Chapter 34: The Heart of Darkness

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

“It is Legolas!” Despite the torturous tension which had held him in its clutches ever since their guests had returned with the ill news of the likely attack, a heartfelt smile briefly brightened Halad’s features as he beheld the approaching figure on the white horse. Never had he seen a more welcome sight. He made a first step out from behind their shelter, but was beat by Gimli, who stormed toward his brother-in-arms first.

“It is about time, Master Elf!” the dwarf huffed in feigned exasperation, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his relief as he watched his friend dismount. “I was beginning to ask myself whether you really wanted to leave the honour of killing all of that orc-scum solely to me. I should have known you would never be so generous.”

The corners of the elf’s mouth twitched in reaction to the dwarf’s loutish remark, but his gaze already swept the opposite side of the narrow valley. He felt something. And the dogs seemed to sense it, too, for they had stopped barking and stared intently in the same direction, their thick neck-fur rising.

“Are Freya and the others safe?” Osred asked from behind, anxiety colouring his deep voice. Legolas nodded and sent his mount away with a sharp clap on the muscular hindquarters, trusting that the stallion would be intelligent enough to escape the fray. He would not be needed tonight. “Aye, Osred, they are, fear not. They are at your neighbour’s farm as we discussed. We encountered no problems along the way, yet alas, we also saw no signs of a nearby éored. We must assume that we will have to brave this storm by ourselves.” The expressions around him darkened as last hopes were crushed.

“But that there is no need to despair,” Gimli roared defiantly, and his big hand landed forcefully on Halad’s back and making the young man flinch. “Like I said before, on our way here, my friends and I killed a lot more than twenty-five Uruks, and we can certainly repeat this deed tonight. These stinking beasts stand no chance against the Son of Glóin and the mighty Prince of Mirkwood… not to forget the Heir of Elendil! If they knew whom they were up against, they’d turn back right now and--”

“Where is he?” Legolas interrupted his tirade, his brow furrowed as he looked around. “Where is Aragorn? And I don’t see Éomer, either.”

“They are in the fodder-shed over there,” Osred informed him, pointing in the direction. “They thought it would be a good idea to divide our forces... what little there is of it.” He shrugged, and not for the first time, looked back to where the path led further into the mountains. Surely it was not too late to flee yet. Now that the night began to grow old around them, his initial decision to stay and defend their possessions felt increasingly ridiculous to the farmer, all the more as he could not name his reason for partaking in this madness. What did he hope to achieve with this? To win his wife’s respect? By dying? Snorting, he shook his head. No, he had been foolish to stay, but it could not be helped now.

“Aragorn wants you to shoot as many of them as possible before they reach us, while he and Éomer will attack the orcs from behind on horseback divide their forces and confuse them; perhaps even rout them so that we will have to battle fewer of them on foot.” Gimli squared his jaw and winked at Halad, who looked far too pale for his liking. “Not that it matters. Whatever orc reaches us, dies. Right, young master? You know how to slaughter a beast, do you not?”

“Uh...” In search for a suitably enthusiastic response to the dwarf’s optimism, Halad searched for a way to squeeze his voice through his dangerously tightened throat, yet his effort was ruined by the sudden sound of low growling behind them. His insides froze as his head shot around toward the valley entrance. There could be no question that his dogs had picked up the scent of the enemy.

“We will find out very soon,” Legolas said, his voice strangely detached as he followed the young man’s gaze. “Here they come. I can already hear them!”

“Quickly, get let us get the dogs! They are easy targets in their paddock, and we might need their sharp teeth behind the barricade.” Osred motioned his brother-in-law to help him, and together, the two men hurried to retrieve the big wolfhounds, sceptically watched by Gimli.

“I just hope they do not attack us! It’s not as if these dogs would know us from an orc, right? We are as much strangers to them as those beasts. If there is something I cannot afford in this fight, it is a wild thing gnawing at my calf while I’m in the middle of separating orc-heads from the necks they are attached to.”

“I’m sure they can control them.” Legolas said confidently, but his gaze was clouded with concern as his gaze came to rest upon the small building near the valley entrance. “The wind is on our side, but if Aragorn and Éomer are detected while they are trapped in the shed, it will be their doom. I can only hope that their plan works, because we will not be able to help them from here.” His attention shifting back to his dwarfish friend, he unslung his bow. “Come, my friend. Time to get into position. Our advantage of surprise will be ruined if they see us here.” With a quick glance back to where the two farmers had gathered their hounds by the collars and hurried toward them, the elf stepped through the narrow opening between the barn and the ice-wall and knelt next to the small hole from where he would target their attackers, laying his quiver down. A moment later, Gimli, Osred and Halad followed his example and crouched behind the thick wall of ice and wood as they drew their weapons. As Osred’s command silenced the dogs, the world suddenly became very quiet.

All senses strained, men, dwarf and elf listened into the night.

“There they are…” Legolas breathed, and as the others gathered around the small hole to catch a glimpse of the enemy, they, too, beheld the dark crest of the hill opposite their position. At first, it was only a shadow and they had to strain to make out movement, but now the breeze carried the low grunting of the creatures over to them as well as a cloud of putrid stench. Anxiety threating to overwhelm him, Halad turned brusquely away from the sight and squeeze his eyes shut; his hands trembling so violently that he almost dropped his sword.

“Oh Béma…” he gasped, only now realising with frightening clarity what he had himself gotten into by agreeing to stay. Brave words were one thing; brave deeds something altogether different. It was not like in the dreams of his youth, where the monsters he had often dreamt of as a child disappeared once he opened his eyes. These beasts were real, and they would not hesitate to bite off his head if he failed. With a long, trembling breath, Halad realised that it was too late to change his decision; he would have to try his best and hope to survive the night…a brave thought that was ruined by the blood-curdling screams the wind suddenly carried toward them as the foul creatures stormed down the path toward them. Beside him, the elf uttered a word he did not understand, but the forceful pronunciation left no doubt that the ancient being had cursed. It did nothing to improve his mood.

“They are more than twenty-five!” Legolas exclaimed. “Many more! They must have met with another group since we left them.” The first arrow fitted to the string, Legolas took aim. His quiver held twenty arrows, and if they wanted to retain half a chance of surviving, he’d have to make each of them count.

“It will not help them!” Gimli growled, patting his axe in obvious anticipation. Again he winked at Halad and Osred, who both looked frightened beyond belief and silently wondered whether the dwarf was not, in fact, stark raving mad to look forward to the slaughtering. “Come on, lads, we will give them a good beating! Have courage!” Over the tip of Legolas arrow, he caught sight of the ferocious dark flood coming toward them with the force of a rock slide and swallowed. “Well, at least there are enough for all of us.” The sharp sound of the arrow being released interrupted him, and a heartbeat later, an anguished roar pierced the night as the first Uruk fell.

His hands moving almost too fast for the eye to follow, Legolas repeated the move, and another orc stumbled and did not stand up again, but despite the success, the elf shook his head in frustration as he speedily fitted another arrow to the string.

“They are advancing too fast! Be prepared, they will be upon us soon!”

 

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The cold air bit into the naked skin of Éomer’s face and the wind roared in his ears as Firefoot charged down the slope like a grey demon. Forgotten was the instinctive fear that had gripped the stallion in the confines of the crammed shed; now he was a war-horse once again; bred and trained to intercept the enemy at all costs, and with each of his widening leaps the distance to the band of orcs dwindled. To his left on the other side of the path, Hasufel and Aragorn charged toward the enemy in a parallel line, and the ranger already reached for the first arrow while the Uruk-hai stormed unsuspectingly toward the farm. They had not been detected yet, the army’s onslaught was too loud to make out the hoof-beats of only two horses on the dampening snow.

Advantage was still on their side, even if the Uruks moved fast. With a much-practised gesture that had long become second nature to him, Éomer reached over his back. For a moment, he feared to let go of the reins. It would be a challenge to remain in the saddle only with the strength of his thighs despite his injury once Firefoot started his evasive manoeuvres while he aimed at the enemy, but with a vigorous effort, he shoved his doubts aside. He had no other choice.

Enraged roar rose into the night as the first Uruk fell under Legolas’ assault, but the rest stormed on unperturbed, already having covered more than half the distance that separated them from the barricade from where they were being attacked. The second one fell, again without slowing the enemy down. Gods, they were moving too fast! How were they supposed to diminish the enemy’s numbers significantly before they reached the elf and the others? Swinging Firefoot around with a slight shift of his body weight, Éomer took aim and sent his first arrow into the swirling dark crowd of beasts. A furious growl rewarded him, and then another Uruk stumbled when its neck was pierced by Aragorn’s shot.

“Forth Éorlingas!” The cry had left Éomer’s throat before he could stop it, and even as he reached for the next arrow, he could see the effect on the enemy as their charge came to an abrupt halt.

“Riders!” a guttural voice grunted, barely understandable. “Riders from behind! Watch out!” Simultaneously, two more orcs collapsed from hits to the chest and neck while a third one roared in pain when its shoulder was pierced.

“Run!” the leader bellowed, motioning furiously. “Do not stand still! Crossbows, to me!”

“There are only two riders, no host! Kill them!”

Kicking his heels into Firefoot’s flanks, Éomer held on as the grey jumped into action. They had been spotted; now the real fight began. “Do your dance, my friend,” he mumbled under his breath, already aiming at the first Uruk which raised its weapon toward him. Setting his trust in his horse, Éomer gave the stallion his head. “Hiya!”

He loosened the arrow and then held on tightly as Firefoot broke to the left, a bolt passing by his ear so close that he felt the rush of air. Not lingering to see the damage he had inflicted, Éomer reached for the next just as the first wave of Uruk-hai surged against the barricade.

 

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“Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd ai-mênu!” With a war-cry, Gimli swung his axe against the first claw reaching over the wall, severing it with a spurt of black blood even as with a crunching noise, the two-tipped blade of a crude long-sword embedded itself in the ice before his face. Beside him, Legolas loosened his last arrow at the enemy and then unsheathed his White Knives to enter the fray as well. From all sides now, their shelter was assaulted, and already the first Uruk fought to squeeze its massive frame through the narrow gap between barn and barricade. It was intercepted by Fang and Ossa, as the two wolfhounds shook off Halad’s grip and sank their teeth into the fleshy leg intruding their territory.

Roaring, the orc lashed out at its attackers with a clawed hand, brushing aside the first hound and flinging it back as if it were no more than a wet cloth, but suddenly its eyes bulged as a wooden spear was thrust through its unarmoured middle, and a flood of black spilled from its gaping mouth.

“Die, filth!” Osred shouted as he drove the spear further in with his entire body weight; his chest feeling as if it would explode from the violent beating of his heart.  The horrible fire in the creature’s eyes flickered and then died as the orc collapsed and cleared the way for the next one behind it, which had already lifted its crossbow.

“Down, Osred!” Halad yelled, now likewise on his feet and slashing furiously at the arm grasping for him over the wall, and the next moment, the thick iron bolt disappeared in the piled logs on the other side of their shelter. Not bothering to reload as it would take too long, the orc cleared the opening with a quick movement and swung his sword. By reflex, the young farmer caught it with his own blade, deflecting it, but the sheer power of the strike knocked the hilt from his hand and him back into the barricade with the Uruk charging after him. “Gimli!”

But the dwarf was already on his way, his battle-axe scything in a deadly half-circle through the air and knocking the Uruk’s sword to the side.  Faster to recover from the clash of arms, Gimli pivoted, and his strike found the big orc unprepared and cut a deep gash across its middle. Its anguished roar was cut short by the thrust of a sword deep into its gaping maw. More surprised than anything else, yellow eyes stared at Halad as the young farmer retracted the blade, stunned by his violent deed.

“Very well, young Master!” Gimli laughed, already lashing out at the next foe. “For you to have been so afraid only moments ago, you show remarkable talent with the blade! Come, let’s teach the scum some manners!”

 

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Firefoot was in his element, dancing on the slippery white surface with a surefootedness that knew no equal in the Land of Horses. Again and again he evaded the bolts that were shot at them, anticipating the enemy’s every move with his head held high and his tail flowing on the wind, mocking his foes. Yet the time had come for an even more dangerous game, Éomer thought grimly as he loosened his last arrow into the group of Uruks that had started toward him in an attempt to cut off his path. Not as fast as horses, the big orcs were nonetheless faster than any human and skilled at the particular hunting method they employed now. A brief glance over their heads established that another group had also fanned out to encircle Aragorn, and Hasufel, an experienced war-horse himself but in no way as skilled as Firefoot, slipped precariously as he tried to evade them. They were chasing him further and further up the steep hill, and it was only a question of time until he would lose his footing upon the ice.

His lips a grim line, Éomer dropped his now useless bow and unsheathed his sword, trying to ignore its unfamiliar light weight as he raced toward the creature to his far left which had a small advantage on its brethren in the pursuit. Upon his command, his stallion stretched beneath him, hooves hammering the ground as they raced toward the Uruk who drew its long blade back over the shoulder in anticipation, not seeing itself at a disadvantage.

“Come, manling!” it roared, yellow eyes sparkling with infernal fire as it lashed out. Yet just before the blade could cut through the horse’s flesh, Firefoot rammed his legs into the ground and reared. Unbalanced by his miss, the orc stumbled and with a sickening noise, the stallion’s hooves landed on the creature’s head, shattering it. Then, without pausing, the grey jumped into a gallop again without transition, just in time to evade another sword strike from behind as their enemies closed in on them. Wild triumph in his voice, he broke through the almost closed circle and once again gained an advantage on their pursuers.

“Well done, Grey One,” Éomer praised, briefly bending over to pat the upper part of Firefoot’s neck in acknowledgment before he looked over to the other side of the valley. “Aragorn!”

It appeared that his brother-in-arms was likewise in danger of being trapped by the cleverly moving Uruk-hai, and unlike Firefoot, who revelled in a fight once it had begun, Hasufel was less sure of himself and by now close to panicking, his rear hooves slipping and sliding on the icy slope onto which he had been chased. Aragorn, too, seemed to experience increasing problems in keeping his enemies at bay. His sword was too long for the fighting from horseback, and he had to hold back if he did not want to accidentally decapitate his stallion with one of his strikes. When at last, the ring around him closed, the ranger slid from his steed’s back to continue the fight on foot. His first violent hit felled the enemy closest to him, and yet Éomer could see that even considering the considerable skill the Dúnadan displayed in the battle, the ranger would be hard-pressed to repel by himself the onslaught of the eight creatures still surrounding him.

Viciously, the Rohir kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, and what he had almost deemed impossible happened: Firefoot accelerated. Like a snowstorm, he flew over the ground in a white cloud of whirling snow, diminishing the distance with each of his mighty leaps.

“Hold out, Aragorn!” Éomer yelled. “I am coming!”

Upon his cry, several orc-heads turned in his direction, and another creature was felled when the Heir of Elendil used the deadly mistake for a surprising lunge. Furiously, they turned back, undecided whom to give their full attention, and the moment of hesitation cost them dearly as Aragorn lashed out just when his nearest foes shrank back from the onslaught of the approaching rider. Caught between the hammer and the anvil, three more of Saruman’s brood fell in the coordinated attack of the two human warriors, and the rest turned on their tails and fled head over heals toward the main body of their army.

With a shift of his weight, Éomer turned Firefoot around and brought him to a halt before the heavily breathing ranger. The ranger gave him a grateful nod as he looked up.

“I thank you, brother. That was close. Hasufel is a good horse, but he does not like these conditions.” Having spotted the skittish chestnut further behind, he clicked his tongue. Éomer followed his gaze and saw that – despite the just made frightening experience – the stallion was willing to return by himself.  He turned back to Aragorn.

“Alas, I fear you are right. I remember now that Garulf, his former master, once complained about his uncertainty on snow. I am sorry for not having a better horse for you.” He lifted his head, his brow creasing as he beheld the dark wave of bodies assaulting the barrier behind which the others had taken cover, and cursed. “We killed so many of them, and yet their strength seems hardly affected by it. Do you have any arrows left?”

“None.” Quickly, Aragorn swung into the saddle again. “The rest will have to be done by sword, even if Anduril is not suited for the fighting on horseback. Come, let’s help our friends before it is too late.”

They spurred their steeds, but as the two warriors raced toward the hostile army once again, their hope shifted into doubt…

 

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“Gimli! Gimli, help! I cannot hold them any longer! Quick!”

“Down, lad!”  With a bright sound, the dwarf’s axe intercepted the blade descending on Halad. Sparks flew, and yet as the young man crawled back, half-numbed by a blow of a huge fist to the head, he saw two more orcs bearing down on the valiant little warrior, and another strike hit the dwarf square on the chest. “Gimli!”

He struggled to regain his feet and came to a shaky stand just as Gloin’s son stumbled back with a grunt, closely followed by the three creatures who had assaulted him. Their precious wall of ice and wood had been hacked to pieces and effectively torn down to the point where almost no further protection was to be had from it, and everywhere Halad looked gleaming yellow eyes and glistening fangs jumped toward them. They were losing this battle.

Instinctively, he lashed out at another hand grasping for him, but then stumbled over the body of a dead orc and dropped his sword while his attacker jumped with a triumphant roar over the remainders of their barricade.

“Back, Halad!” he suddenly heard a breathless voice next to him, and a heartbeat later, he was pushed aside as Legolas intercepted the beast with whirling blades. Another orc was felled, but what good was it when their number seemed hardly diminished yet and all of his comrades were already bleeding? A crunching noise behind him made him spin around just in time to see that two of the large blocks their wall had consisted of were torn away by another group of orcs, the breach now wide enough for the creatures to come at them in greater numbers.

Strangely, he felt no more fear. It had been clear from the beginning that their chances of survival were slim, and now that they were in the process of being overtaken, acceptance of his fate filled the young farmer even as he stooped to pick up the last of their wooden spears. He had done what he could; he had fought as bravely as could be expected of him, and he hoped that his father would welcome him with pride in the next realm. Together with Osred, he thrust the spear at the first orc, skewering it through the gut, but its place was quickly taken by two more of its brethren.

“Out! Out! Seek shelter in the buildings; we cannot stay here! Stay together!” A violent push sent Halad reeling, and suddenly, he found himself outside the barricade.

 

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“Ai Elbereth!” To his left, Aragorn’s voice cut through the pounding of his heart as Éomer ducked on Firefoot’s back, and with a brief glance, the Rohír saw the ranger jump from his steed’s back to attack the foes who had gathered around a gap in the barricade to assault the desperately fighting men within. Two collapsed in headless heaps before the Uruk-hai had registered that they were being attacked from behind, but Éomer could not follow his brother’s charge because he was now within reach of the enemy himself. Although by now feeling drained of most of his strength, he lashed out and half-separated an ugly, black head from its neck, while Firefoot’s shoulder rammed the hapless beast to the ground.

A wild cry of defiance broke from Éomer, a war-cry that turned the heads of the enemies before him and successfully diverted their attention from the outmatched warriors behind the broken barricade. Yet it appeared that his strategy had been too successful: even in his stallion’s abrupt break to the side, a vicious claw raked over Firefoot’s shoulder, unbalancing the stallion, and with a scream, the grey crashed to the ground. Years of practise sent Éomer into a controlled fall clearing his horse’s bulk before he could be buried underneath it, but whereas his skill would normally have him landing on his feet, his injured leg gave way. With a pained grunt, he fell back even as the first orcs stormed toward him, the pain in his thigh and his side so severe it robbed him of his breath.

“Kill him! Kill the strawhead!”

“He is the one! Kill him!”

Fighting the wave of nausea that assaulted him, Éomer propped his hands against the ground, and his gaze darted frantically over the ground. Where was his sword? From the corner of his eye, he saw the nearest Uruk raise his crossbow at him with a gleeful snarl and froze. It was over.