Chapter 48: The Grey Company

WESTFOLD

Murmur rose from the surrounding Rohirrim, and over the din of voices, Éomer asked: "So you know them?"

Aragorn turned around, and a spark of excitement gleamed in his eyes.

"More than this, we grew up together! They are my kin, Éomer. Together we fought for many years to keep our borders safe from the Forces of Evil, and I developed most of my skills in their service. Please, let me introduce you to Halbarad, my brother in all but blood. Halbarad, this is Éomer, son of Éomund of Aldburg and Third Marshal of Riddermark."

"The son of Marshal Éomund?" the other ranger asked and measured Éomer again as if he suddenly saw him with different eyes. "Now that you say it – I see the resemblance." He inclined his head in a courteous nod. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Marshal."

"As I am honoured to make the acquaintance of my friend’s kin, Halbarad" Éomer replied, and then shifted in the saddle to address his men. "It is all right, they are friends! Sheathe your weapons." He looked at Brand. "I will address you and your riders later, Captain, and all your questions will be answered, but for now, I would greatly appreciate if you left us to our talks. I assume that your men must be eager to pitch camp after the long ride, so may I suggest that you see to that now and afterward meet me in Captain Erkenbrand’s halls to discuss matters?"

The older warrior eyed him intently for a moment, but at last, Brand gave him the nod Éomer had been waiting for.

"Very well, Marshal. I will look forward to it." He turned his steed. "Rohirrim! Make for the city. We are no longer needed here!"

The tight circle of warriors quickly dispersed, and at last, the éoreds thundered toward the city walls, leaving behind only Éomer, Aragorn and Grimbold with his guard and the host of strangers. Directing Hasufel alongside Halbarad’s steed, Aragorn’s gaze travelled over the faces of the men with whom he had braved many skirmishes, and suddenly, his expression brightened in surprise.

"Elladan! Elrohir! You are here, too? Can it be true?"

Grinning, Halbarad turned around.

"No one could hold them back once they heard their father’s order to find and help you with the completion of your task."

"Are you jesting?" One of the indicated men rode forth, and as Éomer bend his eyes upon him, he realised that he was looking at another elf. Keen, ageless grey eyes easily endured his muster as the being came closer. For the life of him, Éomer could not have guessed how old the other was, but his whole bearing bespoke a deep-lying dignity and a self-assuredness that made the Third Marshal suddenly feel like a child again. "Wherever there is the promise of cleaving orc-heads from their necks, that is where we are found." He looked at Aragorn and lifted his chin. "We could hardly allow our human brother to face them alone… and reap all the glory."

"Elladan!" Leaning to the side, Aragorn embraced his elven brother. "I cannot begin to tell you how glad I am to see you! If you want to cleave orc-heads, you have come to the right place at the right time. There is always need for a skilfully wielded blade here." He turned toward the other elf, who patiently waited by his brother’s side. "And you, too, Elrohir! How wonderful to see you!" He inhaled deeply and sat back in his saddle. "So Elrond sent you?"

"You know Elrond," Halbarad explained. "He was being his usual, mysterious self when he summoned me, but yes, he told us to go looking for you and join your forces, and he said that you were possibly to be found in the land of the Horselords." He smiled at Éomer’s confused expression with which the Rohír regarded the two elves. To the unaccustomed eye, the sons of Elrond looked absolutely alike with their even-shaped features, their grey eyes and their long, dark hair which – only partially tamed by braids – flowed over their backs. "So, seeing your preparations for battle, I assume that we could be of use to you, because every man will count if you ride against Isengard. We just passed through Saruman’s realm, and it was brimming with orcs flocking for the Wizard’s Vale."

Éomer’s expression darkened upon hearing his fears confirmed, but before he could think of an answer, Grimbold jumped forth with one: "It would be most interesting then to learn how you managed to avoid them. How could such a great group of riders not be spotted by an enemy equipped with keen senses?"

All heads turned toward the stout Westfold Captain. While the frown on some of the Dunedain’s faces was hard to miss, Halbarad answered the Rohír’s challenge with a wary smile, his keen grey eyes studying the other man’s expression as the atmosphere suddenly thickened again.

"We evaded them by travelling mostly during the day, Captain, as it is well-known that orcs usually flee from the sun’s face. Of course there are other dangers to be considered, but it is our usual business to evade the enemy’s eye. At night, we sought shelter in hiding places established many years ago by warriors greater than us. As rangers, stealth is what ensures our survival. It is our main skill and our greatest advantage."

"Enough of this!" Éomer interrupted heatedly and glared at Grimbold as if asking the man whether one cut on his brow was not enough. Silently warning the Captain to remain quiet, he turned back to the ranger. "I apologize, Halbarad. The past weeks were difficult with many assaults on our realm, and it is harder than ever for us to trust strangers. Yet when Aragorn calls you a friend, that is good enough for us and we will gladly welcome you among our forces. The Gods know we are in desperate need of allies these days, and in this spirit, may I invite you and your brethren into the city for further talks in a more pleasant atmosphere? I assume that you must be wearied after your long and perilous journey, and it looks as if it is going to rain soon. We Rohírrim may be more cautious than we used to be, but there is still little we would hate more than being called bad hosts." He gestured toward the still open gate. "Please, Gentlemen, if you would follow us?"

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"It is impossible to estimate the exact strength of Saruman’s army, but the Misty Mountains were crawling with orcs on their way to Isengard when we passed through them. I fear that they will exceed your forces by many heads once they have fully assembled." Halbarad’s gaze travelled from Aragorn’s face over the sceptical features before him. For the final discussion of their strategy, the Lord of Westfold had invited the captains of the arrived forces into his halls for the evening meal, and now the warriors sat at the round table and exchanged their tidings and opinions.

"We have only yet begun to summon the éoreds; more will come," Éomer revealed, his insides clenching at the Dunádan’s report. "By tomorrow evening, we hope to have at least five thousand spears ready. You said that an exact estimate was impossible, but perhaps you can tell us whether you think that this might be enough to defeat the enemy?"

"I am doubtful," Elladan spoke for Halbarad, and heads turned his way. "Word of the bravery and fierceness of the Rohírrim in battle has travelled even to us at Imladris, and no doubt it is in Saruman’s mind also. His strategy must be to counter your advantages – courage, skill and determination – with the sheer numbers of his armies. On our way to Rohan, we gave Isengard a wide berth and thus did not see what forces Saruman has already summoned there, but it is beyond question that it grows with each day that passes."

"So you were indeed right," Erkenbrand said with a glance at the young marshal. "Every day counts."

Exchanging a dark glance with Aragorn, Éomer muttered: "It cannot be helped then: we must ride tomorrow! We cannot afford to wait for the Eastfold forces. When they arrive, they must follow us as quickly as possible, but we cannot await them here."

Grimbold narrowed his eyes.

"But our éohere counts hardly more than two thousand men yet! We will stand no chance against the enemy with so few warriors!" He looked at Elladan, then at the others, silently urging them to understand.

"More will come," Aragorn assured him from the opposite side of the round table. "If you wait until noon tomorrow, there will be more men to follow you." He looked at Halbarad. "How long does it take from here to reach the Fords?"

"Half a day. And from there it is approximately another three hours’ ride to Isengard."

Aragorn turned back to Éomer and Erkenbrand.

"If we leave by noon tomorrow, we could reach the Isen well before nightfall and pitch camp there for the night on Rohirric soil, protected by the river. The next day, only a short distance will be left to ride before we meet the enemy, and our horses will be fresh for the battle." He inhaled. "It would be almost ideal." But the Éomer’s expression said something else.

"It is not ideal, but I fear that there is no way of avoiding camp altogether. We cannot ride the entire distance in one day and then give battle, but the risk of our éohere being detected while we arrive at the Fords in daylight is too great; there are other evil things in the Necromancer’s service besides orcs, and they move during the day."

"Crebain," Halbarad nodded. "Aye, the skies above the Misty Mountains are alive with their swarms. They come suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, and detect you before you can hide. We only narrowly escaped them ourselves several times on the way here."

"So that means that we must ride under cover of the night, even if that is the orcs’ preferred time," Erkenbrand summoned, not liking the idea at all.

"It is also not ideal, but it would seem to me the lesser evil," Éomer mused. "To discover an army of five thousand riders during the day, those birds would not even have to be in our vicinity. No, I fear there is no other way." He inhaled. "The path to the river may be uneven, but our horses know them, and they are experienced in this kind of terrain. But I do not know about yours." His questioning glance met Halbarad’s and then travelled on to the elves. Next to a pure-blooded Méara like the great Shadowfax, the elven horses were the finest steeds he had ever laid eyes upon, but these days, taking things for granted could easily cost one’s life.

"They know how to move by night also. You will not have to worry about them," Halbarad assured him, and then raised his chin as he looked at Aragorn. "Which reminds me: we brought Roheryn with us. We thought you might have needs of him on this errand."

"As always, you have thought of everything, brother," Aragorn nodded with satisfaction. "I could use him indeed." He cocked a brow at Éomer. "Your beast is not the only predator with four hooves. I already pity the orcs who come between us." The remark at last earned him an honest grin from the young Rohír.

"Very well. I will remember to keep count of the orc-heads Firefoot smashes then. Let’s make this a competition."

"I accept!" Grinning, the two warriors exchanged a handshake over the table, much to the bewilderment of the others. The situation was grim, but what would they change by sitting here dour-faced, inwardly already surrendering? Wasn’t it infinitely better to go into battle with hope still alive in their hearts?

"Would it be possible to participate in your competition? For I do not think that there is a horse upon Arda’s beautiful face which has killed more orcs than mine," Elladan suddenly asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes, taking Éomer entirely by surprise. So far, the young marshal had only been subjected to the detached demeanour of these mysterious beings, but he liked their new side which was just revealing itself to him. So elves did have a sense of humour!

"Except for mine," his brother threw in and eyed his twin with his chin lifted in challenge. Except for Éomer who was delighted by his discovery, the other Rohirrim at the table exchanged highly irritated glances at the seemingly pointless banter, but it was Gímli’s voice which interrupted the befuddled silence with a hearty snort:

"No matter how many orcs your beasts will kill, my fellow brothers-in-arms, they will not even come close to the damage my axe is going to inflict on the scum!"

"And not even remotely close to the death toll my bow is going to ask of them," Legolas added evenly, one eyebrow cocked as he regarded the dwarf haughtily from his superior height. For a moment, the strange friends stared at each other, Gímli glaring, the elf with his usual composure, until Aragorn summoned it up:

"It would seem to me as that there will hardly be enough orcs for all of us." His remark earned him a chuckle from most of the present warriors except for Grimbold and Brand, who could find nothing comical in the matter they were discussing, and seeing their sour faces sobered Éomer at last. Clearing his throat, he returned to the bidden seriousness.

"Very well; I will adhere then that each of us will kill as many orcs as he possibly can; I am content with this plan. Is it furthermore agreed upon that we will set out tomorrow shortly after nightfall, to pitch camp at the Fords of Isen for a few hours? And that we will cross the river still under cover of darkness to arrive at Isengard with the break of dawn? This way we could make the most use of the daylight, as I don’t think that – even under best circumstances - the battle will see a winner quickly. If we attack later, fighting may well continue until after nightfall, and that would be the orcs’ advantage, all the more as they will be fighting on their own grounds." Looking around to find what the others were thinking of his plan, Éomer saw Aragorn nod in acknowledgment.

"I see that you have given this some thought."

"And we can help you by cleaning the hostile river-shores from enemy spies while we camp there!" Halbarad offered. "For this is the greatest strength of the Dúnedain: we know how to move stealthily in hostile territory by night, and how to kill silently. It is how we protected our borders for many years against the Forces of Evil, although we were outnumbered most of the time."

"It is a very valuable service my kinsman is offering you," Aragorn said meaningfully, his gaze on Grimbold, but it was Éomer who answered, while at the same time he searched for consent in Erkenbrand’s eyes and found it.

"And we will gladly accept it, Halbarad. I thank you." Extending his thanks to the elves by the ranger’s side, Éomer fell silent. Like the other present men, he felt it, too: they were ready. For a moment longer, the warriors regarded each other silently, the weight of the task before them heavy on their hearts. At last, Erkenbrand gave the signal to disperse by sliding back with his chair and getting up. There was nothing left to say, and so the warriors left to seek their chambers for the night with weak hopes of finding rest.

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MEDUSELD

Éowyn did not feel it when they laid her onto the bed again after having unfastened her ties and allowing her to go and relieve herself and change her drenched shift – all under the prying eyes of the big Dunlending and his comrades Gríma had sent. Wormtongue himself, however, had been strangely absent for most of the day, not even around to take advantage of finally being able to see her undressed for the first time, but Éowyn did not wonder. She allowed herself not a single thought as she slipped out of her wet garments with hands that shook so badly that she dropped the replacement repeatedly before she succeeded in pulling it over her head. She did not pay attention to Felrod’s hungry black eyes upon her body, nor did she register the hillman’s lewd comments as she stood uncovered before him.

Éowyn did not fight as they led her back to the bed and dutifully tied her wrists and ankles to the posts again… and when that had been accomplished and the Worm’s henchman sat down on the mattress beside her with a barked order to his two comrades to leave them alone, her heartbeat did not accelerate even though it was clear what would happen. Her mind had detached itself from her body and left it to its destiny; hiding in a place deep within herself where nothing could ever reach her. The expression in her eyes void of emotion as they stared against the ceiling, the only indication that there was still life left in the White Lady of Rohan was her steady trembling; an automatic reaction of her body she neither felt nor cared about, let alone was able to suppress.

As the sound of the closing door reached Felrod’s ear from the adjacent room, he laid his big, rough hand onto Éowyn’s stomach and grinned.

"Finally, we have a moment to ourselves, sweeting," he breathed into her ear in a low voice, not in the least disturbed by his victim’s ghastly empty expression. His hand travelled further up to linger for a moment on her breast, then it moved lazily on to the bare skin of her throat. Enjoying the sensation of her heartbeat against his palm, Felrod kissed the sensitive spot below Éowyn’s ear. "Tell me, Goldenhead, what shall we do with it?" He received no reaction, none whatsoever. His hand slid down Éowyn’s throat and into her shift, and his grin widened. "I have an idea, and I have the feeling that you would enjoy it very much… and even if you didn’t, you would not betray me to my master, wouldn’t you, sweeting?"

He plastered her cheekbone with kisses, then proceeded to the corner of her mouth while pressure built steadily in the nether regions of his body. Suddenly Felrod hesitated, and looked again into the disturbingly empty eyes before him, remembering well what that delicate woman had done to his commander. The gag was still in his other hand; he had not applied it yet because of his plan to take advantage of his hostage’s helplessness. Éowyn did not look as if she was even aware of his presence although he lay practically upon her. Still uncertain what to do, his hand increased its pressure on her breast, kneading the sensitive flesh with his rough fingers as he waited for her reaction, yet Éowyn continued to lay limply on the bed like a puppet.

Not knowing what to make of the situation, Felrod creased his brow. It was wonderful to feel his power over her, but still it would have increased his pleasure if there were at least some life in that body he was in the process of ravaging. Otherwise, where would be the point if that haughty thing didn’t feel his domination? While he still paused and stared, unsure of how to proceed, the door behind him was suddenly opened and a sharp gasp reached his ears.

"Felrod!"

He jumped to his feet, his face burning as he retracted his hand and turned around to face his master, but the damage had been done; he saw it in Gríma Wormtongue’s pale blue eyes.

"Out of my sight, now!" Saruman’s right hand trembled with barely suppressed fury, and the sliding dishes on the wooden tray he carried added their noise to the scene like the rattle of a poisonous snake the moment before the bite. Faster than he had ever moved in his life, Felrod rushed toward the door, his heart pounding in his chest. How could he have been so foolish to let himself be caught? And how would his master punish him for it? As he passed Gríma, the other man halted him with a little sidestep, his eyes narrow slits in which a cold fire burned. "Stay where I can find you. We will have to speak." Swallowing, the big Halfbreed nodded and lowered his gaze as he all but fled the chambers.