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

Chapter 54: Deeds of Arms


ISENGARD

Faster and faster Firefoot raced down the slope toward their enemies, seemingly flying through the mist that dissolved his grey form. His own heartbeat a powerful drum in his ears and the rush of air drowning out all sounds except for the thunder of their army, Éomer crouched in the saddle and gave the stallion his head. Firefoot needed no motivation to accelerate; after many years they had fought together, the mighty war-horse knew what his rider expected of him and took to the battle with the ferocity of a predator, his hooves pounding the ground in a frenzied rhythm as he rapidly closed the distance to their foes.

Soon, shouts rang out from the indistinct silhouettes before them as the orcs became aware of the deadly avalanche of riders racing toward them, and at last, Éomer straightened in the saddle and dropped the reins to unsling his bow. The first wave of arrows was loosed against them, and Firefoot broke to the left, evading most of the deadly hail except for two bolts deflected by his armour. Then Éomer was ready to shoot, and the arrow he released felled a hulking orc-chieftain a moment before most of his brethren collapsed under the first wave of the Rohirrims’ attack. Quickly he followed it with another one and then slung the bow again to unsheathe his sword instead, close enough now to see the remaining foes clearly.

The survivors of the first attack raised their weapons again, and their eyes glared hellfire as they took aim at the riders over their crossbows, now likewise inflicting the first victims among the hostile forces. Yet it did not help them as they were ridden down a moment later, and those who did not perish under the hooves were dispatched with spears and swords. Unstoppable in their approach, the Rohírrim made for the gate which was already in the process of being closed against them by the enemy.

“Run! Run! Faster! Ha!” Although Firefoot was already going at breakneck speed, Éomer kicked his heels into the stallion’s flanks again, overcome by seething battle-rage now that the time of waiting was finally over and all that he and the people of the Mark had suffered from the enemy’s hands could be avenged. The accumulated fury of many years and especially the last days filled Éomer’s entire being and left no room for fear. This filth had killed Théodred, and now they would pay for it! Never once did it enter his mind that he could die, too, as they charged through the open gates into the encirclement.

“I greet you, Sons of Eorl!” a deep voice greeted them that seemed to come from all sides at once. “It is too kind of you to come and spare my servants the effort of attacking you in your homeland, when it will be much easier to annihilate your forces here. Prepare to die!” Without warning the fog lifted, and the sight presenting itself to the riders on the fastnesses’ territory chilled their blood: they were on a narrow road leading up to the tower, but to its sides, great holes yawned in the ground from where a fiery red glow emitted and backlit a long line of hulking shapes standing next to the rim. Warg-riders! Scores of them!

It was the moment when the sun’s pale face first appeared on the eastern horizon, and yet its yet weak light did not wake hope in the riders’ hearts as it reflected from thousands of blackened blades and crude armour of bones and skin. It also illuminated the terrain, and its rugged condition was enough to frighten even the most optimistic among the warriors. Cursing, Éomer stared at the moguls and protruding rocks and roots on the ground as he urged Firefoot to make way for the remainder of their army still on the other side of the wall. They needed to spread out in order to fit their entire army inside the encirclement, and yet the sight of the bad terrain filled him with fear.

“This is no territory for our horses!” a voice next to him shouted in dismay. “We cannot fight here!”

“We will have to,” Éomer growled, suddenly doubting his plan as malicious laughter reached his ears, far too loud to belong to an ordinary man as it rolled over their heads like thunder.

“Did you honestly believe that your attack would surprise me, Son of Eomund? Or that your ‘new friends’ would be powerful enough to stop me? How should the ‘Heir of Elendil’ succeed where Elendil himself failed?” Saruman laughed. “How very arrogant of you! It seems that in all these years of our feud, you have learned nothing… which is the very reason why Gondor and Rohan will soon be bereft of life…and you will precede your people!” He raised his staff, and a blinding white flash erupted from its tip. Instinctively Éomer threw Firefoot to the side as a burst of heat raced past them, and further behind, screams suddenly pierced the air along with the horrible stench of burning flesh. “Kill them all!” And all of sudden, the earth shook from the shouts of a great army they could not see yet.

“Legolas!” Aragorn cried out as he saw his friend take aim at Saruman, but as if he were wiping a fly aside, the Istar waved away his arrow, and the elf was catapulted from his horse by an invisible force. Yet Éomer could not observe the scene further as he suddenly saw himself confronted with problems of his own.

“Warg-riders!” he cried as he saw the orc-wolves charge, closing the distance between them with great leaps. Above a toothy grin of death, infernal bloodlust blazed in their yellow eyes, and in a moment, they would be upon them. “Form a line, quickly! Bows!” In an instant, his own bow was in his hands and a hail of arrows tore into the enemy’s lines and felled three of the nightmarish beasts before they had advanced enough to attack. “Disperse! Stay in motion!” Éomer could not tell whether his men heard him over the din, but when he kicked his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and directed the stallion in a parallel line along the enemy, Findárras and his men followed him.

A brief glance revealed that many of their riders had still not made it through the narrow gate, and those hesitating to direct their horses onto the bad terrain beside the road were now pushed forth by those following them, many losing their footing until the ground near the entrance was covered with struggling, squirming bodies of fallen horses and men alike. It was mayhem; the signal for the enemy to charge. Black and numerous like ants, Saruman’s army of Uruk-hai suddenly spilled forth from the holes in the ground where they had hidden.

“Éomer!” Panic coloured Findárras’ voice, something Éomer had never heard before from the stout Eastfold-warrior, but it was clear what his friend meant: right in their path, a flood of Uruks suddenly emerged from underground and awaited them with their intimidating blades raised to hack them to pieces. Too close to evade and unable to turn back because of the wargs on their heels, Éomer’s reaction was sheer instinct as he threw the stallion around to race at the orc at the end of the line. The creature’s eyes widened under the threat of being ridden down, and for a brief moment, it hesitated – long enough for Firefoot to accelerate. Suddenly, the grey body tensed underneath Éomer, and the stallion’s hooves left the ground.

Instead of slashing at them and risking being buried beneath the horse’s bulk, the orc did what Éomer had anticipated: it ducked, and a heartbeat later, they had passed it and the orc was ridden down by Findárras who followed in his wake as they broke through the enemy’s lines. But now the wargs were close, and Éomer changes from bow to sword for close-quarters’ battle.

With an audible clap, massive jaws just missed Firefoot’s haunches as the orcs’ leader directed his steed after Éomer, and the foul stench of the beast’s breath assaulted the Rohír’s nostrils. The stallion’s reaction came fast: another tensing, and then a vicious kick with both hind legs out of a full run; shattering the warg’s bones. The predator roared in pain, and as the orc-wolf was too distracted to react when his targeted prey suddenly broke to the right, it could not evade as Éomer dispatched of its rider with a mighty swipe of his sword.

The next moment, he was almost unseated when Firefoot stumbled on the uneven ground, and before he had righted himself in the saddle again, the next warg was already upon him. A crude black blade crashed against the pauldrons protecting his shoulder and the impact travelled through Éomer’s arm and almost knocked the sword from his hand. Encouraged, the orc lashed out again with a vicious laugh, but fell to the ground when its thrust missed because Éomer had abruptly checked his steed. Rearing in protest, Firefoot’s hooves thrashed the air and then came down with shattering force upon the orc’s body. Another foe dispatched, but a quick glance established that the entire space between the tower and the wall was now crawling with more Uruk-hai than Éomer had ever seen, and still more emerged from the holes. It could no longer be ignored: they were outmatched. They had waited too long.

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

On the other side of the road where they had evaded the wizard’s firebolt, Aragorn and the Grey Company had gathered in a protective ring around Legolas, fighting together to keep the enemy at bay while the elf climbed back into the saddle, still stunned and shaking his head as if to clear it from the cobwebs of Saruman’s mighty spell.

“Gímli?” He held out his hand to the dwarf who had fallen with him, but the short warrior just shook his head.

“Nay, leave me here. Fighting from a beast’s back is not the way of the dwarves. I prefer to stand on my own two feet!” Not even waiting for a reply, he stormed toward the wall of approaching Uruks.

“Gímli!”

“Let him,” Aragorn said as he directed Roheryn alongside his friend for a quick examination. Apart from some superficial abrasions and bruises, Legolas seemed well enough. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. He could not harm me. Watch out!” And with a lightening quick move, the elf unslung his bow and shot an arrow at a foe that had penetrated their circle, piercing its chest. With a pained roar, the beast crumbled to the ground. Exchanging a meaningful glance, the two friends spurred their steeds to join the rangers in their fight against the ever increasing press of orcs.

“They are too many!” Halbarad shouted over the din, and simultaneously dealt a mighty strike to an orc-chieftain’s neck. “They come out of these openings faster than we can kill them!” A crossbow was aimed at his face and he ducked at the last moment, having caught the movement with the corner of his eye.

“We must stay together!” Aragorn raised his voice as he raised Andúril. A beam of the rising sun’s strengthening light fell upon it and illuminated the sheer steel as if it were a torch of white fire, and for a moment, the orcs before him hesitated as if they beheld his true nature. It was a moment too long. The next moment, they crumbled to the ground, headless; their lives claimed by the Flame of the West, and the Dúnedain charged into the hostile army like a battering ram when a violent quiver shook the earth. So powerful was the jolt, so loud the noise that it halted the battle, and suddenly, orcs and men alike, stood frozen with their swords and lances raised for the deadly strike. A consternated silence fell over the battlefield as the combatants turned toward the source of the noise which now repeated itself, and again the ground trembled.

“What is this?” Halbarad whispered under his breath, his gaze directed at a point behind the great wall. He saw it himself, and yet he could not believe his eyes. Aragorn heard him not.

“Sweet Elbereth…”

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

Irritated, Éomer looked up. He had felt the strange jolt, too, and turned his suddenly skittish stallion around to see what had halted the enemy although the Uruks had almost been upon them. Had unexpected help arrived, or was their enemy about to unleash yet a new devilry against them? Again the ground shook beneath him, and now he heard it, too: a deep rhythmic growling that seemed to rise to their ears from the very core of the earth, yet strangely resembling a language. His fell gaze upon the slope before the wall – the slope which had been barren under their horses’ hooves only moments ago. Now it seemed as if an entire forest has suddenly sprung from the soil. He blinked, refusing to believe what his eyes showed him.

“What in Béma’s name…”

“It cannot be…” Findárras gasped beside him, terror-stricken and his eyes wide as he stared at the towering trees suddenly surrounding Isengard, many of them so big that it would take several men to span their trunks and gnarled from age. They were ancient trees – and yet that was impossible. “Where have they come from? What devilry is this?” Even as he looked, the scene grew more absurd when several of the trees bent to pick up rocks from the ground and then straightened again.

“HRRRRRRR-RUMMMPPP! DEATH TO THE TREE-MURDERERS!”

“DEATH!”

And while both armies stood and watched, paralysed by the unbelievable turn of events, a hail of rocks was unleashed against the wizard’s fortress.

It was Aragorn who woke first to the realisation of their deadly peril.

“Take cover!” A shadow passed over his head as a gigantic rock crashed into the side of Orthanc and buried orcs and riders when it was repelled by the black granite. “Behind the tower, quickly!” He had not ended when the first wave of panic-stricken combatants pushed back from the surrounding wall, toward them. “Back behind the tower! Run!”

As Éomer still watched, the trees – or whatever they were – suddenly moved forth and simply stepped over the high wall or destroyed it with vicious kicks, sending debris flying through the air. Firefoot danced beneath him, and only the whites showed in his eyes as terror threatened to overwhelm the great war-horse.

“We are doomed,” Éomer heard a voice mutter into the rising din of screaming voices, and as he turned his head, he saw that it was Erkenbrand. Blood flowed freely from a cut on the older warrior’s arm and his face was smeared with it, too, but the Captain of Westfold did not even seem to notice his wounds. “What can we hope to achieve against such powerful magic? Even the trees bow to the White Wizards’s will now!”

Unable to anwer, Éomer watched as the next being stepped over the wall and then bent down to swipe its branches in an angry blow through fleeing Rohirrim and orcs alike. That act of violence broke the spell, and suddenly the combatants backed away in a single wave from their new, common enemy, routed.

“Rohirrim! To me!” But it was vain; for nobody could hear him over the screams of men, horses and orcs and the roar of the enraged trees. More rocks rained to the ground, their impact shaking the earth as they extinguished life without distinction. The orcs fled toward their underground tunnels, except for a few who fought even yet to emerge from them to shoot at their new enemy with arrows of fire. “Findárras! Gather your men and--”

A sudden shadow fell on Éomer and he craned his neck to glance at the bizarre shape that towered above him and blotted out the sun. For a moment, he thought he saw eyes amidst the gnarled bark, and a hole that opened below it, and the next moment, a deep voice that seemed to come from the roots of the earth itself cut through the din of panicked shouts and shrieks.

“DIE, MURDERES OF TREES!”





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