Chapter 55: Fire and Water

ISENGARD

“ORC-SCUM, ALL OF YOU! NOW YOU PAY!”

A gigantic foot was raised. Instinctively, Éomer threw his weight to the right to steer Firefoot out of harm’s way – and found himself ignored. Wild with terror, the stallion shrieked and then suddenly bolted toward their attacker’s gnarled legs as a terrible creaking sound raised over the panicked din. Still trying with hands, feet and voice to calm his animal ally, Éomer suddenly saw thick branches swing toward him. He ducked - and was forcefully knocked from the saddle by the impact of a tree-trunk against his chest. The next moment, Éomer found himself in the mud between dozens and dozens of legs, unable to move or even catch his breath. A quick glance down revealed a deep dent in the metal of his breastplate, and as he wiped his gloved fingers over his likewise burning face, the glistening wetness on the leather did not surprise Éomer. Even through the gloves he had felt thick welts on his brow and cheeks, and his helmet was gone, too, ripped right off his head by the angry tree. All these things he registered the wink of an eye, then shock passed and Éomer picked up his sword which had fallen not far away an. As he fought to rise, Éomer spent the first breath he could to draw on his horse’s name:

“Firefoot!”

But the stallion had already disappeared in the panicked crowd and was nowhere to be seen. There were only orcs now, running toward him. Cursing as he righted himself and found his body a throbbing mess, Éomer pivoted to look for his men – and paused as a great shadow fell upon him. Instinctively, he dived to the side, not even pausing to look, and the next moment the ground shook as a massive tree-stump rammed the foul brood before him into the earth, missing him by a hair’s breadth.

“HAAAA-RUMMMPPPP!”

A hand consisting of twigs and gnarled branches raked through the fleeing crowd and squashed those not fast enough to evade like flies. Hurrying to his feet again, Éomer stormed away from the enraged being that seemed to make little difference what it hit, and from somewhere Aragorn’s voice reached him even if he could not see the ranger in the chaos.

“They are on our side! Clear the battlefield! Give them space!”

Éomer found his friend’s words hard to believe, but he could not longer concern himself with the thought because he suddenly found himself the focus of a new press of orcs flocking toward him in their flight from another tree. Yet as the tree suddenly turned a different way, the beasts quickly overcame their panic and lifted their crude blades as they beheld the Rohirrim in their path, many of them like their Marshal unhorsed and some wounded.

“To me!” Éomer shouted, spotting Findárras and Thor among them. “Stay together! We must try to reach the wall!” He could say no more for now the enemy reached them. Like a black flood they crashed against the Riders of the Mark and drove them back with brutal sweeps of their two-tipped blades, splitting shields wherever they met resistance. Not having a shield himself, Éomer sidestepped his adversary’s strike, and sparks rained down as their blades meet. The impact travelled up his arms and almost knocked the weapon from his hands, and the Uruk, sensing its advantage, immediately began to use its massive weight against him. Relentlessly it pushed Éomer back, trying to force him off his feet on the uneven ground or to push him into the next shaft, and its ugly head with the impressive jaws hovered before Éomer with an expression of cruel amusement. With a quick jerk, it raised its arms to free its sword for the killing strike, but Éomer followed the movement and kept the blades locked between them – and suddenly let go. With a growl and a cloud of of vile-smelling breath, the beast jumped at him – and impaled itself through the chest as Éomer turned his sword with a flicker of his wrist. Black blood gushing from its fanged mouth, the orc collapsed and its heavy carcass pulled the hilt from Éomer’s fingers and buryed the blade beneath it.

Even as he stooped to retrieve his weapon, Éomer knew that it was already too late: two more orcs already stormed toward him, triumph sparkling in their yellow eyes over seeing their adversary disarmed. Frantically, Éomer pushed against the dead Uruk while he feverishly looked for another weapon to use.

“Khazad ai-menu!” he suddenly heard a well-known voice shout, and a short warrior jumped in front of him, wielding an axe. “Die, filth!” Too startled to react, the first orc stared at the blade suddenly buried in its gut. Dropping its sword, it clutched the terrible wound and fell to its knees while the dwarf already concerned himself with its brother. Two more strikes were exchanged and blocked by the combatants before Gímli’s third attempt at last penetrated his adversary’s defence. Aiming low while he ducked the enemy’s strike, the dwarf severed the beast’s left leg and it crashed to the ground where it was quickly finished off.

Meanwhile Éomer had managed to free his sword and wiped the hilt against his breeches to clean it of the slippery black blood. When Gímli threw a quick glance over his shoulder to see how his friend was faring, he gave the dwarf an appreciative nod.

“Your aid is much appreciated,” he said while they both backed away from the swell of enemies rushing toward them, hoping to reach the relative safety of the wall for protection from behind. “I shall not find it easy to repay this dept.”

Gímli snorted, and a fierce grin spread over his face. Together with the large smears of orc-blood marring his frame, it gave the short warrior a rather grizzly appearance.

“I gave you a promise, Horse-Lord, and I intend to keep it. I need yet to hear your judgment on the Lady of the Golden Wood. Perhaps you should not thank me just yet, for if I do not agree with it, I might cleave off your golden-maned head myself!”

Even under the threat of more enemies rushing toward them, Éomer could not hold back his own amused grin, but before he could think of an answer, battle reclaimed his attention.

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Behind them, the Ents meanwhile concerned themselves with the Wizard’s tower and paid little attention to orcs or riders as battle erupted with new force around them. Their root-like hands ripped great boulders from the ground and hammered them against the walls of Orthanc with a force that shook the earth. And yet the ancient fastness withstood their attack. Triumphant it stood against them, undaunted and mocking their attack, and every now and then, bolts of fire streaked through the air as Saruman defended his fortress from the lofty heights of the platform between the four spikes where he could not be reached. More than one ancient being burst into flame and had to abandon the attack, running toward the close river bed to extinguish the fire only to find the Isen’s water’s gone. Maddened by their torment, those walking torches ran across the plain raining fire upon the combatants, and panic ensued once more.

Swept to the other side of the embattled plain of Isengard where Aragorn and the Grey Company tried to direct their warriors away from the raging Ents, Legolas suddenly paused as he turned his steed around, and his eyes widened.

“Nay… it cannot be! Aragorn! There! Do my eyes deceive me, or is it indeed Mithrandir?”

Alarmed by the elf’s perplexity, Aragorn turned Roheryn and followed his friend’s gaze toward the gate.

“It is him!” Elladan stated for them, and looked at his human brother with a sceptically raised eyebrow. “But did you not say that he fell in Moria?”

“At least that is what our eyes showed us,” the ranger muttered in wonder while he stared at the figure on the white horse that passed through the battlefield like a ghost and killed all orcs too slow to evade him. There could be no question that it was Gandalf, and yet logic defied it. Could it be his ghost, perhaps, returned from whatever realm lay beyond death's gates to finish what the Istar had begun in real life? Even under the bright light of the rising sun, the shimmer surrounding his former friend seemed unnaturally bright, and a shiver raced down Aragorn’s spine. The Ents did not attack the mysterious rider, which left but one conclusion: it was the wizard who had summoned them. The realisation woke Aragorn into motion, and he straightened in the saddle and raised his voice: “They are on our side! Clear the battlefield! Give them space!”

“Behold the White Rider!” Legolas cried for all to hear. “Mithrandir has returned! Mithrandir has come to our aid!”

“Mithrandir?”

“It is Gandalf Greyhame! Look!”

“And he rides Nahar!” one of the Rohirrim next to them added, incredulous. “It must be Nahar, for who has ever seen such a steed?”

“It is Béma’s steed!”

“It is a sign!”

“The Gods are with us, and they will help us to a good end!”

Stabbing their swords against the sky in renewed fighting spirit, the Riders cheered.

“Forth, brothers! Clear the earth from the traitor’s vermin!”

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The wondrous shouts travelled through the entangled armies over to where Éomer had at last gathered his men. He could not guess what had happened, how Gandalf Greyhame should still be alive although Aragorn had told him that he had seen the wizard fall into the abyss, but it was clear to him that the White Rider’s steed was not Nahar, Father of Horses. Yet it was hardly a lesser descendant of his race, and easily the noblest horse on the face of the earth in these evil times: It was Shadowfax the Great, Chief of the Méaras, and so swiftly bore he his master over the plain filled with battling warriors that he seemed more like a disembodied ghost than a real being. The sight of the white stallion stirred hope in Éomer’s heart, and yet the Rohir knew that even with the wizard’s aid, their army would be hard-pressed to overcome an enemy so numerous that still more emerged from the pits of Isengard.

On the contrary, although their forces had gathered to four larger groups consisting of several éoreds each to attack in a more coordinated manner, the Rohirrm found themselves inevitably driven back toward the yawning red maws in the ground where certain doom awaited them. Just as Éomer looked over his shoulder to estimate the distance, a column of hot steam escaped from the closest shaft with a furious hiss, and for a moment, the warrior feared that their enemy kept even worse things than orcs in his secret pits. It was believed that all dragons of Middle Earth had been slain long ago, and yet Éomer almost expected to see one rear its ugly head and breathe its deadly fire at them. But instead of a dragon, only more orcs emerged. Which was ill enough considered that they were already outnumbered at least three times by the enemies already above the ground.

Still on foot as Firefoot was nowhere to be seen in the chaos around him, Éomer commanded another sortie, and his men joined him when he stormed forth to gain distance from the dangerously close abyss. With a mighty strike, he slew the nearest orc and jumped over the collapsing carcass –only to find himself eye-to-eye with the biggest Uruk he had ever seen. With a delighted bellow, the creature spread its arms in mocking invitation, much like its brother had done in the cave-fight which had almost cost Éomer’s life. Full of self-esteem, the thing stepped forth, the intimidating weapon in its hands smeared to the hilt with Rohirric blood, and as it yelled its challenge in a cloud of stinking vapour, hideous fangs glistened in a maw wide enough to swallow a man’s head whole.

“Come on, Whiteskin!” the Uruk roared and dropped into a crouch. “You are mine!” The aberration at him, and yet Éomer suddenly found his attention caught by a sudden sparkle on its bare, massive chest. A cold shudder raced down his spine as he recognised the thing even before he could see it clearly: it was a golden amulet in the shape of the sun on a green leather band – and it belonged to Théodred! A sudden heat flushed Éomer’s veins, a rage so powerful, so searing hot that it swept away all common sense like a rockslide. This thing had killed his cousin! With a furious growl not unlike what one would have expected to come from his adversary, Éomer charged.

Their swords met with bone-shattering force; the Rohir’s eyes blazing no less than the Uruk’s as they stared at each other over their entangled weapons. Pushing and pulling to gain the better position, Éomer soon felt that he stood no chance against the raw strength of the orc. And the thing sensed it, too: its grin widened and revealed an intimidating set of pointed teeth as it threw itself against its adversary with all of its strength – but suddenly found all resistance gone as the human warrior pivoted and evaded to the side. Unable to halt as momentum carried it forward, it stumbled, but even as it extended a hand to avoid the fall, Éomer’s thrust caught its side and opened a deep gash across its ribs.

Infuriated, the orc roared and thrust its bulk around with incredibly agility to lash out a wild strike and land on its feet again with a roar: “Don’t touch him! He’s mine!” The blackness inside of it spilling over the grotesque armour of skin and bones, the Uruk advanced, and with its entire weight behind its two-handed strikes, relentlessly drove Éomer back toward the yawning red mouth of the fire pits. “Die, Whiteskin!”

There was no means of defence against the crushing force of his attacker. His arms aching from the sheer force of the Uruk’s blows, Éomer stumbled backwards, and while the growing heat behind him alarmed him of the near pits, he was powerless against his foe’s onslaught, barely able to defend himself let alone counter the attack.. Those rushing to help him were intercepted, even Gímli, and he stood alone against an enemy of twice his weight. Again the amulet on the Uruk’s armour sparkled in the fire, and its golden sheen prompted a last surge of defiance from Éomer. ‘Théodred!’

This filth would not defeat him! As the black blade swung toward his neck once more, he did not raise his sword to meet it, but dived to the ground. Rolling over his shoulder he lashed out even before he regained his feet – and cut off the beast’s feet just above the ankles. Roaring in agony, the Uruk collapsed like a felled tree, and Éomer raised his cousin’s blade for the death strike that would avenge Théodred when an ear-splitting roar suddenly rang over the battlefield:

“RELEASE THE RIVER!”

The shout effectively stopped all fighting, and all heads turned toward the group of Ents clawing at the piled rocks behind Orthanc. The warriors did not even have time for a prayer when the boulder which had blocked the Isen’s path gave way and the water came…

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For a moment, none moved. None breathed; and a great silence spread over the battlefield as men and orcs alike stared at the flood thundering toward them. Then panic set in.

“Run! Run for your lives!”

“The water’s coming!”

“Flee!”

Moving as one, man and beast turned from the deadly peril and raced toward the walls of the encirclement in hope to reach the higher ground before the flood would crush them. Weapons clattered to the ground, no longer important where a greater danger than the other army loomed, and who came off their feet in the chaos were trampled by those behind them in the mad flight toward the few stairs, their terrified shouts drowned out by the churning flood.

Throwing his wearied body around to follow his men, Éomer suddenly felt an iron grasp around his ankle. Yet even as he looked down, another orc crashed into him, blindly running from the water, and knocked the sword from his hand into the fleeing crowd – and out of his reach. “No!” Stunned, Éomer’s gaze fell on the powerful hand that held him captive, and the yellow eyes sparkling behind it.

“You stay here, Whiteskin. You die with me.” For the eternity of five heartbeats, Éomer stared at his adversary in stunned shock – and then the world turned into frothing, churning hell.