Chapter 51: To War

WESTFOLD

The storm had developed over the course of the afternoon, and now the wind ravaged the plains before the mountains like a hungry predator and assaulted the warriors in the camp from all directions at once. And yet it was not the wind that robbed Éomer of his breath as he exited the Lord of Westfold’s halls: it was their own army at which he was looking from the rim of the terrace. Still the view over the vast flatland behind the city walls, filled with hundreds of tents and thousands of warriors and horses was one of the most impressive sights Éomer had ever been granted in his life. In the flickering light of the campfires and torches and the cold blue of lightning bolts on their way to the ground, it looked as if the assembled Riders covered the plains from the Isen all the way to Anorien. Even if it was hardly so, the very sight of their éohere filled Éomer with hope.

“Béma, look at them!” Grimbold’s brought out, in doing so voicing the thoughts of his brothers-in-arms who stared in similar awe at the largest Rohirric army which had ever assembled in their lifetime. An army he would command, Éomer suddenly remembered, and for a moment, the sheer weight of responsibility threatened to crush him. Struggling to force some air back into his lungs, he then took the first step onto the causeway, at the foot of which he saw their horses being held ready for them in full Rohirric battle-armour. True to his nature, Firefoot was restlessly dancing around in an instinctive reaction to the energy around him, and for a moment it looked as if the stallion would succeed in breaking free from Hrothgar’s hold, but quickly the experienced stablehand changed his grip and evaded the following kick to seize control of the situation again. Although his steed’s antics were usually a well of amusement for Éomer, they failed now to bring even the hint of a smile to his serious face.

As he proceeded down the ramp, he looked up into the swirling dark clouds to scan the sky for their enemy’s spies, but it seemed as if darkness and the unfavourable elements had at last chased the birds away. And still Éomer felt deep unease when he thought about them. Through his winged messengers, Saruman knew now beyond doubt that their éohere had gathered, even if their scouts and the Dúnedain had done their best during the day to hunt down his spies in the vicinity of the fastness. Until nightfall had called them back to their master, the Crebain had remained just outside the reach of even the warriors’ strongest bows, mocking them with their unceasing cries while they rode the stormy skies unhindered. So, Saruman knew that they were here, but the question remained whether he truly anticipated that the Rohirrim would dare to attack him on his own grounds. There was no way of telling, but in less than a day, they would know.

None of the warriors spoke as they walked with great strides to their horses, lost in their own grim contemplation. Everyone was alone with himself before battle; Éomer had experienced it many times before when his éored had prepared to engage the enemy. There was nothing to do for anyone to help his comrades with the confrontation of their fears. Everyone had to find his own path to courage in the face of death, and his own reasons for challenging the Grim Reaper. It was the deep breath before the plunge; the last effort of the mind to concern itself with the horrible events awaiting them before it would be replaced by the warrior’s instincts.

Coming to a halt beside his horse, Éomer’s fingers glided in brief greeting over Firefoot’s nose below the face-plate, and immediately the Grey ceased his nervous dance.

“It is now that I need your courage and strength more than ever,” the Rohír whispered into the pricked ears of his steed, and the stallion became very calm, an unmoving grey statue in the flickering twilight as he listened to the familiar voice of his master. “Bear me to victory, my friend.” Éomer knew that the stallion understood instinctively that they were riding into battle, the additional weight of the armour he carried a sure indication of what would follow. All stubbornness fell from him as Firefoot readied himself to become once again his master’s greatest ally. Accepting the reins from the old stablehand, Éomer mounted quickly and turned the stallion toward the gate.

“Return safely and triumphantly, my Lord,” Hrothgar said as he stepped back. “Our good wishes accompany you and those you take with you into the enemy’s land!”

“I thank you, Hrothgar. If it is in our power, we will return.” From the corner of his eye, Éomer saw that the others had mounted as well, and with slight pressure of his thighs urged Firefoot forth into the cordon formed by the women, children and elders who would stay behind. He did not want to imagine their fate if they failed. First in line on their path to the gate, Éomer recognised Grimbold’s family, and the sight of the mingled awe and fear on the boys’ faces tore so heavily at his heart that he averted his gaze. He could afford no weakness now, even if it suddenly felt like only yesterday that he had stood among these people as well to bid the Riders farewell, not knowing that the next time he would see the great Marshal Eomund of Aldburg, his father would be dead.

‘Help me, Théodred,’ Éomer thought as a sudden fit of despair threatened to carry him away, briefly closing his eyes as he sent his prayer to the realm of their forefathers. He knew that his Cousin was listening, sensed the older man’s reassuring presence with every fibre of his body. ‘You counselled me wisely thus far; but now I need you more than ever, Cousin. Give me the strength to lead them and guide me to the right path!”

His gaze fixed on the dark line of mounted riders awaiting them behind the gates, Éomer heard the citizens cry out for their leaders, and yet he dared not to look at them for fear that the sight of the desperate hope and fear on the people’s faces would hinder his concentration. Their Riders had followed his call, and now his task was to turn their fear into fury.

As if to underline his thought, a sudden thunderclap erupted from the angry sky, the rolling echo sounding to Éomer’s ears like a dragon’s roar while it slowly opened its maw to devour them all. Parrying Firefoot’s little jump he proceeded without even sparing the spectacle above his head another look, caught up in his own inner world as he rode through the scenery of an event he had witnessed in his nightmares countless nights before: the combined forces of the Mark riding out to meet the enemy in a last stand. If they failed, the Mark would fall. It could not happen. Exhaling sharply, Éomer suppressed the disquieting thought and spurred Firefoot. If this was indeed the last ride of the Rohirrim, they would go out in a blaze of defiance, unyielding while their hearts still beat and a single drop of blood still flowed through their veins, and if the enemy would still triumph over them, they would at least ask a high price for his victory.

But they were not defeated yet. They had to defeat the wizard, so that they could ride and save Éowyn. It was the one thought to hold on to now.

A hard glint suddenly burned in Éomer’s eyes, and his gloved fingers clenched around the reins. What business did he have to think of their defeat? It was time for the fulfilment of their vows, yes, and the time for their revenge. At last, he would be granted the opportunity to avenge the man whose armour he wore and who had been his brother in all but blood! A man he would never again meet under the sun, not in this lifetime. And he would avenge Éowyn and make the enemy pay dearly for the torment inflicted upon his innocent sister… and although much orc-blood had already been spilled by his hands in the years since he had joined the Armed Forces, Éomer was determined to ask more of it in payment of his parents’ death as well. The enemy’s debt had not been settled yet. Éomer’s gaze swept the line of Riders awaiting him, and he understood that every single one of them had someone dear to avenge. At long last, he would give them the long-awaited opportunity.

As they approached, gasps and shouts emitted from the men upon spotting his cousin’s armour and the distinctive helmet with the black horsetail.

“Théodred! It is Théodred! He is not dead!”

As soon as he deemed himself well within earshot, Éomer reined in Firefoot and signalled the captains behind him to stop as he halted the stallion and removed his helmet, indifferent to the storm’s strength as it whipped his face with the strands of his hair which was of a much brighter shade than his cousin’s. Quickly the Riders realised their mistake, and their cries shifted into equally enthusiastic shouts for their Third Marshal, whose survival seemed no lesser miracle to them.

“Éomer! Éomer!”

The sight of their waiting army woke him from his dream-like trance, and a powerful surge of energy suddenly flooded his veins. Earlier in the afternoon, the éoreds had been instructed to remain quiet and not give their commanders their usual greeting with the blowing of their horns lest the enemy heard them, but in the hours since then, the warriors had thought of a different kind of salute: when Éomer inhaled to raise his voice to them, the campfires suddenly reflected on thousands of swords stabbed against the blackness of the sky with a powerful rush of air.

“My brothers,” their commander began at last, moved by the gesture and still uncertain of what to say. The words came to him from out of nowhere before he could even think them up; they flowed through him and used him as a vessel to reach their warriors, and Éomer could not help but wonder when he heard his own, firm voice speak out. How often had he listened to Théodred’s rallying speeches, awed by his cousin’s ability to wake the fighting spirits of their soldiers and strengthen their courage until it prevailed even under the threat of overwhelming odds. Could he do the same? These men he was looking at had loved Théodred dearly; did they love his cousin as much? Or at least so much that they would follow him into hostile territory? While Éomer paused until the last soldier had settled down to listen, it got so quiet that even the lowly whickering of a horse in the last rows could be heard. For a moment, even the wind stopped.

“When you left your homes days ago to follow the summons of a man who was expelled and named a traitor to the Mark, a man accused of having condoned that his own blood-kin be killed so that he could seize the throne of Rohan for himself, you entered a perilous path. These are evil times in which our land is beset by enemies both from outside and within, and a single word into the wrong ear can easily cost one’s head, let alone disobeying our King’s verdict.” Éomer paused, and his gaze travelled over the rows of eagerly listening men while he felt the first raindrops on his face.

“Our King’s word is Law; it is as much a foundation of the Mark as the hill upon which Meduseld stands, and it was never questioned throughout our history. And yet the situation we are faced with these days differs vastly from everything we ever experienced, because this time, the enemy sits in our very home! To some of you it may be known, to some it may be not, but for many years now, Théoden-King’s mind has been poisoned by the White Wizard’s minion, the traitor who calls himself his counsellor! With the aid of his potions and his master’s evil spells, Gríma son of Gálmód, ‘Wormtongue’ as he is justly called by all who see through his façade of righteousness, enslaved our King’s mind. He turned our ruler into a weapon against his own people to weaken the Mark until none will be left to oppose his master’s army once it crosses the Isen. It was Wormtongue who planned Prince Théodred’s assassination, and he weaved his net with great cunning to dispose of me at the same time by blaming me for my cousin’s death. Using our King to do his bidding, the Worm then saw to it that I was banished and sent out into the storm alone and without weapons, hunted by his henchmen and Saruman’s orcs… and in case that they failed, Wormtongue counted on the authority of Théoden’s verdict, expecting you to execute me if you found me alive.”

His words evoked angry murmurs from the riders, but Éomer silenced them with a gesture and turned Firefoot around to face the other way to include all men in his address. Behind him, the other captains had formed a line and waited patiently, and a quick glimpse confirmed to the Rohirric Marshal that the older warriors seemed to be satisfied with his beginning. He shifted his attention back to their army.

“Aye, I hear you, Sons of Eorl, and I understand that you are angry that someone should think this of you! So would I be if someone questioned my loyalty – and my wit. Perhaps it is not helpful when I tell you that even I was no longer sure of what to expect after having heard my death-sentence spoken by my own kin. I hoped that you would not heed the Worm’s words, but I had no way to be certain, so I evaded your settlements while I tried to decide on a course of action.” His gaze found Thor among the riders, and a distant smile passed over Éomer’s face at the sight of the scout’s serious expression. Specifically addressing the half-blood, Éomer continued: “I should have known better! I never seriously questioned your loyalty, but to see you here now before me in such overwhelming numbers...” He shook his head. “It means more to me than I could ever express. Your trust is the most extra-ordinary gift I ever received, and the Gods shall bear witness when I swear to you now by the blood of Eorl that I will do everything in my power to lead our forces to victory and free the Mark of its oppressors! Will you help me, I ask you?”

Again the swords were raised into the sky in affirmation, and more than a few cries were uttered as the men, following tradition, began to shout their allegiance as they were overcome by their emotions. But once again Éomer signalled them to remain quiet. His gaze wandering from one end of the line to the other, his confidence and the pride in his voice grew with each sentence now that he found nothing but determination and affirmation in his riders’ faces.

“The enemy’s army may be greater in number than ours, many times greater perhaps, but the Wizard’s soldiers have no goal! Orcs have neither friends nor families to defend or to avenge; they don’t have a home to protect, or wives and children to return to! They are mindless beasts bred for murder, and only fear of their master and the blood thirst of a wild beast makes them move, but until now, they were never faced with determination of the kind they will encounter now! We have reason to fight, and our will and purpose makes us ten times as strong as the strongest army the White Wizard could summon against us! No matter what awaits us beyond the Isen, we will send them right back to the black abyss whence they came!”

“Death to the enemy!”

The words left the soldiers’ mouths in unison. Still heeding their orders to remain quiet, the vow emitted from the army in a single deep, low voice that sent a shiver down Éomer’s spine. Like a ripple in the water the vow spread through the crowd until the very air vibrated with its power. His heart pounding against his ribs as Éomer turned his head, he caught a glimpse of Aragorn behind him and – on the spur of the moment - signalled him forth before he turned back to his men. The rain intensified now, and the thunder rolled without interruption over the skies and from the mountains, but he didn’t even notice.

“Hearing your vow and seeing you before me with expressions eager to teach the enemy a lesson generations after us will praise in song, I am sure you don’t need further encouragement from me. However, there is one more thing I will tell you before we ride, for it was a great source of joy to me when I learnt of it.” Inhaling deeply, Éomer slanted the ranger at his side another glance, and a proud sparkle stood in his eyes as he announced: “Those of you who arrived earlier may have heard of it already, and yet perhaps it makes a difference to hear the rumour that passed through your rows confirmed: a mighty warrior has returned to aid us in our quest! I know that I am not speaking for myself by saying that this is one of the men whose legendary deeds inspired most of us to follow in his footsteps.” He gave Aragorn a curt, approving nod. “Thorongil, the ‘Eagle of the Star’ has returned to Rohan! He is wielding the ‘Sword that was Broken’, and he brought his brethren and his friends with him to fight side by side with the Sons of Eorl.”

For a moment, the Rohirrim regarded Aragorn in stunned silence before excited whispers began to pass through their rows, and Éomer urged Firefoot another step forth, lifting his chin as he came to the end of his speech at last.

“All of us heard of the prophecy, and I am asking you now: who do you think has the power to defy it? The Master of Isengard? I look at this man before me, and I do not believe it that a cheap conjurer will thwart destiny! We will ride together, and together we will crush Saruman’s army beneath our horses’ hooves, and when that is done and all his evil minions are slaughtered, we will tear down his tower stone by stone until he has nowhere left to hide… and then the traitor will pay for every single evil deed he ever committed against the people of the Mark. This I promise you now! Will you ride with me, Brothers, and rid our land of the plague that has befallen it, then raise your swords with me!” And Théodred’s blade glistened in the fire of the torches as he stabbed it into the sky… and with a rush of air, thousands more followed him in a powerful answer.

“Forth Éorlingas!”