Chapter 49: “Preparations”

EDORAS

“What do you mean, she can’t say?” Éothain stared in incomprehension at his captain, feeling his stomach plunge. “How can Yalanda not know? She is the one who knows about herbs and potions; how can she not have a recipe for--”

“- a tasteless killing potion?” Aedwulf slowly shook his head. “You know the answer, Éothain. She said that she will try to brew us something, but she could not say when it will be ready. Apparently, it is not easy to find a potion which a dog’s superior senses cannot detect. She will do her best, but we must be patient. Lady Glenwyn…” he nodded his greetings at Céorl’s wife whom he saw over the shoulder of his friend, wrapped in a shawl. He shifted his attention back to Éothain, touching his friend’s arm. “There is nothing we can do for now, except wait, no matter how hard it is.”

The young Captain exhaled forcefully and evaded the older man’s compassionate gaze.

“I am failing them,” he growled through his clenched teeth, despising the feeling of helplessness which threatened to overwhelm him. “I am failing my father, and the King, and Éowyn…and Éomer. Éomer most of all. I promised him to protect his sister should anything ever happen to him, and now the Worm has Éowyn in his clutches and what am I doing? I am sitting here, doing nothing while the filth torments her!”

“That is not right,” Aedwulf said with quiet intensity. “You prepared the city for a possible assault. And upon your orders that tunnel was found; you risked your life exploring it so that we even have a plan now of how to take advantage of that discovery. We are doing what we can, Éothain, but it cannot be denied that Wormtongue is a capable opponent, and any measures we take must be well-prepared. You are doing all that is in your power, and your men look up to you for your leadership; believe me when I tell you this. You are being too hard on yourself, my friend, and self-doubt will not help us in this case. You must believe in what you do… as do we.” He squeezed Éothain’s arm and wanted to add more, but the distant din of a bell interrupted him. The two men stared at each other.

“Who can that be?”

“Let’s find out!”

“I will be back, Mother. Don’t worry. Stay inside!” Throwing his cape over his shoulders, Éothain stepped into the thickening twilight and closed the door behind himself before he and Aedwulf rushed toward the square. Just as they rounded the corner, the mighty gate opened with a strained groan to let in two riders, and as Éothain stepped forth, he recognised the first man’s white horse. His brow creasing, he briefly looked behind the man, but there was nothing to be seen on the path, not a trace of the forces from Aldburg he had sent for two days earlier.

“Gelbrand? You return alone? What is the matter?”

The older warrior’s bearded face bore a thick crust of ice and he looked half-frozen when he turned toward the Captain of Edoras and dismounted.

“It seems that Aldburg cannot spare its éoreds these days, Captain. They received a summons from the Marshal the same day I arrived, and now their Riders are on the way to the Westfold. Did they not ask you as well?”

“The Marshal ?” Éothain’s heart skipped a beat as he exchanged a quick glance with Aedwulf, who looked equally excited. “Which marshal? You do not mean Éomer, do you, Gelbrand?”

The older man nodded eagerly, a faint smile upon his half-frozen face.

“Aye, Captain, I do indeed. The messenger said that Éomer had sent him. Apparently, Thor’s éored found him on a farm in the White Mountains; wounded but alive, and obviously well enough to take things into his hands again. It seems that battle is at hand in the Westfold, and that it might well be the one fight that determines our fate. I cannot believe that our éoreds were not summoned too! Perhaps the messenger was intercepted by the enemy?”

For a moment, Éothain could not speak; the feeling of relief flooding him was so overwhelming, he could only stare at the bringer of the good tidings.

“Béma be praised!” Aedwulf exclaimed before Éothain had found his voice again, and he turned around to where more people had gathered on the square to look for the reason of the alarm. “Marshal Éomer is alive!” The crowd erupted in cheers, and Aedwulf turned back to his waiting kinsman. “You bring great tidings, Gelbrand! At last, there is now a glimpse of hope on the horizon. But to answer your question: no, no one has come to summon us forces yet. I find that strange also.”

“Perhaps Éomer did not want to run the risk that Wormtongue learned about it,” Éothain let himself be heard. “If he took refuge in the mountains, he cannot know about the state of things here, and if he plans a surprise attack on Saruman, he needs to make sure that Gríma cannot warn his Master. The Snake would have smelled something had he seen our riders leave.”

“Then that must be it.” Aedwulf narrowed his eyes. “We will need a few men here to storm Meduseld, but the others we could surely send to the Westfold. They will need all help they can get.” He looked at the Eastfold warrior. “If it is not too late for that already.”

Gelbrand shrugged.

“I’m afraid that I do not know more than you, Captain Aedwulf. All I can tell you is that Aldburg’s éoreds left an hour after the summons came. But you are right; I suspect it cannot be wrong to send our men after them. They were told to travel on the mountain path to avoid undue attention, and they will not be able to move quickly on it. Surely our riders could overtake them by using the road, but…” His gaze went up to the Golden Hall. “You said something about ‘storming Meduseld.’ So I take it that the Worm still holds it?”

“Aye, nothing has changed. Gríma and his minions barricaded the Golden Hall against us, and the King and the members of his household are still held captive within it,” Éothain said darkly and registered the other warrior’s dismay. “Essentially, we are holding him captive, but we have not yet found a way to move against him without risking the lives of the hostages… and the filth’s strategy tells me that he is waiting for Saruman’s army to assault Edoras and release him once they killed us, but if Éomer is rallying our forces in the Westfold to meet them there, he will be waiting in vain.”

“Depending on the outcome of that battle, of course,” Aedwulf added grimly. “Aye, we must send every man we can spare, perhaps it is not too late yet. I will alert the Riders at once… with your permission, Captain?” He looked at Éothain.

“Aye. Please do that, Aedwulf. And tell them to make haste and ride through the night.”

“How many men will we need to…” Aedwulf interrupted himself, but Éothain had seen his little nod toward the Hall.

“Fifty should stay here. That should be enough for our purposes.” He turned to Gelbrand. “Once all preparations are finished, we will make short shrift of the traitor.”

The Rider’s gaze went up to the Hall, and a sceptical glance found Éothain.

“You have a plan then?”

“Aye, I do, but it will take some more time. Come, Gelbrand, let me accompany you to the stables. You look as if you have use for a place before a fire and a warm meal, and I will not keep you longer from your home than necessary. We can talk some more on the way.”

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MEDUSELD

The rap at the door sounded hesitant and insecure, and Gríma narrowed his eyes as he lifted his head, knowing who it was. Taking his time to reach for a napkin and carefully dab at his mouth, he finally bade his visitor to step in, and a very submissive Dunlending half-breed entered the room.

“Felrod,” Wormtongue said, intentionally lengthening the pause between words to torment the man as he folded his hands on the table. All night had he pondered what the right punishment would be for the incredible deed at which he had caught the guard, but the truth was that he still needed the man; it would not do to dispose of Felrod entirely or even to annoy him by severely disciplining the brute, no matter how much anger Gríma still felt.

What if Felrod had followed through with his plan of ravaging Éowyn, what if he had reaped what Gríma had denied himself yet for hope that it would someday be given freely? His audacity could easily have destroyed his Master’s precious prize. Straightening on his chair as he laid his fork aside, the Counsellor regarded his squirming servant with a detached expression of superiority before he issued a theatrically deep sigh.

“Felrod, Felrod... tell me, what am I to do with you? When we first met each other, you asked me for food, and I gave you food. Then you asked for power, and I gave you that as well. I led you into the heart of your enemies’ realm and allowed you to participate in their downfall, and yet this is how you would repay me? By trying to steal the only thing I said I wanted for myself?”

The hillman said nothing, and his eyes were lowered submissively, not daring to meet the cold blue of Gríma’s gaze.

“Had I listened to yesterday’s rage, you would not be here today. I would have had you thrown out and left at the mercy of the Strawheads, Felrod, and trust me, they would have killed you very slowly. But that is not want I wanted, and so I spent a sleepless night thinking about it. You can have the entire Mark once our Master is through with its inhabitants, and yet you still seek to steal from me, the man who put you in the position to exact your revenge upon Eorl’s children for five hundred years of misery. Tell me, Felrod, what would you do in my place?”

The half-breed swallowed, and his voice sounded as if it had to be pressed through the granite of the White Mountains to come to Gríma’s ears.

“I did not think. I – I never meant to steal from you, Master; never.” At last, Felrod risked a glance; his face flushed with embarrassment. “Please, I hope you can forgive me. I will always be grateful for what you did for my people. Always.”

“And this is the way it should be,” Wormtongue stated coldly, disappointment colouring his tone. “But this is now the second time you have betrayed the trust I set in you.” He shook his head. “I am at a loss, Felrod. I do not know what you could possibly do to remedy this breach.”

“It will not happen again.”

“I know it won’t, because you will not go near her again.” It was time to announce his verdict. Sliding back with his chair, Gríma rose to his feet, and his voice sounded firm when he announced: “I need more time to think this over, Felrod. Until then, I do not want to see you in the hall, lest I’d forget myself. You will go down to the intersection and help your men to guard the tunnels, relieving Mordred of his duty, as he has not seen the daylight for days. Until further notice, you will stay down there, out of my sight. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Master.” Felrod bowed, vaguely relieved. “I thank you for your mercy, and I swear that I will never disappoint you again.”

“In your own interest, see that you keep your promise this time.” Dismissing the man, Wormtongue turned his back on the guard, and Felrod understood and left, glad to leave. His expression grim, Gríma’s eyes rested for a moment longer on the depiction of a hunting scene on an ancient wall-hanging. It was time for Saruman’s army to arrive. Things were starting to deteriorate in Meduseld; the threads of order starting to slip from his grasp. He had brought them this far, and now that there was nothing further to do than sit and wait, foolish ideas were starting to flood his servants’ minds. Could he be sure that they would spare him once they saw the wealth of the Royal Household and greed got the better of them? His eyes narrowing, Wormtongue’s gaze travelled at last to the open door leading to his bedchambers. Now that he was finished with the unpleasant business, it was time to collect his reward and feast his eyes on the woman he loved again.

Yet when he made his way over to Éowyn, the sight of her could not cheer him up as he sat down on the mattress beside her to run his fingers through the golden tresses. So fair was she. So fair, and yet so distant. How could that be? Where had the courageous young woman gone he had admired for so many years? All that seemed to be left of the brave, haughty shieldmaiden who had inspired him to his act of unparalleled betrayal was an empty shell. Where was that untamed spirit he loved so desperately, this wild thing no other but he had seen and understood? Had he involuntarily crushed it with his ungoverned anger? Had he destroyed the very thing he loved? And if it was so, how could he ever forgive himself?

“Come back to me, my sweet,” Gríma whispered lovingly, his fingers gliding over Éowyn’s cheekbones, but apart from the constant trembling, he was not rewarded with a reaction. She had taken the water he had carefully administered her, but not the food, and when he looked into those scarily void, blue eyes which seemed to look right through him, it appeared to Wormtongue that Éowyn was not even aware of his presence. He swallowed, suddenly very afraid. “Come back to me, my Love. I swear I will be good to you from now on. Don’t be afraid of me.”

But she continued to lie beneath him, unmoving except for her steady shivering. Removed from the world.

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WESTFOLD

Éomer had woken to a strange day: it had smelled differently, the air leaving a hint of iron on his tongue as he had sat up in his bed, muscles tense just upon opening his eyes. Battle already cast its long ugly shadows upon the day, and the dull rumbling that reached his ears through the window from the overcast skies only befitted the atmosphere as Éomer rose to join the others after a long night spent of little sleep. In less than a day, blood would be spilled and the fate of the Mark would be decided. At last, the waiting was over.

He had washed and dressed quickly and then joined the other captains for the morning meal, finding the atmosphere at Erkenbrand’s round table dominated by the same tension he felt himself. Where only last night there had been playful banter, most of the warriors ate in silence, preoccupied with their own thoughts, and the few words spoken were hardly more than requests for items on the table. Erkenbrand had reported that he had ordered scouts to search the vicinity for orc-spies, determined to keep their secret safe until they rode, and Éomer had nodded, welcoming the idea.

Thor, who had hardly been visible since their arrival, had been first to leave their table, and the discomfort the young man felt at being in the place where the hatred against his evil brethren was the strongest was obvious on his dark features. Excusing himself with mention of the many preparations to be seen to until they would ride, he had quickly left the table, eager to rejoin his éored who would not greet him with mistrustful glances.

Following the scout’s path with his eyes, Éomer had felt sorrow for the young man whose blood doomed him to be a perpetual wanderer between two worlds with neither one fully accepting him. Over the last days, Éomer had received his own taste of the feeling of not having a home, and he had not liked it. To escape his brooding thoughts, he had likewise excused himself quickly and made for the stables, on the way there pocketing some apples from the table to bribe his steed whom he knew would give him a hard time after the last days of neglect.

Twilight greeted him as he entered the long building, and for a moment, Éomer stood and revelled in the familiar scent while he watched the bustling activity among the many stablehands who readied the horses entrusted to their care for the ride. More than once he had to quickly step aside when young lads laden with heavy tack passed him; the atmosphere reminding him vividly of a bee-hive in the first beams of the spring sun. It took a while before his presence was noticed, but then he became quickly the object of general attention and Hrothgar, the oldest and most experienced of the stablehands approached him with a wry smile upon his face.

“Marshal Éomer! May I express how good it is seeing you alive and leading our Riders into battle again?”

“Thank you, Hrothgar. I feel very fortunate to be here and to see that the Éorlingas still trust in their instincts rather than in dubious words from a proven liar.” He nodded at the stall where he could see a grey back. “I hope your lads didn’t have too much trouble with my obstinate grey beast?”

Hrothgar laughed.

“Oh, now that you speak of it… we managed to fill Firefoot’s manger, but that was pretty much it.” He cleared his throat and meaningfully cocked an eyebrow. “He let no one near him for a grooming, or to tend his wounds. But there is no reason for concern; they seem to be healing well, otherwise we would have called you. I am sure he will be glad to see his master.”

“I would not necessarily count on that,” Éomer remarked, pursing his lips, and with a clap on the man’s back, left the stablehand standing as he approached his stallion while the men and lads in the building paused in their work to see how their Marshal handled the animal which had given them such a hard time.

Clicking his tongue to let Firefoot know of his presence, Éomer reached the stall wall and rested his arms upon the wooden barrier.

“Good morning, Grey One,” he greeted his horse’s behind, which was all he could see of the stallion. “It has come to my ears that you have recovered enough to be your usual, difficult self again, and I see that it is true, or why would you ignore me?” His effort was not graced with a reaction, and Éomer nodded, understanding the challenge. The half-méara was still sulking and determined to ignore his master, and for a while, Éomer allowed it while he observed the stallion’s movements with a keen eye, especially interested in the way Firefoot used his injured shoulder. With relief, he noted that the horse did not favour the foreleg, although the little movement the stall allowed could not be a true indication of the stallion’s ability. “So you insist on finding out who of us two has the thicker head? I accept.”

Grey ears flickered back in response to his voice, and a very quick glance from a large dark eye briefly sized up Éomer, but still Firefoot seemed to have no intentions of acknowledging his master’s presence in any way. The Rohír remained calm, not having expected things to go differently. In the five years since the Grey had become his ally in their perpetual fight, he had experienced the stallion’s by now legendary stubbornness and ill moods more than once; and in fact those were the very traits which had endeared Firefoot to him from the very start; aside from the horse’s unyielding loyalty and protectiveness. The half-méara burst with character, and to win the loyalty of such a proud and willful creature each day anew was a task Éomer was more than willing to appoint himself, and always left him deeply satisfied. In the end, Firefoot would come to him as he always had, forgetting his pride while still making it look as if only this last time were he willing to exercise mercy on his unworthy master. Éomer knew what it took to convince the stallion. He took out one of the apples he had snagged from the breakfast table and rubbed it against his shirt, then took a big bite out of it - and was rewarded when the grey head turned around.

Aware that he and his horse were the object of undivided interest of nearly everybody in the building, Éomer chewed calmly, his hand with the apple hanging over the wooden barrier. Lifting his head, Firefoot drank the air with quivering nostrils and stretched his neck, the large eyes measuring his master intently while the stallion tried to decide what to do. Unblinkingly, Éomer took the next bite, noticing with silent amusement how the grey ears twitched at the sound. A low, deep noise emitted from the depth of Firefoot’s broad chest as the horse shook his head indignantly. Éomer felt an insistent tug at the corners of his mouth. Who in their right mind could not love such a horse?

“I won’t throw it into your stall. You will have to come to me, like it or not, you big, grey mule!” He lifted the apple to his mouth again. A violent snort burst from the stallion’s throat as Firefoot stretched his neck even further to smell the delicacy in his master’s hand. Again he threw his head, the thick mane frothing around the heavy muscles, and suddenly his forceful stamp echoed in the building. The apple halting before his mouth, Éomer raised a brow. “Can it really be so hard?” He took another bite, and this time, the stall wall shook under the impact of Firefoot’s hoof as the half-méara voiced his protest.

“Here!” Éomer extended his arm, knowing that triumph was his; he could tell it as he watched his squirming steed. The stallion was pawing the ground, still protesting - and begging at the same time. “Take it.” Pushed forth by some unseen force, Firefoot slowly came closer. Still a few steps distant, he halted and stretched his neck again, as if hoping that he could get the delicacy without having to approach his master. Making himself as long as possible, much to the amusement of the observers, Firefoot’s lips closed with an audible snap just befor of the apple.

“Such a proud beast!” Hrothgar laughed behind Éomer.

“Aye, he is. But he is defeated, and he knows it.” His eyes still on the stallion, Éomer saw how the massive grey body before him expand with a deep intake of breath… which was expelled in a last violent snort of protest. Eagerly, Firefoot took the last remaining steps, and with an honest smile, Éomer gave him the treasure in his hand before he reached up for the stallion’s ears. Enjoying the sensation of the silken fur against his palm, he allowed his hand to slide down to rub the broad brow. “See, this was not so hard to do, now was it?” he muttered under his breath, glad over their reconciliation. His fingers brushing through the long dark lock that fell into Firefoot’s face, he gently began to untangle the thick mane while he pulled the big head closer to blow air into the nostrils. “Did you really think that I didn’t love you anymore, just because I rode Drálion for a few days, you big, brave, jealous fool?”

Slipping into the stall, Éomer’s hand glided over the dark hide to the stallion’s mighty shoulder, carefully caressing the area around the three parallel gashes. A thorough inspection of the thick crust of dried blood that had formed on the injuries confirmed Hrothgar’s words: the wounds looked innocuous and well on the way to healing. It seemed that nothing spoke against Firefoot carrying him into the battle. Affectionately, Éomer petted the mighty body.

“Now you have seen the wound for yourself, Marshal,” Hrothgar made himself be heard. “Do you agree it seems to heal well?”

“Aye, it looks good enough. But I will take him outside for a little ride nonetheless to warm him up and see how he moves. He is probably a little stiff after the days in the stall.” Éomer hooked his fingers into Firefoot’s halter and fastened a rope to it.

“Shall I bring you a saddle then? If I remember correctly, there was none on his back when you arrived.” But Éomer dismissed the offer with a gesture as he opened the stall door.

“I will not need one now. But I would indeed be grateful if you could supply me with full tack before we ride, aye.”

“Very well.” Hrothgar nodded, respectfully moving aside as the big grey stepped into the aisle. “I will leave it here on the stand, so that you find it upon your return.”

“Thank you.” With a curt nod, Éomer shifted his attention back to his steed. “Come, let us get a taste of the day.” He led the stallion through the open doors, and grey light greeted them. Distant rumble from the clouds above their heads prompted Éomer to crane his neck, and what he saw brought a shadow to his face. Yet it was not the weather which troubled him even if the storm front on the horizon looked as if it would make their ride an unpleasant experience; it was an even darker cloud that circled the skies above the settlement and the adjourning war-camp, alive with the din of thousands of harsh voices: they were Crebain, the White Wizard’s inescapable spies. Thousands of them. They were being watched.

For a moment longer, Éomer’s gaze followed the circles of the big black birds while he silently asked himself what Saruman would conclude from his allies’ observations, and then he jumped at the sudden alarm of the watchtower’s bell.

“Riders! Many Riders!”