CHAPTER 28: A Siege and a Vow

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EDORAS

Before he knew what he was doing, Éothain found himself stepping away from the mass of his comrades and setting foot upon the first step to the Golden Hall. Immediately, a thicket of arrows was aimed at him, and he understood that it would be the easiest thing in the world for Gríma to dispose of him now if he really wanted to… and dared to in front of the angry éored. Yet Éothain did not believe that he did.

“Then why not shoot and be done with us once and for all, Worm?” he shouted, his voice firm. “Why do you hesitate? Are you afraid that this would at last cause the uprising that will be your undoing? I fear that your assumption would be correct. The people of Edoras have enough of you, and they are ready to demonstrate it.”

Another step, closer yet. Now he beheld the pale figure amidst their enemies. Unlike he, Gríma did not present himself as a target, and for good reason. Apparently, Saruman’s minion had foreseen this confrontation, and there was no guarantee that his enemies would not use the first opportunity they saw to rid their land of their oppressor. In fact, this had been the first instruction Éothain had given the best of his archers before they headed up the hill, and even now he knew that they were standing among the crowd with their arrows fitted to the string of their bows, ready for the first clear shot that would present itself to them. Briefly Éothain wondered why he felt no fear at the prospect of possibly walking straight into his death, but the answer was obvious: he was too furious to be afraid. Inside him, a cold rage burnt with devastating force; a fury that could only be extinguished with the blood of his adversary.

“If you don’t lay down your weapons and surrender this very instant, they will storm Meduseld despite of everything you’ve been threatening them with for the last months and years, Worm! My éored and I are, in fact, your only chance to survive their fury. Accept it, or pay dearly for your crimes against the Mark! The choice is yours.”

“What do you want, youngling?” Gríma sneered, his colourless eyes blazing with unspoken threat, and Éothain halted on the little platform at the middle of the stairs, figuring that he had approached as far as possible without running the risk of being seized by the Worm’s henchmen and taken for yet another hostage.

“You know what I want: I want my father, out here, safe and unharmed, leaving with us when we go. And I want Éowyn, our King and all you hold captive released immediately, or Béma help me, you will live to regret it!”

A disconcerting smirk distorted his opponent’s features at the mention of these names.

“Is that so, young man? How comes that you feel in the position to make such a bold request? Alas, I realise that it is the fault of youth that makes you ask for far too much. Of course you are aware that I can’t and I won’t simply give my captives to you. They are my insurance that you and your men will not stupidly try to storm this hall and die in a hail of arrows, as would your kinsmen if they dared to follow. By keeping them, I am preventing, in fact, a bloodbath, so you should be thankful!” Lifting his chin in a display of calm superiority, Gríma’s gaze swept the crowd before him before his attention returned to the young captain.

“Of course, you must ask yourself now why I hesitate to kill you where you stand, but I fear that you must forgive me for now for leaving that question open. All happens for a good reason, is all I have to say to that, and I have another proposal for you as well, one you would be wise to accept: leave, and you and your men shall live… at least for a little while longer. Sheathe your swords and walk down that hill again, Son of Céorl, and make sure that neither of your comrades will be seen upon these steps or this path again, or I swear that your father will die a slow and painful death… at my very own hands.”

With a brief glance over his shoulder, he gestured to someone still hidden within the shadow of the hall, and as that man stepped out, a dismayed gasp rose from the assembled riders, soon changing to shouts of rage: it was Felrod, the muscled guard in charge of Gríma’s men, and behind him, chained and slumped between the two armoured Dunlendings supporting his weight, Captain Céorl of Edoras was brought forth, his tunic and breeches torn and dirtied by large stains of dried and still wet blood. Éothain felt the colour drain from his face.

“Father!”

Aedwulf could only see his captain from behind, but the young warrior’s enraged trembling was unmistakable, and he knew that it was he who had to save his brother-in-arms from committing the greatest mistake of his life as he stormed forth and grasped Éothain before he could storm up the stairs.

“No! No, Éothain! Don’t!”

“Take your hands off me, Aedwulf! That snake has my father, and I will--” More hands seized him, holding him back, although he fought like a beast to shake them off.

“That is what he wants, Éothain! Don’t you understand?” With a quick glance at the waiting Dunlendings, the older man stepped in front of his captain, blocking his view. Éothain’s cheeks were flushed with red-hot fury in stark contrast to the deadly whiteness of the rest of his face, the veins on his temples and neck standing out like strings as he fought against his own men. “He wants you for another hostage! Don’t give him that!”

“But he has my father! Look what he has done to him!”

“Aye.” Aedwulf seized Éothain’s garments with both hands and stared at the young man with blistering intensity as he lowered his voice: “Aye, and it is terrible, but there is nothing we can do about it now, not while they have their arrows aimed at us and just wait for our attack. We must retreat for now, and return with a better plan when they don’t expect us. We will free your father, I promise, but this is not the way to do it. We’ll lose!” Breathing heavily, he studied his captain’s expression, which changed only slowly from blind rage to a mixture of anger and defeat, and read in the blue eyes that at last, he was getting through.

Giving up the struggle against his own men, Éothain stared at Aedwulf, trembling with emotions he was not allowed to act on, his hands clenching the hilt of his sword so fiercely that his knuckles were white, then his gaze once more went over the other warrior’s shoulder to where Wormtongue waited with an expression of confident superiority for his decision. He swallowed.

“What will it be, Son of Céorl?” the evil Counsellor raised his voice above the din of muttered curses as soon as he felt the young man’s attention on himself again. “Do you want me to kill your father, or will you retreat? To make this decision easier for you, I should perhaps prove to you that he is, in fact, not the only person you care for who is at my mercy at present!” Again he looked back and nodded, and if possible, the horrified reactions from the crowd were even louder when they beheld the lithe figure of the White Lady in the cruel grasp of her captors. Clenching his jaw so tight that the muscles stood out from his neck, Éothain stared at the unravelling nightmare in front of him, rendered speechless.

“You will get what is coming to you, Counsellor,” Aedwulf spat instead of him, the fingers of the hand he had laid onto Éothain’s shoulder in a comforting gesture painfully digging into his comrade’s flesh. “Béma sees what you are doing here, and when his punishment comes, you will regret that you were ever born!”

His outburst earned him a nasty smirk.

“Considering all ill that has happened to the Mark ever since your forefathers seized it by force from the Dunlendings, you still seem to put an incredible amount of trust into your gods, Rider! Where were your gods when your people were massacred in the Westfold? Where were they in the endless winter which ended the lives of so many of your kinsmen? And why do they allow that your people suffer if they are supposed to be on your side? Explain that to me, please, for I do not understand it!” Silence answered him. “You have no explanation, isn’t that so? Could it be than that your gods do not care for weaklings? Could it be that your gods favour those who take destiny into their own hands instead of crying rivers of tears over the injustices done to them? Could it be that they favour the determined and strong instead?”

“They certainly don’t favour filthy liars and deceivers, Worm!” Éothain finally managed to utter, steaming. “They may bide their time and observe thoroughly before they act, and I certainly would not want to be you when they at last enter into the fray. Aedwulf is right; your punishment is only a question of time and it will be befitting your crimes!”

Shrugging off his angry retort with a dismissive gesture, Gríma’s cruel stare found back to the young captain after a suggestive glance at the barely conscious Céorl.

“Believe whatever you may, young man; I couldn’t care less. Just tell me what I am supposed to do with your father now: slit his throat right here on the steps of Meduseld… or will you retreat?”

His voice quivering and his insides in an uproar as he met his father’s gaze and then Éowyn’s, Éothain at length pressed: “We will retreat… for now.” He collected himself and his tone hardened when he added: “Yet know one thing: each man you sent into the city no matter on what errand will be killed upon sight. From this moment on, we will lay siege to Meduseld, and whoever leaves it and is regarded as an enemy will forfeit his life. You cannot hide within the Golden Hall forever!” He did not like the smug look on Gríma’s face in response to his threat; it was as if the filth knew something that he didn’t.

“We will see, young rider,” the counsellor spoke with a tone corresponding with his expression. “We will see. If you think you can threaten me thus, you should know that it will be the captives who will suffer from a shortage of water and food, first. Now leave, if you don’t want your father’s blood to soil these stairs after all.”

His jaw clenched so hard that his teeth hurt, Éothain turned his back to the man he longed to kill more than he longed for the next breath, and Aedwulf relaxed slightly when he read in his comrade’s expression that the danger of committing that deadly mistake had passed. If anything, Éothain looked even more determined now.

“You are right, Aedwulf,” he muttered under his breath, taking no chances that the Worm could overhear them. “We cannot harm him now, but from now on, I want this path guarded day and night. If any of his scarecrows leave the Hall, we will take them. We’ll see how long they can do without water. He will not let his hostages die, nor will he kill them, or he won’t have anything left to bargain with. It is an empty threat. Come. There is much to discuss!”

With a curt nod at his men, Éothain descended the stairs. Though the defeat hurt and the fear for his father and the woman he had regarded as his sister since his youth still threatened to choke him, he at last succeeded to lock his emotions away in a place of his mind where they would not impair his strategic thinking. It was cunning they needed now; a superior plan. Violence could not solve this problem. With a last look back from below at the stark silhouette of Meduseld, Éothain narrowed his eyes. Very well, if Gríma wanted to play a game of chess with him, he would do so. If only he had not this feeling of missing something important...

 

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

After the ranger had left and drawn the curtains before the window again, Éomer had settled back into his cushion and waited for the throbbing of his wounds resulting from Aragorn’s inspection and cleansing to subside. With relief he had heard the older man’s comment on how much better the gashes looked already, and yet he found it hard to accept his saviour’s stern advice of a few more days of absolute rest. With all the ill news he had learned, how could Aragorn possibly expect him to stay in bed even for another day? His kinsmen needed him! Each day he waited, Rohan’s doom drew closer... and at the same time, Eomer knew that the other man was right. Though possessed of a will that was legendary and feared among the Armed Forces, his body was still too weak to follow the insistent urging of his mind. Simply being awake for the last two hours although he had barely moved had exhausted him to the bone, and once again Éomer felt as if all strength had been sucked out of his body to the point where even keeping his eyes open seemed to be impossible. Shutting his eyes, he had dozed for a while and walking the strange land between wakefulness and sleep, when a hesitant rap asked for his attention.

“Yes?” His head felt too heavy to lift it, so he just looked at the opening door from underneath half-closed eyes. It was Freya’s face which appeared in the narrow gap, an inquisitive smile in the corners of her mouth. Although weary, Éomer was glad to see her, even if her gaunt appearance and the dark circles underneath her eyes filled him with a sudden sense of guilt for being the cause of her concern. In a brave attempt to lift her worries, he cast her a sleepy smile to let her know how much better he already felt.

And yet he could not see whether his effort had been successful, for a most pleasant smell wafted into the room from the tray she carried, stealing his concentration, and his stomach, having seen only sparse rations of smoked deer meat and dried fruit for days, rumbled in anticipation. Embarrassed, Éomer pressed his good hand against the source of the noise in an attempt to silence the sound. And yet involuntarily, his body’s reaction was what widened Freya’s smile, even if there was still something in her bearing that disturbed him, something he could not name except that this was not the uncomplicated woman he knew. With a smile that would not have raised anyone else’s suspicion, but which did not reach her eyes, the farmer’s wife slipped into the room and placed the tray onto the nightstand.

“So at last you are awake, Éomer! I was trying to ask you whether you were hungry several times today, but every time I did, you were either asleep or otherwise occupied, and I did not want to intrude.” She nodded her chin at his middle section. “And now I no longer need to ask you, because your stomach answered that question for you quite clearly. You must be starving!” After a quick, nervous glance at the window almost too brief to notice, she helped him to sit up. “Try to eat as much of the meat as you can; it will give you back your strength.”

“I am not very hungry, but thank you. This smells wonderful.” Studying her strangely guarded expression, Éomer could not help feeling a sudden quiver of unease. He had never seen her like this; why was she so nervous in his presence, half of her attention apparently directed at the door even as she was addressing him? Frowning, he asked: “Has the elf returned yet?”

She shook her head; her thin lips forming an even thinner, bloodless line as she stared over to the veiled window apparently deep in thought. “No. Aragorn and his friend went after him a while ago. I hope they find him soon, and that nothing happened to him.” Éomer looked at her sharply, a cold feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach.

“Aye. I hope so, too.” Not only for the elf’s sake, but because Legolas’ disappearance would mean the existence of orcs in the vicinity of the farm, a thought that froze his blood. What if the orcs whose tracks Aragorn had seen earlier found this valley and killed Freya and her family, just because their hunt for him had led them into this sheltered little vale? To soothe himself as much as his host, he added: “Those three know how to handle themselves, or they wouldn’t have made it here all the way from the North through hostile lands and great peril. I am sure the elf’s delay is only the result of his thorough search. They will be back soon.”

Yet some vague shadow of the disturbing mental image which had assaulted him for a moment seemed to be written upon his face, for Freya’s expression was now overcast with even greater concern as she turned her eyes from the window to stare at him.

“But you are not convinced of it, Èomer, are you?” She swallowed. “You do not need to say it, for I can see it in your eyes. Do you think your enemies will follow you here?”

He inhaled deeply. There was no point in hiding information she needed to know, not while the situation was still uncertain.

“It is possible,” he admitted at last, meeting her frightened gaze. “Aragorn told me that they came upon the tracks of a great host of orcs leading into the mountains before they found me.” Another breath. “The enemy wants my death, Freya, and I fear that he will take any measure he can think of to ensure that I am out of his way before he sets his armies in motion.”

“Who is ‘he’, Éomer?” she asked lowly, her stomach clenching into a tight knot. “The evil necromancer? And why were you alone when they found you; where is your éored?” And at last, he told her of all the evil things he had kept from her for so long, meaning not to frighten her further when life in the isolated part of the mountains was already hard enough for her family. Hesitantly at first, but with growing conviction, Éomer explained about the King’s predicament and the treason of Gríma Wormtongue, ending with the murder of his cousin and the ensuing events which had brought him to her farm. And she listened, never once interrupting him, and finally understanding that these were the days which would decide about the fate of their entire people. The realisation left her frozen. Wordlessly, the silence in the small room weighing down upon them, she stared with unseeing eyes into the distance. “So it could very well be that all of us are dead before the next full moon.” Her voice sounded dead already.

Éomer shook his head.

“There is still hope. I was on my way to summon Elfhelm and the Eastfold’s éoreds to take them west and give battle when those orcs intercepted me. I know my men will still follow me, whether I am their marshal or not, and I am convinced that it won’t be different with the rest of the Armed Forces. Even with Théodred dead, there are still mighty warriors on our side, and all is not lost yet.” He inhaled. “And I would not underestimate what Aragorn and his friends can do for us; I have a feeling that they were sent here for a reason.”

She furrowed her brow.

“Sent? By Béma, you mean?”

“First I met them on the plains, and despite Uncle’s orders, I instantly felt that I had to help them. I can still not explain what made me place my life in the hand of three complete strangers, but I did, and in return, they saved me. I do not believe in coincidence, Freya, not in this case. Everything happens for a reason, and it is my firm conviction that the last word has not been spoken yet. The traitor in Isengard is too sure of himself, and it will be his downfall.” He fell silent, confused how he had suddenly come to feel so confident about the Mark’s fate when he had watched it fall apart piece for pieces for so long. “And I promise you something else: I will ride for Edoras, and I will kill the filth who helped him myself, with my bare hands if I must, and if it is the last thing I will ever do! As long as there is a single drop of blood left in my body, I will pursue the death of Gríma Wormtongue!”