my master begins his work on you, you will wish that you were never born!” Heat assaulted the Captain’s face as the torch was lowered, threatening to burn him.

The brightness of the flames assaulted Elfhelm’s eyes like knife stabs, digging into the soft matter inside his head. Instinctively, he tried to evade them and found his hands bound behind his back. Dirty laughter rose from several men before him he could not see in the semi-darkness.

“You think this will help you, traitor? You think you will get away from us? I believe not.” The torch came closer, almost scorching his face now. Unable to breathe or get away from the fire, Elfhelm did the only thing he could think of: he kicked out. His feet found a solid aim, and with a surprised grunt his torturer went down, dropping the torch... onto him! Quickly he rolled and extinguished the flames before they settled in his garments. A wild curse was uttered in the guttural Dunlending tongue, another dirty laugh from the men further behind – and then a brutal kick landed in his stomach and left him gasping for air. “Bloody mule-headed Rohirric bastard! You do not understand when you have lost, do you?”

“Enough, Felrod! I need him alive! Step back!” Now, that voice Elfhelm recognised, and even over the pounding in his head and the churning of his blood through his ears, he knew who had come to this shed, but what for? To torture and question him where no one would see? And what of his men? Where they still alive? Had one of them perhaps even managed to escape? He craned his neck, yet found that he could still not see what lay in the darkness of the building.

“Wormtongue...” He hissed through clenched teeth, spitting out his adversary’s accursed name as if the word itself were poison. “Tell me, is it Théoden-King’s wish now that you assault the men who protect his people, or what is this? What crime is it you find me guilty of? Is it unlawful now to enter Edoras?”

“Ah, dear Captain, do you really feel you have to ask me that?” With a rustle of garments and leather, the dark-haired man squatted beside him, his pale features hauntingly to behold in the flickering light. The self-satisfactory expression the Counsellor’s wore was unmistakable, and if Elfhelm’s hands had not been bound, he would have snapped the man’s neck right then. As it was, it took all of his supreme willpower to even lift his head. The smile dropped from Grima’s lips, replaced by a hard glint in the almost colourless eyes.

“I know perfectly well why you are here, Captain! You planned to unseat me. Together with Céorl, you intended to attack me, in what way I do not know, but do not insult my intelligence by trying to convince me that you sneaked into the city in the middle of the night like a thief without treacherous intent. Do you believe that I could not guess the reason for Céorl’s departure for Aldburg four days ago? Do you believe that I did not know the purpose of that journey? If I had so little wit, I would not hold the key to power over the Kingdom of Rohan in my hands. But of course, your arrogance was very helpful, too. As long as the so-called warriors of this land keep underestimating me, you make my task very easy, and I thank you for it.” The triumphant smile with which Gríma rose was almost enough to lend Elfhelm the strength to kick again, but as it was, it was he who found himself the aim of another well-placed boot, and he fell back gasping... and froze as his adversary’s boot was placed upon his throat. From above, the Counsellor’s voice dribbled into his reeling conscious like poisoned honey.

“I could crush you right now and be done with you, once and for all, Captain, and it would not even cost me a single drop of sweat.” The pressure on Elfhelm’s throat intensified, and he struggled for air. “How does it feel to be at the mercy of someone you hate? How does it feel to know that you have failed all who set their trust in you?”

“You will soon find out, snake!” All air he had been able to collect was spent with his hateful rebuke, but the effort was worth it, even if the pressure on his throat now became intolerable. Would Gríma indeed kill him? Somehow, Elfhelm could not believe it. The next moment, the weight was taken from his neck, and he was forcefully hauled to his feet. The pain in his head exploded at the movement, and if it had not been for the strong hands holding him, he would have fallen to the ground like a stone. With a muffled grunt, Elfhelm squeezed his eyes shut to suppress another powerful retching fit. His chin was lifted, and for a moment, he hoped he would spew whatever was still left in his stomach onto the accursed filth, but then the dry heaving stopped.

“You think you are so smart, don’t you? Sneaking into the city like you did, thinking that I would not find out what you had planned. I give you one advice, Captain, even if it will not be of help to you anymore: I know everything! My eyes and ears are everywhere, and you cannot even breathe without me knowing about it. You made it so much easier for me to capture you by stealing into the city like this! I could not have arrested you for entering Edoras had you arrived in broad daylight, underneath the citizen’s eyes. They are afraid of me, but I do know my limits, and arresting a warrior they trust and respect without apparent cause would probably have resulted in an uprising, which I then would have had to end with much bloodshed. Ah, but now I understand: you wanted to spare your kinsmen the bloodshed! How very noble of you, Elfhelm of Aldburg! It shall not be forgotten when they sing the mourning song at your grave!”

“You like to hear yourself talk, Worm, don’t you?” Elfhelm spat. “If you want to kill me, just do it, don’t talk about it. But make no mistake; the people will learn of it one way or the other, and one not-so-far day, what you fear will become reality. Only you will be powerless to subdue them when it happens. They will tear you to pieces, I promise you this!”

“We will see who will tear whom to pieces,” Gríma dismissed his threat. “It seems to me that you forgot who stands behind me. There is a great army of orcs assembling in the west as we speak, and it can only be a matter of days now before they march for this city and erase every hint that this land had ever been occupied by man. Perhaps I will let you live until then; it should be quite satisfactory to make you a witness of the slaughter before I let you die. Anyway, for the moment, you are of greater use to me alive.” The nasty smirk became threatening. “There is a Rohirric maiden who needs to be taught certain lessons... and since I have no solid proof yet for her brother’s demise, I think that keeping you as an insurance that no one will engage in any foolish acts of misunderstood courage and honour might be a wise precaution to take.”

“You will use me to blackmail Éowyn? You filthy--” Another blow to his head ended Elfhelm’s heated outburst, and he slumped in the henchmen’s grasp. Barely conscious, he felt his mouth being pried open and a gag applied, and for a moment, panic spread its nightblack wings in his stomach. With the nausea still not subdued, what if he had to retch while he was gagged? Weakly he fought against his assailants, but it was to no avail. A moment later, a slightly brighter quadrangle opened in the darkness before him and he was dragged outside into the street, stumbling and unable to walk by himself. Without warning, his head was yanked up by the hair, and Gríma’s face filled his vision like a sickly pale moon.

“Listen closely, Captain: we will take you up to Meduseld now. For every attempt you may undertake to free yourself or cry out and alert the citizens, we will kill one of your men. Do you understand?”

His men were still alive? Barely conscious, Elfhelm tried to turn his head, but it was forcefully held in place.

“Blink once if you understood. Fail to co-operate, and the first of your men dies right here.” He blinked. “Good.” Gríma released his hold and took a step back, his eyes narrow slits. “Remember it well, for I will make it true.”

In ghostly silence, the line of men left the shed and made its way over to the winding path up to the dark, forbidding shape of Meduseld…

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MEDUSELD

She could not sleep. No matter how she tossed and turned on her bed, Éowyn just could not find the position that would make her drift off. Her sheets and blankets were already a crumbled mess, impossible to disentangle, and she gave up fighting with them and for a moment, just lay still on the bed and stared against the ceiling in the eerie pale light of the moon.

Something was very wrong; she felt it with every fibre of her body. The atmosphere had been strange in the hall all day long; the tension even worse than all these past weeks. It had reached breaking point; the point where something had to happen, to yield one way or the other, even if she could not tell why she felt tis way. At first, Éowyn had blamed her strained nerves for this notion; after all, she had spent four days in the narrow confines of her chambers, forced to watch helplessly why Rohan’s enemy was free to act as he pleased. And of course the general mood had to be bleak in the wake of the recent events: Éomer’s banishment, Élric’s disappearance, the sudden dismissal of Maelwyn, who had been after all a long-time member of the Royal household… but while those incidents certainly depressed the remaining personnel, they were not responsible for this strange feeling of foreboding the daughter of Éomund felt; a weight lay on her shoulders as if the roof of Meduseld was about to collapse and bury them underneath the debris.

Abruptly, Éowyn sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, no longer able to remain inactive while all her instincts told her of something afoot. She had barely seen Wormtongue today; only once around midday had he briefly entered her chambers to see her, his expression tense and guarded as if something had happened that was not to his liking. She barely dared to guess what it might have be that disturbed him. Perhaps Éomer was returning with his éoreds to avenge himself on the Counsellor and his band of crooks? She still was not entirely convinced that her brother was at the Worm’s mercy, and she did not want to believe it. Quickly dressing in the darkness, Éowyn then rushed over to the window, anxious to find out what it was that had her instincts in an uproar.

The glass had frozen over from outside, and she opened the window to gaze out. From her bedroom, she had a partial view of the slope with the ascending path, the nether regions of the city and the plains surrounding it all the way to the White Mountains, whose snow-capped silhouettes were a ghostly contrast to the blackness of the sky. The moon was almost full and shed its silver light onto the sleeping land, illuminating the scenery… A cold chill suddenly wandered down Éowyn’s spine, and it had nothing to do with the air from outside. There was movement on the slope, several dark silhouettes on the ascent to the Golden Hall. She narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. Who was roaming the city in the middle of the night? For another long moment, she just stood and watched.

There were no horses. They seemed to be men, but some where moving strangely, hobbling, or in tight groups, as if they were carried or pulled along. The sight of it, even if it was indistinct, was so wrong that at last, the decision came easily to her: feeling for the comforting weight of her hidden dagger, Éowyn rushed toward the door… and found it locked! The revelation stunned her for another couple of heartbeats. It also confirmed what she had already felt: something horrible was afoot. Somehow, she had to alert the few people who she knew were still on her side. Hands balled to fists, she hammered against the door.

“Gamling! Háma! Help! Raise the alarm!”

Again she pounded against the wood, hearing some muffled words of the guard in front of her door but not giving a care as she turned to fetch the poker from the fireplace. With powerful swings, she attacked the door with renewed vigour.

“Wake up, all of you! Raise the alarm!”

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

The night seemed to have no end. Although experienced in long, lonely vigils, Aragorn could no longer deny that he was experiencing increasing difficulties in warding off sleep. The long days on horseback, the worry and concern for their friends and the Rohirric Marshal and not least of all, the heavy evening meal had done their share to lull the ranger into a stupor. Likewise, neither the flickering light of the candle on the nightstand nor the pleasant warmth in the small room helped in keeping himself awake. Briefly he considered opening a window to let in fresh, cool air to clear his head, Aragorn nonetheless quickly dismissed the idea as he turned his attention back to the man he was watching over. It had taken Éomer long to warm up, and his condition was still fragile. Better to keep fighting drowsiness than risk a relapse, Aragorn decided. And also, it was time to get some more liquid into his patient and see how the young man was faring. He rose to his feet.

“Éomer? Marshal?”

He received no response, but had expected none. Even if the Rohír had improved to sleeping rather than being unconscious, he was probably so far out of this world after all that he had been through that he would not wake for at least another day. Gently, Aragorn laid his hand onto the warrior’s forehead and found it warm to his touch… too warm. But even this development did not trouble him; he had applied the mould to Éomer’s wounds only a few hours ago; it would need some time yet to do its wonders. Judging from the state they had found the Rohir in, it was most likely that the son of Éomund had been burning with fever even when he had set out from the cave, the fall from the back of his horse a result of his weakness overwhelming him. Yet while the cold had almost cost his life, it had probably broken the fever, too, and Aragorn did not believe that it would rise to a dangerous level again… not if he could help it. Turning toward the nightstand, he calmly poured some more of the steaming tea Willa had left him in a temperature-preserving vessel before she had gone to bed into a mug.

He looked up, having caught the notion of movement from the corner of his eye. Éomer’s eyes, however, were still closed and the warrior was obviously dreaming as he shifted on the bed, his brow creasing with worry. Quickly, Aragorn set down the mug and once more laid his hand against the side of Éomer’s face, this time to calm the ill man.

“Ssshh… be at peace, Son of Éomund. You are safe and among friends.” This time, there was a reaction to his words, and his wrist was suddenly grasped as he found himself the focus of dark, feverish eyes. He did not stir, and very soon, his hand was released when the Rohir’s strength deserted him. Acting on impulse, Aragorn grasped it himself and pressed it reassuringly as he beheld the growing confusion in the young man’s stormy gaze. “There is no need to worry. You were wounded, but none of your injuires are serious. Just rest, and in a few days, you will have fully recovered.”

He could not tell whether he was being understood, but when he saw the younger man’s fog over with drowsiness again, he quickly turned to pick up the mug. “Here, I have something to drink for you. It will help you to sleep, and also quicken the healing.” With one hand helping his patient to hold up his head, the ranger gently pressed the rim against Éomer’s lips, and although the Rohir was barely awake enough to keep his eyes open, he drank half of the contents in small sips before he lay back, utterly exhausted even from the small effort. When Aragorn addressed him the next time, he had already sunken deeply into the realm of sleep again. A tired smile wandered over the ranger’s face. Even if it had only been brief, but that first moment of wakefulness so soon after the crisis had to mean that Éomer was out of danger. He felt incredibly relieved.

“Sleep, Son of Éomund,” he whispered, carefully covering the warrior’s hand with the blanket again. “And when you wake again, you will feel much better.” After a quick inspection of the bandages, the Aragorn settled back into the chair for the continuation of his vigil…