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Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer  by Katzilla

Chapter 42: A Strange Discovery


EDORAS

“Lord Éothain! Lord Éothain! We found something! Come quickly!”

The two lads were seriously out of breath as they ground to a halt in front of the astonished young Captain of Edoras. Éothain raised his hand.

“Slowly, slowly! One thing after the other. What have you found?”

“The tunnel!” Giselhere, the older of the two brothers, could only barely hold back not to grab the rider’s arm and pull him along. “At the back of the hill! We did not go in, but it seemed to be deep. I am sure that it is the one we were trying to find.”

From one heartbeat to the next, Éothain’s heart pounded against his ribs in excitement. Could it really be? He turned to Aedwulf.

“I will go with them. Get me five men quickly and meet us there, but tell them to remain quiet about it. No word to anyone! I think that we found most of the Worm’s spies by now, but we cannot afford to take the chance that Gríma finds out what we are up to. Also tell them not to run when you follow us, in case that the enemy observes us from the windows. Everything must look normal to them.”

“Aye. But be careful. If it is indeed the tunnel we are looking for, it may be swarming with Dunlendings, and they will not welcome you kindly.”

Éothain nodded.

“Don’t worry, my friend, I will not enter it alone. Now quickly, get me those men!” He turned to the lads. “Show me what you found.”

------------------

“Well?” The boys had stopped, and yet as Éothain’s gaze glided over the rugged terrain at the back of the hill, he saw nothing that hinted toward a secret tunnel. “Where is it?” His expression darkened. “You are not just having your fun with me, are you? For we can truly not—”

“But my Lord, of course not!” Giselhere looked insulted, and his brother scowled at him too. They pointed at a spot toward Éothain’s feet. “You are standing right next to it. It is protected by magic, I think, for I have never seen anything like this. Look!” And with those words, he squatted and reached for the ground, apparently to grab a handful of the mushy snow…but in response to his action all of a sudden a black hole yawned at them in stark contrast to its surroundings. Éothain blinked in irritation. What devilry was this? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? He bent over to inspect the dark narrows and had to agree with the boy: this was more than a little cave.

“What did you do?”

“It is because of this here! It was used to cover the entrance. We put it back in place because we were afraid that someone inside might notice if we removed it.” Giselhere extended his hand as if to give him something, but all that Éothain could see was a strange ripple in the air, like a small wave. Reflexively, he held out his hand… and felt the sensation of soft fabric on his palm. Unable to understand, he closed his fingers around it… and saw the thing shimmer in the colours of the ground beneath his feet where it touched his skin as if he could see right through his hand.

“I fell into the hole when I stepped on it,” the younger boy explained. “I did not see it either. What is it, my Lord?”

“I do not know.” Fascinated, Éothain searched for the fabric’s end and when he had found it, turned it this way and that while he observed how the colour changed depending whether he held it against the sky or the ground. He suddenly heard the boys gasp and looked up. “What is it?”

“My lord, you are… invisible!” Giselhere stuttered, pointing at him. Éothain looked down and suddenly saw it himself: where the blanket hung from his hands, a big hole seemed to gap between his shoulders and his legs. “Béma’s Beard…!”

He was still staring at the phenomenon when the sound of footsteps called him back into the reality of the early afternoon. He turned around.

“And have you found… it?” Aedwulf fell silent, and his eyes widened as he stared at the seemingly detached upper body of his brother-in-arms. The men behind him gasped in shock. “What in Éorl’s name is this?”

“I do not know, but it appears to be the reason why that tunnel was never found. I wonder whether it is a thing Gríma conceived or if the builders put it there. But where did they get such a magical thing?” Not wanting to distract his comrades further when he needed them to think, Éothain folded the garment together. He nodded at the hole in the ground. “It will help me to remain unseen when I go in tonight to see what the situation is in Meduseld.”

Aedwulf’s eyes widened even further.

“All by yourself?”

“We only have one blanket. And I will only take a first look. Once we know where Wormtongue keeps the captives, we will return and free them… and kill all who oppose us.”

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WHITE MOUNTAINS

It was the middle of the afternoon when the éored passed over the last ridge that separated them from the plains and their destination for the day. Already they could see the mighty wall of stone and wood which encircled the stronghold of Captain Erkenbrand, the Westfold’s valiant protector and one of the Mark’s most esteemed warriors. The settlement was smaller than Edoras or Aldburg, and yet its inhabitants were renowned for their ferocity in battle and fierce loyalty to their commander who had kept them alive for all these years despite the fact that they were living in the most endangered part of the Kingdom, only separated from the enemy by the fast-flowing waters of the Isen. The price for their continued survival had been great and many lives had been lost in the constant fight against the White Wizard’s raiding parties, and while strangers were regarded warily throughout the Riddermark, it was here where a traveller’s life was most at stake because the watchful riders would sooner kill him if they were not sure of his intentions than let him pass in good faith. Éomer could not help but feel a distinct twinge of unease as he directed his steed onto the path leading to the gates.

The alarm of a bell rang out into the air and echoed from the nearby mountains, and the wind carried the faint echoes of excited shouts toward the riders. They had been seen. With a little kick, Aragorn directed Hasufel alongside the young Marshal of the Rohirrim, and his keen eyes surveyed the proceedings before them as the gate was opened and a group of riders – numerous and fully armoured – exited the fastness. His eyebrows drawn together, he turned toward Éomer’s tense shape.

“And you are still certain that you can trust your Captain?”

“I honestly cannot tell,” Éomer said lowly, equally disliking what he saw. Riders were still pouring out of the gate, and from the sudden silence around him it was easy to conclude that his men were likewise bewildered by their brothers’ unexpected show of strength. Why were they greeted by a battle-ready éored when they were coming as friends? He inhaled. “Erkenbrand never had any love for Gríma Wormtongue and his counsels, but it has been a while since I was in the Westfold and I do not know what might have happened here in the meantime. Everything is possible, even that he, too, fell prey to the filth’s rotten schemes and was replaced. We must be careful.” He turned to his men. “Stay alert! Something strange is obviously at work here, and I am not sure whether we will be welcomed as friends. I do not believe that we will have to fight against our kinsmen, but keep your hands on the hefts of your swords nonetheless.” With another glance at the riders’ uncertain expressions, he turned back and urged his steed on.

Meanwhile, the settlement’s warriors’ had formed a half-circle to the left and right of the opened gates; their weapons ready and their bearing rigid as if they dared the new arrivals to come closer.

“This does not look to me as if they are happy to see us,” Gímli observed from his place behind Legolas, and even the elf’s expression was concerned.

“I see two riders in their middle, still behind the gates. One of them rides a great white steed whose right ear misses the tip, and he is clad in a brown and green leather cuirass with the shape of a dragon on his breastplate. He carries a red shield, and from his helm, a crest of black horse-hair flows.”

“This is Erkenbrand,” Éomer said, squinting to see what the elf had seen and yet only barely managing to make out the indistinct shapes of the two riders at all. “So at least he was not replaced. The other one must be Grimbold then.” He took a deep breath, and then turned to Aragorn and Thor. “Follow me, but stop just outside of that éored’s reach, just in case. It is my presence that disturbs them, and my task to explain myself. If all they heard came from Gríma Wormtongue, then they need to hear my account of the real events before they will support us.”

“But then you will be unprotected,” Aragorn replied. “If all they heard came from the enemy, then they deem you a traitor, and your men as well. Are you certain that you want to take that risk?”

“They will not shoot me before they have heard me out,” Éomer said with conviction, his gaze fixed upon the two riders who came to a halt in front of the gates and awaited him. “I have known Erkenbrand for many years. He is fierce but just, and he will not come to a verdict before he has heard all the facts. He must know that the Worm’s accusations are false.” A side-glance showed him Aragorn’s sceptically raised eyebrows, and next to him, Thor looked equally concerned. He gave them a curt nod and urged Drálion forth, raising his arm to order his éored to a halt. “I will talk to them. Stay back, and don’t intervene unless it is utterly unavoidable. An armed dispute among our forces would be the end of the Mark.”

In a slow trot, the stallion carried him toward the waiting warriors, and Éomer’s stomach turned into a solid block of ice at the sight of their grim expressions. Had it been a mistake to come here? Would this indeed be the first time that Rohirrim slaughtered Rohirrim just because he had committed a serious error of judgment in thinking that they would support him instead of following the King’s verdict? Looking the soldiers he passed straight into the eye to let them know of their error with a mere glance, Éomer rode into their midst, the sound of his stallion’s hoof-beats and his breathing too loud in the strained silence. A prickling feeling began crawl up and down his spine to finally nestle between his shoulder blades as he passed the first riders who held their bows in their hands with the arrows fitted to the string. They would not shoot him like a rabid dog from behind… would they?

At last, he was close enough to make out the expressions of the two riders in front of him: Erkenbrand’s strong-boned, weathered face was unreadable, his emotions concealed behind a mask of cool anticipation while his steel-grey eyes observed the intruder with hawk-like intensity. The disposition of the man next to him was easier to determine: Grimbold Lord of Grimslade, an experienced and feared warrior of forty-seven summers who had been Théodred’s close friend, glared at him like wolf at a sheep the second before it tore out its throat. Éomer braced himself for the confrontation with the valiant warrior while he silently cursed the man who had brought him into the situation of having to face these men he regarded as brothers as potential enemies. With a slight tug at the reins, he signalled Drálion to halt.

“Westu Erkenbrand hál,” he said in greeting with a slight inclination of his head before he turned toward the other man. “Westu Grimbold hál. What need do you see to greet us with readied weapons? We are brothers, not enemies.”

It was Grimbold who urged his horse forth to meet him upon a hidden signal, while the Captain of Westfold stayed behind with his inscrutable expression still in place, saying nothing. Observing him. Irritated by the man’s strange behaviour, Éomer shifted his attention to the Lord of Grimslade. At least here he knew what to expect.

“You are not our enemy, you say, Éomer son of Éomund,” the broadly-built warrior said in a hostile voice befitting his expression and lifted his chin, glowering at the younger man. “And yet I must say that it takes some cheek to show your face here after all that happened. Through your rebellion, or neglect, or whatever it may have been that caused you to disregard Théodred’s summons, you put the heir to the throne into an early grave! Or was it indeed your plan to let our enemy slaughter the Mark’s best warrior in the time of our greatest need? Are you in fact in league with the traitor in Isengard?”

“You should know better than calling me a traitor, Grimbold!” Éomer had been determined to remain calm, but the man’s blunt accusations stirred up his anger. With a hard tug at the reins, Grimbold halted his stallion next to Éomer, rage and pain burning in his eyes.

“If you are not, then where were you when Théodred needed you? He had called for aid days before the enemy’s fatal charge came; he saw it coming. There was enough time for his call to reach Edoras and for you to ride to the Isen and help us stand our ground! Elfhelm answered it instead of you, and I dare say that it was the arrival of his éored that turned the tide at last and saved us from annihilation, but there was no trace to be discovered on any horizon of our Third Marshal! And still you insist that you did not betray us?”

“You do not know what happened,” Éomer pressed through his clenched teeth, finding it increasingly hard to contain his rising anger and not lash out at the rider, even if he knew where the man’s grief and frustration were stemming from. They were all on the same side, he reminded himself, an endless litany in the back of his mind that was in danger of being drowned out by the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. There was no telling what would happen if he rose to Grimbold’s provocation. The atmosphere was such that even the smallest spark would ignite a violent dispute among their éoreds, which of course was what the Worm had intended all along. Éomer was determined not to grant his enemy this victory, and yet the Captain of Grimslade did not make it easy for him when he shouted straight into his face:

“Alas, I do know what happened all too well, traitor, for I was there!” His face flushed with hatred as all restraint left him. And still Erkenbrand did not intervene. Why? Because he wanted to see Éomer’s reaction to the accusations? “Your cousin died in my arms! Théodred’s blood was on my hands while I attempted in vain to staunch the bleeding from his many wounds, and still I failed to save him. Do you want know what he said to me before he died? Do you want to hear your cousin’s last words? He said: “Hold the Fords until Éomer comes!” He saw the sudden wet sparkle in Éomer’s eyes which betrayed the young man’s pain, but could not bring himself to stop, for he was back in that moment when all hope had left him, his voice choked with emotion. “And we held them. Against all odds and at the price of many lives we held them. But you did not come. Where were you when we needed you the most? Orc-hunting? Obeying the same bloodlust which put your father in his grave and many of his men before him who paid the price for his hot-headedness although they did not ask for it?”

He did not see the strike coming. All of a sudden, a horrible thunder echoed through Grimbold’s head and he found himself on the ground while his horse bolted with a frightened shriek. The fingers he involuntarily pressed against his throbbing brow came away bloodied, and he noticed that his helm was no longer sitting on his head when the white horse before him reared. Frantically crawling backward, the warrior barely evaded its flying hooves and suddenly stared into Éomer’s furious eyes when the younger man jumped from the saddle and rammed his sword underneath his adversary’s chin. Stunned by the sensation of the cold steel against his skin and knowing that he would die if he so much as twitched, the warrior froze.

“Don’t shoot!” Erkenbrand’s voice pierced the stunned silence, but Éomer hardly heard him or the urgent rush of air indicating that the settlement’s soldiers had raised their bows at him.

“The only reason why I will not kill you for your words, Grimbold of Grimslade, is that you were my cousin’s best friend,” Éomer hissed, trembling with barely contained fury and tears burning in his eyes which he stubbornly ignored. “I know that you loved Théodred like a brother, as did I. We are united in our grief, although you will never know the full depth of mine. Perhaps I would talk like you and lash out were I in your position, and yet I doubt that I would choose to believe in the words of a proven liar instead of those of a man who fought by my side for more than ten years!” A moment longer he held the tip of his sword to the man’s throat, before his arm sank and he turned back to the still observing Captain of Westfold. “Lord Erkenbrand, I have always held you in high esteem and admired your gift of observation and the reading of people. You have known me from the cradle, and you have served together with my father for many years. Look at me now and tell it to my face that you do indeed think me a traitor.”

The hawk-like eyes focussed on him, and yet Éomer stood fast and met the warrior’s gaze with openness and honesty, his mind naked under the older man’s inquisitive stare. For a moment, none dared to breathe, until at last Erkenbrand raised his chin and his authoritive voice reached their ears: “Then pray tell, Son of Éomund, what the truth is. Our truth is that you did not come when your superior summoned you; that much remains undisputed. Théoden-King’s counsellor says that you disobeyed your ruler’s direct order to remain in Edoras to go orc-hunting instead, leaving our capital unprotected and thus not being available when our summons came which you knew would only be a matter of time. What good reason did you have for your actions, tell us!”

Sheathing his sword with a last glance at Grimbold who slowly regained his feet and bent over to brush the dirt from his garments with a dark look at his adversary, Éomer limped back to where Drálion patiently waited for him. He swung into the saddle to lend his argument more weight from the elevated position of the horse’s back. Nothing was won yet, but at least Erkenbrand was willing to listen to him.

“It is true that I left against the King’s orders to hunt down a great group of Uruk-hai which had been seen descending into the Eastfold from the Great Wall. The group was over two hundred strong and was headed for Isengard. My choice was between remaining in Edoras to await your summons and allow them to cross the plains unchallenged where their path would have taken them to several settlements not big enough to repel them, thus taking into account the loss of dozens if not hundreds of lives …” He gaze travelled from rider to rider to make sure that he was understood, “… or to pursue them in hope that we found them and disposed of them quickly enough to ride to your aid afterward, which was the decision I made. I sent word to Elfhelm to already make for the Westfold and help you, and then rode out with my éored to dispose of the enemy, for I was not willing to sacrifice our farmers without a fight. Yes, my orders were different, but only because Wormtongue wanted those orcs to reach their destination, and he wanted to weaken us further by burning those settlements to the ground. My choice was between the people of my ward and my cousin, and believe me when I say that it was one of the hardest choices I have ever been forced to make.” ‘Next to abandoning Éowyn when she needed me like she never needed me before!’ He swallowed in an attempt to collect himself. It seemed that Erkenbrand was listening to him, but not yet entirely convinced.

“We all know who has truly been ruling Edoras for these past years, and it is not the King! It may be his voice which utters the orders which undermine all that we’ve been struggling to uphold, but their true source is the traitor by his side; the traitor calling himself his counsellor when his aim is in fact the undoing of the Mark.” ‘And possession of my sister…’ “Théodred disobeyed him for many years, and so did all of us for the best of Rohan! I did nothing else when I rode against those orcs, but now the Worm’s hold over the King has grown so strong that he can whisper into his ear whatever he likes and Théoden will believe it… even if it means sentencing his own kin to death.” He looked Erkenbrand in the eye and squared his shoulders as he came to the end. “Kill me if you think you must, but then you will do Saruman’s bidding and not your King’s.”

The moment stretched. For the life of him Éomer could not have told what went through the other man’s head as they regarded each other silently. From behind, he felt the attention and anxiety of his own riders, instinctively understanding how hard it was for his men to stand back while their own comrades had raised their spears and bows against their own marshal. Never before had two éoreds faced each other like this, with bloodshed only a false decision or a twitching finger away. If battle erupted between them, it would be the Mark’s end. He waited, aware that his fate rested in the hands of his childhood idol now.

The faintest hint of a smile briefly wandered over Erkenbrand’s expression as he regarded him, but it was a smile in which his eyes did not participate, and the small nod he granted the younger man could hardly be named such when he said: “Very well. I will believe you for now, Éomer, Third Marshal of Riddermark.” Éomer’s relief was too great for words when he listened to the Captain’s decision, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the surrounding men take a deep breath as well when a weight fell off their shoulders. No one had wanted to fight against their own comrades. Ignoring their sudden low exchange, Erkenbrand continued. “Your reasoning seems sound to me, and I doubt that any of us would have decided differently if faced with the same choice. Alas, there are times when we can only choose between to evils, and abandoning our blood-kin for the greater good may very well be the most horrible thing duty can ask of us.” His words choked Éomer and brought up Éowyn’s image in front of his inner eye again. “I trust that you found and killed those Uruk-hai?”

“Aye. They are destroyed.” With a quick glance at Grimbold who had remounted and returned to his commander’s side, Éomer kicked his heels into Drálion’s flanks and brought the stallion up alongside the two men. “And what is more: on the way back to Edoras, I made the acquaintance of three powerful warriors who travelled a long and perilous way to aid us in our fight, one of whom has been known among our people for a long time under the legendary name of Thorongil! He is here now, riding with my éored.”

“Thorongil!”

“The Eagle of the Star!”

“It cannot be!”

Gasps and surprised shouts emitted from the surrounding warriors and all heads turned toward the group of riders that waited on the path and only began to move now in response to Éomer’s gesture. Sceptical lines formed on Erkenbrand’s brow as he observed their approach.

“But this was a long time ago, Éomer, it cannot be the real Thorongil. The real Thorongil has to be an old man!”

“He is of Númenorean blood, so it is possible. And I believe him, even if he isn’t travelling under that name anymore. I have seen him fight; I have been under his care, and we have held many conversations which convinced me that he is telling the truth. I felt that he was different even when I first met him on the plains and knew nothing about him, and I would be surprised if you did not feel the same once you get to know him. Here he comes. Aragorn!”

Warily observing the surrounding men although he felt that the tension was at last vanishing, Aragorn directed his horse toward the three commanders and inclining his head in greeting, Legolas and Gímli following close behind. He gave Éomer a relieved nod.

“For a moment, I feared the worst. I could barely hold back your men when they wanted to ride to your aid.” He shifted his attention to Erkenbrand without missing the still dark expression of the man by his side. “You made a good decision to listen to him, my lord, for we can allow no quarrel among us if we want to prevail.”

“You are the warrior they called Thorongil?” the Lord of Westfold asked with the usual Rohirric directness. Aragorn knew better than to be insulted by it.

“Aye. I served the Mark under Thengel for a while when my quest led me here. I understand that it may be hard to believe for you, but I have not returned to reap whatever renown may be attached to that name. Yet perhaps it would help your decision to trust me if we found an elder among your people who has seen me before. I served in the Westfold for quite a long time.”

“I am sure that we can find one,” Erkenbrand nodded satisfied, and Éomer noted that the Captain seemed to react to the same strange thing he had felt upon meeting Aragorn on the plains. “I must apologise for our rude welcome, but it is hard these days for us to trust strangers. What name may I call you if you say that you do no longer travel under the name of Thorongil?”

“My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and my companions are Legolas of the Mirkwood realm and Gímli, son of Gloin. We have travelled a long way to aid Rohan in your battle against the evil forces of the West and East.”

After the exchange an unreadable glance with Grimbold, the Lord of Westfold extended an arm toward the gate in an inviting gesture. “And we will gladly accept your help, my lords. Be welcomed in the Westfold and please, if you will follow us inside, we can talk some more and share the evening meal as you must be hungry. It seems that a lot has happened that demands our immediate attention.”





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