Chapter 56: The River’s Fury

ISENGARD

Once unleashed, the Isen claimed back its territory with the ferocity of a starving predator. In vengeance for its captivity, it lashed out at everything in its path; making no difference between objects or living things as it sprang from its prison to crush wood, brick and bones. Those who had freed it alone possessed the strength to withstand its fierce onslaught, and still the Ents had to hold fast and sink their root-like hands and feet into the bare rock behind Orthanc to remain standing while the world around them turned into a frothing white maelstrom of death.

Yet nothing smaller than the ancient tree-herders could hope to stand against the violent torrent, and orcs, men and horses alike were knocked from their feet and towed under and carried away by the furious river. Tossing them around like children’s toys, the Isen crushed the fleeing warriors with the debris of shattered buildings and the dam that had restricted it, to sweep their lifeless or still feebly struggling bodies into the shafts and pits that interspersed the court of Isengard. From one moment to the next, the din of battle was replaced by the shrieks of the dying and the river’s mighty voice.

Numbly watching from his elevated position as his army was being annihilated by the force of nature, Saruman the White stood on the platform between Orthanc’s iron crown, and the understanding slowly settled in his mind that his great plan had been thwarted by the unlikeliest, most unthinkable event. For years, no, decades had he prepared his trap with incredible cunning and care and worked toward this very day, and the Rohirrim had even been foolish enough to fall for it by thinking in their unparalleled arrogance that they could attack and defeat him on his own ground. They would have posed no threat to his gigantic army of Uruk-hai, and even with the Heir of Elendil he could have dealt. But to see Gandalf now ride to their aid; Gandalf, whom he had believed dead after having witnessed his plunge into darkness in the Palantír, was a shock. How could the old fool return alive from his battle with the Balrog, and on top of that, bring with him the ancient tree-herders who had minded their own business for centuries and kept out of man’s path for so long that their very existence had faded to mere myth? And how had he succeeded in rousing these creatures which had never shown interest in other races’ affairs before? It was something Saruman could barely believe even though his eyes told him differently.

In helpless frustration, the old wizard ground his teeth, and a spark of contempt burned in his dark, cunning eyes. The Palantír had deceived him … or could it be, in fact, the Dark Lord himself who had manipulated the Seeing Stone to show his servant only what he wanted him to see? Had the Great Eye read his thoughts and seen the greed for power behind his servant’s presumably blind obedience? Had it discovered his secret plans for the Master Ring, and decided to let him fall now that Sauron felt that he no longer needed his aid? The bitter taste of betrayal filled Saruman’s mouth. Yes, Sauron had betrayed him, and he had used him against his enemies as only one of his many weapons. And although it was too late now to offer his service to the other side in revenge, Saruman hoped that the Dark Lord would pay for this betrayal, even if it meant that the stubborn horselords, who were laying his fortress to waste far below him should emerge victorious.

Still unable to grasp the full extent of his defeat, Saruman stared down at the water frothing up Orthanc’s walls, and suddenly beheld a white figure on a white horse making its way toward the tower’s locked entrance. A bright aura surrounded Gandalf and kept the water at bay as he approached the stairs, and with a last glance, Saruman brusquely turned away from the sight to go and meet his nemesis. Yet no matter how their duel ended, he understood at last that his part in the war for dominion over Middle Earth had ended.

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The Isen’s floods assaulted Éomer with the force of an avalanche, and for a moment, the Rohír felt as if he had been punched in the chest as the ice-water engulfed him. As if he were a pebble in a mudslide, it knocked him to the ground and swept away, no matter what he did. Vaguely aware of the dozens and hundreds of others – Rohirrim, horses and orcs alike – frantically struggling around him, Éomer clawed for something to hold on to, but the churning water quickly rose over his head and the weight of his armour pulled him down without mercy. A terrible grinding noise filled his senses as the world turned into a violent maelstrom.

For a short moment, his head broke through the surface long enough to draw a hasty breath, and over his own choked gasp Éomer suddenly registered the deafening thunder behind him. At once he understood his new peril: there would be no rescue from the bottomless pits into which the water was plunging; all who went over the edge would die. Realisation had barely settled when he was suddenly pulled under with a violent tug at his leg. Turning around in the frothing water to find the source of the assault, Éomer quickly discovered a dark shape below him: his adversary was still there; its powerful hands still closed around his ankle, and the challenging expression on its face left no question that the Uruk intended to drown him.

Instinct took over. With a vicious kick in the orc’s face, Éomer tried to free himself, but suddenly all air was knocked from his lungs when the current smashed him into a solid barrier with bone-shattering force. Stunned, he could only watch as the structure behind him caved in and rained blocks of stone down on him and his adversary. One of them landed right next to him with a muffled thud and he stepped on it, trying to make it to the surface against his adversary’s efforts to keep him submerged. Another stepping stone helped him to get his head out of the water, but the situation had not improved as he found himself in the middle of the current now, pressed against the remains of the building behind him while the torrent frothed into his face. No air! Already his lungs were burning and his body beginning to numb from the cold, but still he could not move!

Even as he fought for the single breath that would prolong his life for another moment, he was again pulled under. So that bloody orc was still alive. Although Éomer could barely see more than a blur of his opponent in the churning water, he kicked out again – and suddenly his other leg was grabbed as well. White explosions blossomed in front of his eyes and obscured his sight further; the fire in his lungs torturing him and pleading him to open his mouth and breathe, and yet no matter how hard Éomer struggled, the orc’s grip was like a bear-trap around his ankles. The way the beast held its position in the torrent indicated that it had been caught by the collapsing structure and was unable to free itself – but it was still determined to take its enemy along to its wet grave.

Éomer had different plans. The stinking filth would not be his end; and it certainly would not hinder him from riding to Éowyn’s aid! Pushing the brief flutter of panic back into his subconscious, he suddenly gave up resistance and allowed the orc to draw him closer – and just as the beast bared its fangs to sink them into his flesh, Éomer drew his dagger and lashed out. A black cloud rose in response to his thrust, a vile stench assaulted his nostrils, and suddenly his hand with the dagger was seized. Managing to slip out of his glove just before the orc’s jaws clenched around the leather, he switched the blade to the other hand and buried it to the hilt in the beast’s eye. For a moment the fingers around his ankles squeezed his bones painfully together – then at last, their grip broke. A heartbeat before the current seized him again, Éomer reflexively reached out for the shiny thing at the orc’s armour, and his fingers closed around Théodred’s amulet and tore the leatherband from the beast’s neck. Only then did he push himself up – and broke through the surface with a choked gasp, the chill air incredibly sweet as it flooded his lungs. He felt a brief burst of triumph – and then the current took him away.

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Lucky enough not to be in the immediate path of the flood, Aragorn nonetheless still stood in the rising water up to his waist, helping those near him to the stairs leading to the wall’s crest and defending their refuge against those orcs foolish enough to try their luck there as well. Together with several of his Dúnedain brothers and Rohirrim, they formed a protective circle, and soon the enemy’s forces backed away in search for another way to safety, making easy targets for the men and elves already on the wall who ended their lives with a rain of arrows.

“This way! This way!”

Many warriors barely seemed to have enough strength left to climb the few stairs onto the wall as they stumbled toward Aragorn and his men, many holding injured limbs and bleeding as a result of both Saruman’s and the Isen’s wrath. All were helped up, but space was quickly becoming sparse, and especially the terrified horses were becoming a problem as they knocked several men into the torrent again before they could be calmed.

Just as his gaze went up to where Halbarad helped the distribution of refugees on the narrow path, Aragorn saw a heavy grey horse rear behind his kinsman. His warning shout came too late: only the whites in its eyes still showing, the steed shied away from its rider’s hand, and accidentally pushed the ranger over the edge – backwards!

“Halbarad!”

Ellrohir who stood close by dived after the falling ranger, but his reaching hand missed, and before Aragorn’s horrified eyes, his Dúnadan brother plunged head-first into the water. Frantically pushing through the stream of refugees to where Halbarad had disappeared, praying that he had not broken his neck in the horrible fall, Aragorn suddenly heard Legolas shout: “I see him!”

An instant later, the ranger rose to the surface, but his movements were sluggish and weak, and it seemed to require all of his remaining strength just to pry his fingers into the fissures of the wall and hold fast against the vicious current. Then Aragorn saw the dark red line running from his temple down his face.

“Halbarad! Hold on, I am coming!” From the corner of his eyes, he saw an orc starting for his barely conscious kinsman and knew that he would never make it over in time. His searching glance found the speared body of a Uruk drifting nearby. Yes!

“I have him!” Legolas shouted from the wall, and Halbarad’s assailant staggered under the impact of an arrow in his thick neck, but he did not fall, and now he was within reach! With a triumphant roar, it lifted its blade over its head, and Halbarad’s dazed gaze cleared at last in the face of deadly peril. Helpless, he stared death straight in the eye – but it was his opponent who suddenly fell against the wall with a surprised grunt. In incomprehension, it stared for a moment at the thick wooden shaft that suddenly protruded from its chest – and then its knees buckled, and it collapsed with a choked gargle and was carried away by the river. Closing his eyes as dizziness and relief overcame him simultaneously, Halbarad leant his head against the rocks, his strength and conscious waning. He did not hear his friends’ shouts from above.

“The rope! Take the rope! It is right above your head!”

Instead of waiting for the outcome of the battle, Elrond’s sons had quickly become active themselves, and while Elrohir already lowered a sling to their endangered friend, Elladan calmed the spooked horse responsible for Halbarad’s fall and tied the other end of the rope to its saddle. And still the ranger did not react.

“Halbarad!”

Aragorn was close now, one last orc between him and his kinsman. It was no match for Andúril’s fury, and the Heir of Elendil passed it even as the beast collapsed. The next moment, he reached his injured friend and, sheathing his sword, grasped the sling to pull it tight around them both. Unconscious, Halbarad’s head sagged against him as another orc started toward them.

“Pull!”

“Aragorn! Watch out!” Legolas’ voice, alarmed. A white-feathered shaft passed right in front of Aragorn’s face, and the beast roared, hit in the neck. The next moment, the rope gave a hard tug and they were hauled up into the safety of the pathway. Quickly Aragorn slipped out of the sling, breathing hard as he felt for his friend’s pulse. He found it, strong and steady, and sat back, too relieved for words.

“How grave is his injury?” Elladan inquired one eye on the unconscious Halbarad and one on the mayhem inside the court of Isengard. He had not finished when the ranger gave a low moan and opened his eyes.

“What happened?”

“You fell and hit your head,” Aragorn answered his confused question, a relieved smile on his face as he eyed the cut on his friend’s temple. While it might need stitching later on, it did not look like a life-threatening injury. With a deep sigh, he patted the Dúnadan’s shoulder and looked up at the inquisitive faces around them as he rose to his feet. “I do not believe that serious damage has been done, but stay here until you feel better. Most of the battle seems to be over anyway.”

Stepping over to Legolas with a thankful nod, Aragorn turned to let his gaze sweep the chaos of the encircled plain, and his expression darkened as he saw the men and horses still fighting in the flood, beyond their reach.

“Saruman’s army is destroyed, but I fear that this assault has cost the lives of many Rohirrim as well.”

“And yet more may have survived because of it,” the elf replied, and he nodded toward the wide breaches the Ents had trampled into the wall. Many riders had regrouped there; those who had been lucky enough to escape the floods as well as those who had not even made it through the gate before the mythical creature’s had attacked. “The territory was not suitable for a fight from horseback, and they were already vastly outnumbered by the forces over ground, and yet many more were still emerging when the water came.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps this was their only chance for victory, however high the cost may be. There is Gandalf!” A slight smile spread over his face as he nodded his chin toward the tower which stood in the midst of the rubble like a solemn guard, unscathed even by the Ents’s might.

They had barely detected the wizard on the narrow stairs when a blinding blast erupted from his staff, and the door of massive rock gave way.

“So he will wage battle with Saruman again,” Aragorn said lowly. “Yet I do have a feeling that things will go differently this time. Something has happened, the power has shifted. Do you not feel it, too, mellon-nin?”

“Indeed I do, even if I cannot explain the reason for this feeling.” The blue of his keen eyes suddenly darkened as Legolas’s gaze returned to the flooded plain, and Aragorn understood. With a sudden jolt of anxiety, he remembered how Gímli had charged into battle. He had not seen him since, and could not detect him on the narrow pathway now. Neither could he see Éomer.

“Come and let us help those who did not make it to safety yet.” He received an affirming nod and turned away to organise the rescue of those still fighting for their lives below, inwardly fearing that next time he would see the resilient dwarf and the wilful young marshal of the Rohirrim, they would both be dead.

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Éomer’s strength faded rapidly in the ice-cold water. To his left, the waterfall’s thunder and the furious hiss of the steam rising in a great column from the nearby pit drowned out all other noises as he was swept toward the death-bringing maw. Fighting to keep his head above the water against the weight of his soaked armour, Éomer reached for a hold, but whatever his numb fingers touched was also in motion and moving toward the abyss like he. Closer and closer the drop-off came, and it seemed to him that the Isen was mocking his feeble attempts to save himself from its fury. Again he was knocked against the shattered remains of a building, and the impact spun him around. For a moment his searching fingers closed around a metal beam, but with an anguished groan, it gave way and his grip slipped on the smooth surface. Nonetheless Éomer held on for dear life even though the water welled up against his face now and made it impossible to breathe. Yet breathing could no longer be postponed, and as he opened his mouth in reflex, liquid and air simultaneously rushed down his throat and threw him into a violent coughing fit – which resulted in him swallowing even more water. While he still fought, something heavy collided with him, and his fingers at last lost their hold on the iron pole. Once again Éomer found himself shooting toward the abyss, and by now its thunderous voice was so loud that it even drowned out the furious pounding of his own heart. Right before him, the world ended in a steaming cascade.

‘No! No!’

The body of a drowned horse passed him and disappeared over the edge, followed by several still struggling Uruk-hai and Rohirrim. The water was shallow now, hardly high enough to reach his hips had he found the strength to stand, and yet there was no withstanding the vicious current as it carried him toward the opening. Two more Rohirrim were swept past him and disappeared, their mouths opened in a scream that could not be heard over the Isen’s roar.

And closer still! Below him was now the black maelstrom churning in the dark depths of the pit, and in panic, he rammed his heels into the ground once more. Blindly groping for something to save him, Éomer’s fingers suddenly found a wooden shaft, and he held on – and blinked as he turned his head to see what had delayed his fall: it was a Rohirric spear, and it stuck in the flank of the biggest warg he had ever seen! The sight once again robbed him of his breath.

Fighting like all around it against the flood, the beast turned its head as it felt the additional weight tear at the wound in its side, and a cloud of stinking breath assaulted Éomer’s senses as the creature roared its fury into his face. Then it snapped at him, but the horrible fangs closed just in front of Éomer with an audible clap. It could not reach him. Half-choked by the beast’s infernal stench, the Rohír fought to hold on, instinctively understanding that however unlikely, the great orc-wolf was his only hope for survival. Hand for hand, he forced his numbing muscles to pull himself closer to the beast’s powerful body until he could grab a handful of the wiry mane. In response to his touch, the warg growled again and twisted its long neck to snap at him, but Éomer had already dragged himself onto its back, where he clung now like a big blood-sucking bat.

Irritated, the beast tried to turn around and grab him, but its attention was quickly claimed by a heavy beam that was knocked against its ribs and pushed it back several steps toward the abyss. Its head with the massive jaws lifted high from the water, it dug its long claws into the ground and began to move against the current, snorting and grunting from the massive effort, the muscled shoulders rippling under Éomer’s body. The Rohir looked back to the steaming drop-off, and wile he was relieved that the beast seemed to have temporarily forgotten him, it did not escape his attention that their progress was slow, almost non-existent. Would the beast’s strength suffice to carry them both to safety? And what then? If the warg decided to devour him once it had reached safe ground, Éomer saw not how he should hinder it, unarmed as he was. But it was yet a concern beyond the most immediate threat, and so he shoved it aside and concentrated on holding on to the massive body beneath him. Not far before them, a construction of iron beams rose from the water, and it still looked solid. Involuntarily, Éomer pressed his thighs around his strange steed and shifted his weight to steer the orc-wolf toward it, and the miracle happened: the beast responded!

‘Come on, fell beast,’ he prayed silently, while the distance to the ledge slowly grew. “You can do it. Carry us both to safety… and then we will see who kills whom.’