Chapter 53: Isengard

THE WIZARD’ VALE

Dawn was still far when the Rohirrim took to the road again, and although hardly any man had been able to find rest under the looming shadow of battle, all were alert and once again ready to challenge destiny. The atmosphere, albeit tense, was one of cautious optimism as the Riders approached Nan Curunír, the Wizard’s Vale. Fathers and sons, friends and comrades, all stood united in their bold charge against the enemy, blood-brothers to the end, and whose hope threatened to fail along the way was soon encouraged by those riding next to them. The subdued sound of thousands of hoofs on the marshy ground was low but rich enough to indicate the army’s true strength as they journeyed through the enemy’s realm.

Apart from them, nothing seemed to move. While the northern river shore was no barren land, it appeared as if it had been long deserted by creatures not in the Necromancer’s service. Devoid of life, the leagues stretched beneath them while the night seemed to hold its breath.

All senses strained for the slightest sign of the enemy, Éomer allowed his thoughts to wander back to the hour he had spent beside his cousin’s grave before he had walked through their rows to encourage the men. Knowing that he would not find rest during the brief break, he had used the time instead to revisit some of his most cherished memories involving Théodred and let them pass before his inner eye. With a warm feeling around his heart, he remembered how their cousin had comforted Éowyn and him after their father’s burial, and then again after their mother’s death. When Théoden had taken them with him to Meduseld, it had again been Théodred who had taken the uprooted children under his wing and helped his cousins to overcome their sorrow and disorientation in their new home.

Patiently he had listened to Éomer’s desperate vows of revenge and counselled him toward the right path to their fulfillment; with skill and patience he had taught him to master sword, spear and bow and – yet more importantly – his rash temper until Éomer had been ready to join the Armed Forces. And when they had fought together at last, no enemy had ever withstood them. They had completed each other on the battlefield: Théodred being the one with greater experience and strategic skills, against which Éomer had set his boldness and - once he had fully grown - his greater skill with the blade. Together, they had even withstood the foul influence from Meduseld no matter how hard the Worm had tried to drive a spike between them, and they had been the source of renewed hope all across the Mark. Their bond had been impossibly strong.

And now Théodred was dead, and Éomer felt as if a part of him had been hacked off. The realisation that he would never see his cousin again under the sun still hurt, and yet the hour of solitude at the Isen’s shores had helped Éomer to accept his loss and find closure. Théodred had died the way a true warrior could only wish for: in defence of his home and with his honour intact. Éomer felt that with time, he would be able to make his peace with that thought.

With a deep sigh, he woke from his musings. Nothing had changed. He was still riding at the head of the host, flanked by Aragorn to his right and Erkenbrand, Grimbold and Findarras to his left. Before them rode one of the elven brothers, and beyond him, the world still lay hidden underneath the same impenetrable mist that had obstructed their sight from the beginning of their journey through the enemy’s realm.

Once again Éomer shifted in the saddle to see the long snake of their forces move along the dry river bed. Although the moonless night and the fog’s eerie light hid half of their éohere from his view, the sight of their riders painted the amazed smile of a man who could barely believe his eyes upon the Marshal’s face.

“Aye, they are still there,” Aragorn whispered to his right, successfully reading the younger man’s thoughts. “They are real, and they are eager to fight under your command. Do not tell me that you are still in doubt.”

“About them? No.” Éomer shook his head. “About the enemy? Yes. Such thick mist is most unusual for this time of year, and it seems to me as if it thickens with each league we advance. Saruman is either trying to lead us astray, or he is planning to use its cover for an ambush. His orcs do not depend on eyesight, and while they may not be the best strategists, they are cunning enough to hide in such a way that the wind will not betray them to our horses while they wait for us. It worries me.”

“The elves will see them,” the Dúnadan calmed him, his gaze upon Elladan who preceded their host. As the only ones capable of seeing through the fog, the sons of Elrond together with Legolas had spread out in a line along their army to keep their surroundings under steady surveillance. Thor, who likewise knew the territory well from his former life among the Dunlendings, also came and went in his scouting errands as they penetrated deeper and deeper into hostile territory. So far, no signs of the enemy’s army had been found. “If we encounter so much as a single orc along the way, it will be dead the moment it raises its ugly head.”

“I hope so,” Éomer nodded and followed Aragorn’s gaze. “Do not misunderstand me, Aragorn; I do not doubt your friends. I saw how they slaughtered an orc spy at the fords while I was sitting at my cousin’s grave.” He narrowed his eyes as the memory of the scene came back. “It was impressive how well they worked together. With signs and glances only they chased the orc out of hiding, and when it broke cover and ran across the river bank in my direction, it was felled by their arrows before it could even reach the water... and when they found it still alive when they halted beside it, one of them stuck his sword into its stomach and watched as it slowly died.” The Rohír’s eyebrows twitched as he regarded the back of the being he was talking about. “I must say that I did not expect such behaviour from an elf. Aren’t they supposed to be… more noble than man?”

Aragorn answered with a sour smirk.

“And this question comes from a man who skewers his enemies’ heads and leaves them as a signpost beside a burning pile of carcasses?”

“Oh, he.” Shifting his attention back at the ranger, Éomer shrugged. “He insulted me. He was their chieftain and foulmouthed us all night during our siege.” He snorted. “In battle there are of course more pressing things to think of than personal matters, but when time permits and opportunity arises, I will remember when someone called my parents filth and me a cowardly simpleton. He only got what he deserved. I actually thought that his head made an exceptionally impressive signpost. Any orcs who come across it will think twice before they dare to proceed.”

“It was certainly a warning not easily dismissed,” Aragorn agreed, smirking as he remembered the morning when they had searched for signs of Merry and Pippin among the still smoking remains of the band of orcs. Things had looked dark then, but now that he knew that the two Hobbits were protected by a most powerful being, his heart was light enough to feel amusement over the young rider’s act of vengeance. At last, his attention focused once again on Elrohir. “I can assure you that my elven brothers have their own, very valid reason for hating all orc-kind, and they will stop at nothing to make them pay their debt in blood... as you see, the promise of bloodshed even brought them all the way to the Mark.”

“And I am of course most grateful for their aid... and for that of the great Thorongil. I cannot express what your presence means to my men. Did you see their faces?” A smile lay on Éomer’s lips, and yet his eyes bespoke the earnestness of his statement. Aragorn inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“I am equally honoured to ride with them. If anything can be achieved through our participation, it will be everybody’s gain and not just the Rohirrims’. This is no longer a question of separate countries; this is a question of good against evil; of men against orc. All on one side must stand united.”

Éomer nodded.

“I agree. But that has always been the way of the Eorlingas, ever since Eorl’s great and blessed ride. It is Gondor who has forgotten about the oath; not Rohan. They do not see that the Mark’s plight will soon become their own predicament if they don’t help us.” He inhaled and lifted his chin. “You have given us hope, Aragorn; once again, and in a battle of wills, it is a weapon not to be underestimated. If Gondor’s future king rides with our éohere, it will be an unmistakable sign to both the enemy and to your own kinsmen. If we win this battle, Gondor and Rohan will once again stand united; and no enemy ever overcame us when that was the case… My men will fight differently now believing that they do have a chance.”

“Do not underestimate your own importance, Éomer. Your survival is as much a source of their hope as my presence might be, even a greater one perhaps. The enemy already sought to kill you, but he failed. It was another victory for the Mark, as important as any won skirmish.”

Nodding, Éomer once again shifted in his saddle, and his gaze glided over the swirling grey to the riders behind them. A vague feeling of unease settled in the pit of his stomach at the discovery that each time he looked, he could see less of them. What if the fog became so thick that they could no longer see each other? Just like he had anticipated, Saruman seemed to have his hands full of tricks, and this was only the first one. What other obstacles would the White Wizard throw into their path?

With the growing duration of their ride, conversation died between the warriors as most soldiers’ thoughts focused on the battle awaiting them. What would happen once they reached the Wizard’s Vale? Would they even be allowed to enter it, or would they be intercepted by the enemy at a strategic point under the cover of their master’s fog?

A river of dark shapes and shining steel, riders and horses proceeded.

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MEDUSELD

The first faint hint of dawn was visible upon the eastern horizon as Éothain emerged from the tunnel. Aedwulf and the others regarded their commander with undeniable relief.

“You were gone a long time. I was beginning to worry.”

“There was a lot of movement,” Éothain explained while he carefully covered the hole with the blanket again. “I had to hide several times and wait until they were gone until I could proceed and plant the bait near the intersection. Now the dog must only find it. I hope it is hungry. If the plan fails... we must attack them regardless. We cannot wait much longer, or the hostages might be dead before we can even attempt to free them.” A critical glance at his work left him satisfied. “Come, let us go. Like Yálanda said, this will need a while to take effect.”

“If we have to attack them while that dog is still alive and able to alarm the, we must be very quick,” Aedwulf pondered as the warriors slowly made their way back to the sleeping city.

“Yes. We will need to be lightning quick no matter what. Of course it will make things easier if we can attack them from two sides, but if not, then we must find a way to dispose of them regardless.” Éothain lifted his eyes to stare past the city walls to the western horizon. “I only wish I knew what is going on in the Westfold. Whether they are already fighting or... whether it is already over.” ‘What if Éomer’s army was defeated?’

Following his gaze, Aedwulf shrugged.

“We will find out about it one way or the other, I suppose. There is nothing left to do for us.”

“Except rest and wait for tonight, aye.”

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THE WIZARD’S VALE

The first messengers of morning painted the horizon a brighter shade of grey when the Rohirrim approached the last gentle rise leading up to their enemy’s fastness, and curses and shocked gasps flew through the host as the wizard’s dark tower materialised out of the mists before them. Like a magical beast its bold silhouette loomed above the warriors; its spiked head rising from the low-laying fog into the starless sky like the neck of an ancient dragon whose head and body they could not see yet. A dragon that would breathe fire upon them as soon as it became aware of their presence.

“Gods…” Éomer exhaled as his glance climbed up the tower of stone, all air pressed out of his lungs by the horrible sight. As the other side of the Isen had been hostile territory for as long as he could remember, none of the riders had ever seen Saruman’s fortress with their own eyes, except perhaps for Thor. Which, thinking about it, seemed lucky, because Éomer doubted that many of his men would have followed his summons had they known what awaited them at the end of their journey.

What he could see of Isengard against the slowly brightening sky and through the clearing mist appeared to be utterly indestructible and made his plan look like the greatest folly ever conceived. Behind the fortifications still covered by swirling whiteness, Orthanc itself seemed to be hewn out of the sheer rock by the hands of giants. Never in his life had Éomer come across a more forbidding sight.

“How in Béma’s name are we supposed to conquer that?” Erkenbrand murmured as he fought with his fidgeting horse, his eyes as wide as those of the others as he regarded the encircling wall in consternation. “I do not even see a gate, or an entrance of any kind.” He had not ended when the foreboding sound of flapping wings reached their ears, and the next moment, a massive dark cloud rose from the mountains behind the fastness to descend upon the Rohirrim. Crebain. Thousands and thousands; circling high above the warriors’ heads and announcing their presence to their master with their malicious cries.

“Over there!” Elladan suddenly shouted and pointed at a spot to their left where orcs began to spill from a narrow opening in the wall, hardly more yet than silhouettes to the eyes of the rest of the riders. “We are just in time.”

His brother scanned the wall with narrowed eyes.

“I see no other way in.”

“Then we must take it, even if I do not like it,” Éomer growled and threw Firefoot around to face his men, in whose expressions he found his own doubt mirrored.

“It looks like a trap,” Aragorn said quietly, his eyes wandering from the orcs over the tower and up to the birds above them. “It is obvious that Saruman expects us. These orcs are his bait to lure us behind the wall, where we will be trapped once we are inside.”

“I agree, but it cannot be helped. If this is the only way, we must take it. Once we are inside, we will spring his trap from there.” For a moment, Éomer regarded his captains’ sceptical faces, and for a heartbeat, the temptation to call off the attack which could only result in the utter annihilation of their éohere almost overwhelmed him. With the next, he pushed it aside and committed himself to the excitement flooding his veins. “To you éoreds. The enemy is waiting for us, and we must not let him wait.” With a knowing nod, he clasped hands with Aragorn. “Time to face the darkness, my friend. With Béma’s help, we will emerge on the other side.”

“I am convinced of that.”

Satisfied, Éomer turned back to his men and raised his sword.

“Have courage, Sons of Eorl! This is what we came for! Our enemy hides in his tower because he is too afraid to face us! Let us tear it down stone by stone and drag him out of his den like a fox by the hounds. Death to the traitor!”

“Death!”

“For the Mark! Forth, Éorlingas!”

He kicked his heels into Firefoot’s flanks and sent the stallion into a hunting gallop; the sound of the grey’s hoof beats soon drowned out by the rising thunder of their army as it descended the slope like a wave of wrath…