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

Chapter 52: The Fords of the Isen


EDORAS

A deep restlessness had taken possession of Gríma. Too anxious to sleep, he stood by the window of his bedchamber and stared at the darkness beyond with unseeing eyes. Something was wrong; he felt it with every fibre of his body. Something had shifted, and from his initial victory, things were somehow taking a turn for the worse, although he could not offer a rational explanation for his feeling. The slow deterioration of his hold over Meduseld was not yet obvious, but his well honed intuition told the son of Gálmód that his Dunlending brethren were not taking the enforced inactivity during the barricade well. With each passing day their aggression had increased, until it had led to a first casualty earlier this past afternoon when a heated quarrel had erupted over nothing more than a piece of meat.

His lips a thin line as he stared at the stark silhouette of the Ered Nimrais, Gríma slowly shook his head. It was only a question of time until other incidents would occur, perhaps even more serious in nature. The wild hillfolk was not used to sitting in a place for days, their hands on their laps while there was nothing to do for them but wait. No, it could no longer be denied that his power over them was waning and that the situation slowly veered into unstable territory. It was high time that Saruman’s army arrived and freed them. Which was the other reason for Gríma Wormtongue’s wakefulness in the middle of the night.

For a moment the Counsellor woke from his brooding, and his pale eyes narrowed in another fruitless attempt to discover his master’s forces on the plains below. Where were they, and what could possibly have delayed them? Saruman had to know how precarious his situation was after seizing control of the Golden Hall in the heart of the enemy’s realm. He had to know that the state of shock they had inflicted upon the Rohirrim by their bold move would not last, and that it was likely that the peasant’s would eventually develop a plan to strike back the more time they were granted. Although their simple-mindedness was easily out-manoeuvred by finer strategy, the horselords’ legendary stubbornness usually tended to overcome all obstacles in the end. It was a phenomenon Wormtongue had witnessed many times during his service for their King, but not one he was keen on experiencing himself. He had done his part; now it was on Saruman to seize what he had prepared.

With a deep sigh, Wormtongue turned for another look at the reward for his betrayal, but the sight of Éowyn’s prone shape did nothing to cure him of his sinister mood. Who among their cruel gods had thought it a good jest to grant him the thing he craved more than even the air to breathe, but only after rendering it utterly useless? With all her protectors effectively eliminated, Éowyn was his’ now … and yet the only thing he would ever have of her was her beautiful, but empty shell.

Wormtongue clenched his teeth in frustration, but quickly gave up as the pain of his mutilated lip became too great. What had he done to deserve this? Life was not just. For years he had served his master truthfully and with unyielding loyalty, risking his very life, and this should be his reward? What use was Éowyn to him now that there would be no pleasure to be had from their love-making? Taking her lifeless body would be like ravaging a corpse.

Shuddering at the thought, Wormtongue turned back to the window to let his gaze travel over the sleeping city. A strange atmosphere of anticipation and secrecy lay over Edoras. For the past days, the constant din of hammering had risen from the lower levels to them, and the streets had been busy with people transporting heavily laden carts in all parts of the city. For a while, Gríma had followed their efforts and quickly established that the sacks containing food were brought to the upper levels, where they would be at least temporarily out of the enemy’s reach, while instruments and large wooden planks were carried down toward the fence that protected the city. The meaning of his observation was clear: Edoras readied itself for an attack.

So young Captain Éothain had indeed understood his hint. Gríma had thought the son of Céorl as too ingenuous to make sense of his casual remark, and his discovery had not troubled the son of Gálmód at first. But when his Dunlending guards had reported the sighting of a great group of riders leaving the city and heading west this afternoon without returning, an alert had sounded in the back of the Wormtongue’s mind. It did not fit Éothain’s preparations to send his men away under the threat of an attack, and it troubled him more than he was willing to admit. What did it mean? That the Rohirrim had somehow gotten wind of Saruman’s plans? Or that battle was already raging in the Westfold, and those riders had been sent as a last reinforcement before their army was defeated? And why had none of his spies of the nearby settlements reported to him even though he had equipped them with his master’s cloaks? Even if the Rohirrim were more watchful now, under cover of Saruman’s special garments they could have approached the tunnel in broad daylight to bring him their news, but the truth was that days had passed since he had last heard from the world outside the Golden Hall.

No, something was off. And yet he would have to wait and see what the new situation was before he could adjust his plans accordingly. Gríma’s expression darkened even further. Sitting around idly twiddling his thumbs was a situation he was not used to. Which army would it be he would soon discover on the western horizon? His master’s… or the enemy’s? If it were the latter, his path was clear: he would kill Éowyn and the King himself before he fled, and send his men to kill the other hostages in the dungeon. He would leave the Rohirrim nothing to salvage of their most noble house.

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

EDORAS

“My lord, my lord, it is I, Giselhere! Please open, it is urgent!”

The hammering at the door sounded as if someone was trying to knock it down as Éothain hastened toward it. Outside stood an excited Giselhere and stared up to him with wide eyes. Irritated to see the young lad still on the street at this late hour, Éothain wrinkled his brow.

“Giselhere? Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

The boy looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

“But Captain, Yálanda sent me! She said it was urgent, and I should tell you to see her at once!”

“Yálanda sent you?” The lad’s family were the healer’s neighbours, and so it made sense that the old woman had asked the boy for the errand. “Wait, I’m coming with you.” Turning around to fetch his cloak, Éothain looked at his mother. “Yálanda wants to see me, Mother I will be back shortly; I promise.” He stormed out into the night, now as excited as the lad and barely even noticing the heavy rain. “Did she say what this is about? Did she find a poison?”

“I do not know, Captain, but she told me to fetch you at once, so it must be important.” Hope brightening his expression, Giselhere regarded the warrior. “But if she did… does that mean that we can free the King and the White Lady tonight?”

“It might so, Giselhere; if all goes well, it might be so. But let us first hear what Yálanda has to say before we make our plans.” Éothain inhaled and suddenly turned toward the boy as he remembered something. “I promise to let you listen, too, but first you must get Aedwulf for me. Do you know where he lives?”

The lad’s eyes sparkled with excitement at the prospect of being allowed to attend a secret meeting.

“Aye, Captain Éothain, I do!”

“Very well. Then tell him to come and meet me at the healer’s house. Quickly!”

“We will be there even before you!” And with these words, the youth took off like a colt released from the stable after a long winter. With a heavy sigh, Éothain turned back to the steep path that would lead him to the healer’s house. The days when he had last felt excitement over something like a conspiracy or enthusiasm at the prospect of battle had long passed and been replaced by dread. In a few years, Giselhere would be old enough to join the Rohirrim himself, and he, too, would quickly discover that bloodshed was nothing to look forward to. From him, too, the innocence of youth would be ripped away by the brutal hands of reality.

On his way up, most windows Éothain passed were already dark, and as his gaze travelled up further to the looming shadow of the King’s Hall, a shiver raced down his spine. It was a strange sensation he felt, a prickling feeling underneath the skin of his head, and Éothain knew it well enough to understand that he was being watched. Straining to make out the pale face he expected to see behind the hall’s windows, the young captain narrowed his eyes. So what if Gríma saw him? There was nothing he could do. And why should he be alarmed if someone visited the old healer, even late in the evening? ‘Because he is cunning!’ an unwelcome voice whispered in the back of Éothain’s mind. ‘He will know that you are planning something, the way he always knows. You cannot fool someone who is a master in the art of lying himself!’

His expression darkening at the thought, Éothain moved on. If Gríma truly anticipated that his enemies would attack him through the secret tunnel, all their effort would be vain.

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

Not much later after Giselhere had returned with Aedwulf, the warriors sat together in the healer’s living room and looked expectantly at the old woman.

“I understand that you found a solution to our problem, Mistress?”

“I did. It may be a different solution than you anticipated, but it is the only way I could think of achieving what you needed,” Yálanda said wearily, the grief of the last days deeply engraved on her lined, weary face. Éothain regretted having caused the mourning woman even more distress with his urgent request, but what choice did they have? “Most poisons I know of are made of plants I do not have at my disposal at the end of winter, and even if I had, I could not guarantee that a dog could not smell them. But no animal will be able to smell glass.”

“Glass?” Éothain creased his brow and exchanged a quick glance with Aedwulf.

“I ground it into fine shards. They are fine enough to be hidden in the rat you brought me, but they are still sharp enough to inflict fatal damage. You told me that it was a big dog. That is well, for if it is hungry, it will probably swallow the rat in one piece, and it will be in its stomach before it feels that something is wrong. Then the shards will cut up its innards, and it will bleed to death internally.” Giselhere, who sat by Éothain’s side, looked slightly sickened by the healer’s explanation, and so the old woman lifted a brow and slanted the young Captain a disapproving glance. “It was not my decision that you should have to hear that, my boy.”

“Can you guarantee that the dog will die from this?” Éothain asked, ignoring her reproof.

“If the dog eats it, it will… but it may take some time.” Piercing blue eyes met him unflinchingly. “It will be a horrible death, Captain. If that is what you wanted, you can take the prepared rat with you right now.”

“I have no grudge against the dog, Mistress Healer, but it stands in our way, and if it is the only possibility to dispose of it, I will seize it.” Éothain turned to Aedwulf. “I can only hope that its Dunlending masters will not get wary once the glass does its work. We must plant the bait in such a manner that it will not raise suspicion… Since I have already been in the tunnel, I will do it myself. And if the plan needs time to work, we better move right away. Come!” Seeing Giselhere’s urgent gaze from the corner of his eye, Éothain shook his head as he turned to the lad. “You not, Giselhere. You will go home now. There is nothing left to do for you.”

“But--”

“There is no “but”. Go home, or I will never again let you attend a meeting. I kept my promise. Now you must keep yours.” Slanting the lad a stern gaze, Éothain accepted the little box from the healer’s hands and opened it to look at the dead animal inside. It seemed ridiculous that all their hopes stood and fell with it. “Thank you, Yálanda. I hope that it works.”

Her gaze suddenly softening, the healer laid a wrinkled hand upon his arm.

“Be careful, my boy. I could not bear it if you, too, were taken from us after Élric and Éomer.”

Moved by the often grumpy woman’s concern, Éothain patted her hand.

“I will be. After all, this might be our only chance, and we will make it count. Yet it would certainly not be wrong to hold yourself ready for tomorrow. If we succeed in freeing the hostages, it is likely that they will need immediate help.”

“I will be prepared. Now go, and take our good wishes with you. The people of Edoras are counting on you to free us from our oppressor, Son of Céorl. See to it that Élric’s death will be avenged.”

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

FORDS OF ISEN

Pouring rain had accompanied the advancing Rohirrim since the beginning of their ride, but although it was cold and the riders felt miserable in the wet conditions, the soldiers considered the raging elements sooner a blessing than a curse, because it concealed their approach. As he straightened in the saddle to listen for the murmur of the Isen’s fast rushing waters, Éomer cast a quick glance at the thickly clouded sky. The thunderstorm which had announced itself since morning was now upon them and ravaging the plains with hard, horizontal rain and violent gusts. The echoes of the angered sky’s growling were cast back and forth between the Misty Mountains before and the White Mountains behind them and drowned out all other noise including the sounds made by the mighty river he was trying to hear.… but also swallowing the thunder of the thousands of iron-shod hooves on the hard, still frozen ground as they slowly approached the border, until nothing remained than a dull vibration hardly audible over the raging tempest’s voice.

This is our storm,’ Éomer thought as he squinted into the darkness before him, his eyes only slits to protect himself against the driving rain. It was helpful to their cause, and still he could not help feeling disoriented and unable to tell how far they had already advanced and when they would reach their resting place. Neither moon nor stars were visible through the thick layer of clouds, and with the Isen’s own noise covered by the continuous rain, it was down to Éomer’s sense of time to estimate their progress. Barely able to see except for the short moments when lightning illuminated the night, all riders had entrusted themselves to their steeds’ superior senses to find the way, and the war-horses, used to such measures, understood what was expected of them and moved ahead in a single dark mass. Hardly anyone talked.

“It was a good speech,” Aragorn, who rode next to Éomer, broke the silence and nodded his chin in the direction of their army. “They are yours for whatever you will command them to do.”

Éomer did not follow his gaze.

“I can only hope that I am not sending them all to their death.” He sighed and stared at the steady up and down of his steed’s head rather than meeting the older man’s eyes. “This is different than commanding an éored.”

“I would imagine so,” the Dúnadan agreed. “And yet it is the fate of all leaders to bear that responsibility. It is a heavy burden, but you cannot think of that now. Battle would find them sooner or later, even if you didn’t ride, and now they are at least prepared to meet the enemy. They will have have a better chance at defeating him, but the outcome will be decided as much by fate as by chance and determination. Only part of their destiny lies in your hands. There are some things in life one simply does not have the power to influence.”

“Does this include you then, too, even if you have prophecy on your side?” Éomer asked with a sceptical glance at the ranger. Averting his gaze, Aragorn stared ahead although there was nothing to see in the darkness.

“The prophecy is no guarantee for our survival… at least I do not take it to be that. Each of us must do their best, or it might be proven wrong after all.”

“Has there ever been such a thing as a failed prophecy? One that you heard of?” the Rohír inquired, genuinely interested, but Aragorn regarded him warily as he contemplated possible answers to the younger man’s question.

“I haven’t heard of many prophecies to begin with,” he said at last. “But I do not want to find out if such a thing can happen, for if it does, it will mean the end of mankind… and of all other races, as long as they do not serve the Dark Lord.”

“And yet the outcome of our battle will only be a side note, you say.” A bitter laugh escaped the Rohír before he continued with a deep breath: “It is hard to accept that everything we might achieve could be proven vain if that Halfling you spoke of fails. If his’ is the main battle, then why did not you go to see it done? For surely there can hardly be a person more suited for such a precarious task than the great Thorongil?”

“It was not my calling.” Aragorn shook his head. “The Dark Lord has learned of my existence, for the prophecy has come to his ears as well. He is looking for me, and expecting me to oppose him. Someone outside the focus of the Great Eye may have a better chance at succeeding than I would have had. No, my task is a different one, even if I wondered about that myself. Life does not always follow the straight road, and neither do prophecies.”

“I suppose so, or my cousin would be leading this army.” Éomer fell silent, and for a while, the two warriors rode side by side without another word, caught up in their thoughts. Lulled into a stupor by Firefoot regular movements, Éomer was almost thrown against the stallion’s neck when without warning, the grey rammed his hooves into the ground. From one heartbeat to the next, the massive body became rigid underneath his rider as the horse sensed movement in the bushes before them, and only the stallion’s thorough training ensured that he remained silent under the threat of a possible attack. A hand soothingly on his steed’s neck, Éomer straightened in the saddle to find out what troubled his animal companion.

“What is it, Firefoot?” he whispered as he stared beyond the stallion’s pricked ears into the darkness before them. To his right, Roheryn seemed less concerned and even raised his head in joyful recognition as Aragorn halted him.

“It is the Dúnedain,” Legolas said even before the others had a chance to hear the rustle and the sound of light steps as a tall shape emerged from the bushes.

“Halbarad?” Aragorn narrowed his eyes and then relaxed as he recognised his kinsman, who had ridden ahead of the army with his company to ensure that their path would be free. “Are all of your company well?”

“Certainly.” Halbarad’s gaze briefly measured the advancing wall of riders before he shifted his attention back to his brother-in-arms. “We cleared the river bank for you, Marshal... both banks.” He looked at Éomer.

“So you did indeed encounter enemies?”

“Several. We made short shrift of them.” His hand still on the heft of his sheathed sword, Halbarad looked back to where the elven brothers were just emerging from the shrubbery. One of them, Éomer could not tell which one, was still cleaning his sword.

“Very well. Then I assume that the river’s edge is a safe resting place for us?”

Halbarad nodded, but Éomer could not shake the feeling that the ranger looked tense.

“Yes, at least for a few hours. We must stay alert though; one can almost feel the enemy’s breath in this place.” And again he looked back over his shoulder, clearly uncomfortable.

“Something troubles you,” Aragorn stated the obvious and dismounted, thus giving the sign to their well-instructed army that the first part of their journey was over, and the men began to distribute in search for a resting place as they followed his example. Leading Firefoot at the reins, Éomer followed the Dúnadan as he approached his brethren, and from the sides, he also saw Erkenbrand and Grimbold approach.

“I forgot to mention this earlier,” Halbarad admitted as he regarded them. “- but there is something peculiar at work here. I suppose it will be better if you see it with your own eyes to understand what I mean. I do not think that it is normal, but then perhaps I am mistaken.” He gestured for the captains to follow him as he led them through the bushes.

“Where are we going?” Erkenbrand asked from behind, and upon his question, it suddenly dawned on Éomer what Halbarad meant. Something was missing; something substantial to this place. It was too quiet.

“To the water’s edge,” the ranger said, carefully choosing his path through the thick undergrowth. “Or rather what is left of it. I haven’t been here for a long time, so you must tell me whether my worries are founded or not. I found this strange, for the way I remember the Isen, it was always a mighty river.” And with these words, he stepped out onto the river bank, and the leaders in his wake understood at once.

“What devilry is this?” Grimbold cursed as he stared at the thin rivulets searching their path through sand and rocks; the bed of what had been a broad, fast-flowing river not long ago. A thin veil of mist lay over the scenery, but it was too thin to conceal the extent of what had happened here. “Where has the water gone?”

“I gather then that it was not so when you fought your last battle here. But that was barely a fortnight ago.” Dismayed by their discovery, Éomer stared in disbelief at the dry remains of the Isen, and his brow creased as he followed the river’s former path to the invisible shapes of the Misty Mountains. Somewhere over there in the darkness lay Isengard, and a cold shiver raced down his spine at the mental image of Saruman sitting like a great spider in his web and waiting for them to come to him.

“When last we fought here, the Isen’s voice was loud and one could not hope to cross it except at its fords, and even then it was a dangerous undertaking.” Erkenbrand shook his head. “No, it must have happened within the last days; and it is clear to me that our foe did this to prepare the path for his army.”

“Aye.” Grimbold ground his teeth. “So that they can cross the river in greater strength. We cannot hope to hold the shore against thousands of Uruks crossing at the same time.” He stared down the river bed. “But how could Saruman block a river as mighty as the Isen? His magic must be strong indeed if he can do such a thing.” Renewed doubt surfaced on the warrior’s face.

“There are other means to block a river besides magic,” Aragorn stepped forth. “It says nothing about Saruman’s power.”

“Have you crossed the Isen lately?” Grimbold raised his chin, challenging the ranger. “It was a wild river, not easily tamed. I doubt that it could be …obliterated… like this solely by throwing rocks in its path.”

“The crebain told him of our coming,” Éomer said slowly, his gaze still unfocussed as he remembered the endless circling birds above their heads. “Through them, Saruman learned about the gathering of our éohere, and apparently he made his own preparations to meet us. And yet there is nothing we can do about it. Riding back is not an option. If we don’t attack tonight, he will attack us, and I doubt that we would be ready for his assault. It is no or never, and we will have to brave whatever obstacles he throws in our way.” At last he turned around to face the others, and looked into uncomfortable expressions. “The battle has already begun.”

“Which makes it even more important to rest while we still can,” Aragorn stressed, and he saw agreement in the other captains’ eyes. “The men not detailed for first watch should try to sleep now.”

“I doubt that any of them will be able to find rest, but aye…” Erkenbrand nodded and turned to go, his gaze summoning the other leaders to follow him when something came to his mind. “There are neither stars nor moon visible tonight. How will we know when to proceed?”

We will know,” Elrohir assured him with a glance at his brother. “We can still see their light, and we will let you know when it is time to travel on. Until then, we will roam the other shore until we can be certain that we did not overlook any of the enemy’s spies.” It was obvious that the elf hoped to find others.

Accepting Elrohir’s guarantee with a silent nod, Erkenbrand laid a hand upon Grimbold’s shoulder in an unspoken question to accompany him back to their men. This time though, it was Éomer who called them back.

“Grimbold?” The young Marshal’s glance already told the Lord of Grimslade what would be asked of him, and in silent understanding with Erkenbrand to join him later, Grimbold stepped forth.

“Aye.”

“Will you lead me there?”

The older warrior cast down his eyes to spare Éomer the realisation that his pain had been noticed.

“Of course, Éomer. It is not far. Come with me.”

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

They only walked a short distance until Éomer could see the mounds of stone on the river’s edge where they were nestled underneath the sheltering trees and overlooking the Fords. His throat tightened dangerously, and he was glad that Grimbold expected no answer of him when he pointed out the one they had come for.

“Théodred said that even in death, he wanted to defend the fords, so we buried him underneath that tree.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Éomer nod and felt what it was the younger man needed. “He is sleeping there alone. Unfortunately, we could not grant this service to everybody, but if I hope that they will not mind being united in death.” His voice barely more than a whisper, the Lord of Grimslade added: “I will leave you alone with him now, but I will not be far. Promise me to call when you hear even the slightest noise.”

“I promise. Thank you, Grimbold.” As if drawn by a powerful force, Éomer slowly walked over to the mound on legs that did not seem to follow his conscious will. A tight band pressed his ribs together and made breathing difficult as he approached his cousin’s grave. This was different than in his dreams, even than in the one where he had been alone with Théodred and the remains of his éored were not strewn over the river bank and colouring the Isen red with their blood. This was reality: it was confirmed by the cold rain running down his face and by the mist of his breath lazily rising from his lips; it was proved by the hard, uneven ground and the grinding noise of the rocks beneath his feet. There were no surreal clarity and no majestic feeling of purpose soothing his pain now; this was the cold, hard truth, and the truth was that beneath these piled rocks before him lay the remains of a warrior killed in battle. It looked in no way different than the other mounds Éomer could see in the weak light of the clearing, but he felt the difference. Beneath these stones lay the person he had loved more than anyone in the world, except perhaps for Éowyn.

Only now as he stood before Théodred’s grave, his hands helplessly clenched into fists at his sides as a storm of emotion threatened to sweep him away, did Éomer at last understand the full extent of his loss. With shaking knees, he silently sat down in front of the mount to hold the death-watch for the man who more than anyyone else had turned him into a warrior.





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