Chapter 59: To Edoras

WESTFOLD

They were moving again. Not as fast as Éomer would have liked, but considering what horses and riders had been through earlier that day, it was a miracle that they were able to make for Edoras at all. The sun shed its eerie orange light onto the plains as it slowly disappeared behind the still white-topped Éred Nimrais, to make room for its silver brother ruling the night. Usually at this hour around dusk, the Rohirrim would begin looking for a suitable place to pitch camp, but not so this time. Although men and beasts felt the strain of the previous efforts, they would continue through the night and try to reach the City of Kings in time to prevent the worst.

Behind them, Orthanc had long vanished from sight and the Isen’s mighty voice could no longer be heard in the distance; still their progress felt excruciatingly slowly to Éomer. Beyond Firefoot’s ears, the plains stretched far beyond the darkening horizon as they thundered over the brown winter grass, the low grumble announcing their presence to the settlements along the way. Several hours had passed since they had encountered the long treck of villagers on their way to Isengard, equipped with supplies, dry clothes, spare horses and carts for the transportation of the wounded and dead.

In the vicinity of their western-most settlements, several riders had approached their host to learn more about the past battle, accompanying their warriors a small part of the way until at last they had turned around to spread the tidings of the éoreds’ victory and Saruman’s death. When twilight thickened and the first stars emerged from the black skies, the host was alone again and trying to prepare themselves for the long dark hours ahead of them.

Their forces were more numerous than Éomer had hoped even in his boldest dreams: more than a thousand riders accompanied him on his way to the settlement of a very old debt. And despite general exhaustion and the worry for friends and kin they had left behind on hostile territory, the Rohirrim were eager to bring the traitor within their hall to justice; no doubt hoping to be allowed a strike or a punch themselves. Many of their comrades had fallen prey to Gríma Wormtongue’s evil schemes over the years, and now that the time for revenge appeared to have arrived at last, one thing seemed certain: once the sons of Éorl were done with the false snake in their midst, there would not even remain enough of Gríma son of Gálmód to feed the crows.

A grim smile curling his lips, Éomer involuntarily urged on Firefoot with the pressure of his thighs, yet contrary to his usual response, the stallion did not oblige. The grey’s leaps usually boasted with barely restrained power, but now they were short and hard and shook Éomer thoroughly, an unmistakable sign that even his steed’s great strength was beginning to fail. With a deep sigh and a bad conscience, the Marshal ran an apologetic hand down the grey neck and against his steadily growing anxiety, forced himself to settle back and allow his mount to determine his own speed.

And yet it was a hard test. Patience had never been one of Éomer’s strengths, and each additional moment he would have to wait until he would Éowyn in his arms again, hopefully unharmed, felt like an eternity. Still reality refused to let itself be ignored: like his rider, Firefoot had done more than his share in the past days, and had carried him through more than half of the Mark already. The grey had defended his master against wolves; he had gone through two battles and been wounded himself, and yet the stallion had never once protested against his rider’s demands. Éomer knew that there was an end to what he could ask of his the Half-Méara, as the grey’s entire great heart was already dedicated to the fulfilment of his will. They travelled as fast as was possible, for all except Shadowfax the Great himself who galloped to his right with Gandalf on his back, obviously never-tiring.

With a sigh, Éomer’s attention returned to his own stallion.

“I know, Firefoot,” he murmured apologetically, still fighting to contain his growing frustration. “You are doing your best, and I thank you for it, but as much as I would like to grant you a break now, we must continue for a little while longer while we can still see.” Once again he patted the foam-lathered neck, rejoicing at the sensation of the strong heartbeat beneath his fingertips. In the wake of the flood, he had feared the stallion dead, but to his great joy and relief, Béma had decided to give the great Grey back him.

Not having anything else to do than hold his balance on Firefoot’s back, Éomer’s thoughts returned to the aftermath of the battle…

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Although both frantic and dreading to go and look for his horse at the same time, duty had directed his steps in a different direction at first: following Aragorn’s advice, Éomer had first sought out his kinsmen appointed the task of handing out what dry clothing was available. On his way through the crowded corridors, he had clapped shoulders and shaken the hands of many men he had feared dead, until at last he had been able to quickly change out of his drenched garments. Done with this minimal measure of self-preservation, Éomer had then headed out again to obtain an overview of the situation and their losses.

His path had led him through rooms and corridors of the fortification already crammed with wounded men, and still more were being brought in. Between the groaning and screaming warriors, the healers had frantically darted from patient to patient, their hands red with the blood of their comrades and kin as they tried to mend shattered bones and gaping wounds. After observing the spectacle for a moment in which horror’s cold fingers had frozen his spine, Éomer had forced himself to wander through the rows and encourage his unfortunate riders in an effort to lend them strength and hope for their new struggle. Briefly he had exchanged a few k words with Tolgor, his own éored’s healer, but quickly left the man to his task as the grim-faced Eastfold warrior had been in preparations to take off a young rider’s sickeningly twisted leg.

Mentally and bodily too exhausted to endure more of this unspeakable misery, Éomer had then all but fled the sickrooms to check on the situation outside, only to find it – if possible – even worse: in the time it had taken him to change his clothes and comfort his soldiers, the water level within the Ring of Isengard had dropped enough to reveal the corpses and carcasses of scores of drowned men, horses, orcs and wargs; a ghastly sight even for the battle-experienced eyes of the Third Marshal of Riddermark. The tree-beings had still waded through the shallow water in their search for unlucky Rohirrim who had suffered in their attack, but observing their efforts for a little while longer, it appeared to Éomer that only dead bodies were still left for them to pick from the sinking water. Silently he had stood on the wall and watched as their former attackers gracefully carried the victims of their rage to the breach in the stone encirclement, where the remainders of the éohere had gathered, to gently lay down the dead under the wary eyes of the surviving riders. Éomer’s soul had cried out at the sight of how many bodies had already lain there, strewn on the brown, dead winter grass. Completely absorbed in the horrible scene, he had failed to notice the figure standing next to him until the man had spoken.

“I wish I could have stopped them.” The deep voice had been familiar, but long unheard. Upon turning to face the wizard, Éomer had found Gandalf’s gaze on the field of battle below them, the ancient face deeply lined with sorrow. “I only overtook them when they already rushed down the hill toward you, and in their rage, they would not listen to me. In fact, I doubt that they even heard me. Much is needed to provoke an Ent to attack; they usually withdraw from a conflict rather than meddle in others’ affairs. It was for this reason that common knowledge of their existence had faded to myth over the centuries.” Together, they had followed another Ent’s rescue attempts, but again, the body that was lifted from the floods was limp, and with a sigh,Gandalf had continued. “As we have unfortunately been demonstrated, there is no stopping them once the dam of their restraint breaks. The Ents are a force of nature as powerful as a rockslide, but with the conscious to choose what to destroy. Unfortunately, you were in their way.”

“So it was not you who summoned them then,” Éomer had stated, unable to determine what it was that felt different to him about the grey wanderer from the man he had known for much of his life. A strange aura seemed to envelop the Istar; an air of power and strength the son of Eomund had never perceived before. The benign Gandalf Greyhame who had occasionally visited Edoras in the time of Éomer’s youth was still there, but there seemed to be a new depth to his capabilities.

“I?” The question had been accompanied by a raised white eyebrow. “No. From what I hear, it were Merry and Pippin who pointed them at Saruman’s treason, but of course it was impossible for them to foresee the consequences of their actions… or to understand that their timing was most unfortunate. Your people paid dearly for this attack, Marshal, and your loss may hurt even worse because of the revelation that their sacrifice might not have been necessary.” The Istar’s gaze returned to the battlefield. “I suppose the only good thing that can be said about today is that what you wanted to achieve has been achieved: your foe is dead.”

‘They died for nothing. Indeed.’

The bitter thought transformed Éomer’s mouth into a bloodless line. In an attempt to push it aside as it would not help in the fulfilment of his duties, he had pointed his chin at the round thing the wizard cradled in his arms. Wrapped in a blanket, it was quite obvious that Gandalf had not meant for anyone to see it, but Éomer found it impossible to suppress his curiosity.

“I was about to ask you, but now that you confirm it…” And with a little nod, he had asked: “So Saruman is indeed dead. Is this the prize you came for? Is it the thing you hoped to gain in the fight?”

With an apprehensive glance, as if he had hoped to be spared the question, Gandalf had shaken his head.

“It might prove valuable to our cause, but it was not my reason for coming here. That honour belongs to my old, alas misguided and greedy friend. Though only the lesser one of our foes, Saruman’s might would have been too great for your people, even if you had overcome his orcs.” With a sharp intake of breath, the wizard stared at the dark tower. “After stripping him of his powers, I offered to spare his life, because he was a friend once and because the Dark Lord’s evil spells corrupted many, not just him... but he chose death over such an existence. He killed himself.” Blue grey eyes had met Éomer’s in sudden threat. “I said that the thing I took might be helpful against his master…but I cannot deny that it is also bears a great danger, and I will not use it unless circumstances force me. There is not telling what might happen if it falls into the wrong hands, or is used wrongly…”

Uneasily glancing at the round thing, Éomer had wrinkled his brow. Sorcery was something that had always been met with scepticism in their land, and apart from not fully believing in it, he had no experience in the handling of such things. Even Gríma Wormtongue’s potions which were a powerful weapon were grounded in the ‘real’ world for him, the world Éomer could see and touch, but what was this little round thing in the Istar’s elbow? It appeared to be quite heavy.

“I suppose that I shouldn’t ask what it is then?” He had meant to say it lightly, but Gandalf’s unexpected warning glance chased a shiver down the Marshal’s spine.

“I must ask you to forgive me for not telling you, Marshal, but the secret will rest safer the less people know about it. Please, do not interpret my silence as distrust, but against the foe’s measures even the mightiest might fail. On the other hand, no one cannot tell what one does not know.”

“Fair enough.” Deciding to abandon the subject albeit he found his curiosity aroused, Éomer had nodded, and instead cut the wizard another measuring glance. He had to go and see Erkenbrand, but this needed to be addressed, first: “Gandalf Greyhame, I suppose that now is not the time to inquire about the fortune that gave you back to us alive, but at least I want it said that - contrary to my Lord’s demeanour - the Rohírrim are glad to still count you among our allies. Your last visit to the Mark did not exactly make you our King’s friend, although the source of Théoden’s anger may not be difficult to guess.”

As sudden as the threat had stood in the wizard’s eyes, it was replaced by a mischievous twinkle.

“Of course not, Eómer Eomundsson, and I thank you for your words. I am well aware that even without his so-called ‘Counsellor’s’ whisperings, Théoden would have been wroth with me for displaying such poor modesty in the choosing of my gift. Greediness will always invoke irritation, regardless of the circumstance. Yet as fast actions were called for, I was, alas, not at freedom to choose differently.” The twinkle in his eyes was suddenly accompanied by a distant, but honest smile as Gandalf’s gaze wandered over to a white figure on the plain behind the wall. ”If I can offer you any consolation for this loss, Marshal, it is that your King’s gift is indeed highly treasured. If it had not been for Shadowfax, things would be decidedly worse now for the people of the West.”

Following the wizard’s gaze, Éomer had raised an eyebrow and, with a wistful smile,said: “I always wondered how it would feel to sit on the back of the noblest horse of all Middle Earth... but he never allowed me to touch him.”

“I will not pretend to understand why he suffers me to ride him, and yet his acceptance seems comes freely. I never forced him.”

“And you could not force him to do anything against his will. The Méaras choose their riders, it has always been this way. The pure-blooded ones will only allow the King and his kin on their backs, and as you see with Shadowfax, sometimes not even them.” In silence, he watched as the white stallion approached the camp, and the sight of his busy warriors reminded him of the many tasks still waiting to be seen to. ”Yet I fear you must excuse me for now, Master Gandalf…”

“… but you are needed down there. Of course,” the Istar had nodded his understanding. “Now that your foe in the west has been defeated, I suppose that you will make haste to free your capital – and your King – as well, won’t you?”

“Aye. And we must leave soon, as reluctant as I am of leaving my men in the wake of this battle. But I cannot delay it.”

“Gríma Wormtongue’s days must surely be counted now, if I am not severely mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken, Gandalf Greyhame. Of course not. I hope that we can leave in three hours, and when we reach Edoras, we will bring the Snake to account for the long years of the Mark’s suffering, I promise you that. There will not be anything left of Gríma son of Gálmód once we are done with him.” Éomer inclined his head.“I would be honoured if you accompanied with us, Grey Wanderer. Your presence would surely be a great advantage in these unpleasant dealings.”

“And I will gladly ride with you, for the times are such that we can no longer tarry in our fight against the Dark Lord. Sauron must almost be ready to strike, and it is time that the forces of the West unite. I will need to speak to your King as soon as we reach Edoras.” At the mention of his uncle’s name, Éomer’s expression had suddenly hardened, much to Gandalf’s surprise. And yet he had understood enough to not inquire further when the young man dismissed him in a strangely tense tone.

“I will send someone to alert you before we leave. For now, I fear that I must first find out how many of our men survived the battle. If you will please excuse me…”

“Of course. Don’t let me keep you, Son of Eomund.”

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On Firefoot’s back, Éomer’s face darkened as he remembered how he had made his path through the field of rubble to which the court of Isengard had been diminished.

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His expression an unmoved mask as he knew that his men needed a strong leader in order to endure the experienced horror themselves, Éomer had limped down the stairs to ground level. Exhausted himself and the pain in his injured leg and bruised ribs once again beginning to cross the border of the tolerable, he had waded through the shallow flood, tormented by the sight of their countless dead comrades whose mortal remains were being salvaged by the survivors for a proper burial. Dreading to think of how many more they would find once the water disappeared from the pits, Éomer had felt an overwhelming pang of guilt over having to leave his kinsmen to this horrible task while he disappeared.

Darkly he had glanced up at the black cloud of crebain, whose ugly cries still insulted his ears as they circled the battlefield in their endless spirals, only waiting for the moment when they would be allowed to feast on banquet spread out for them below.

Snorting with disgust as he felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, Éomer had observed the swarm for a while longer, the sight only strengthening his determination to not leave behind a single Rohír or horse for these scavengers to feed on. Their fallen would be taken back to the Mark once the villagers Erkenbrand had summoned arrived with their carts and spare horses, and would find their eternal rest in the soil of their homeland. It was not much they could do for these unfortunate men and their families, but at least they would not leave them back. Alas, for their killed horses, all they could do was drench their carcasses with the oil found in the chambers of the fortification and burn them.

On his way over to the broadest breach in the wall, behind which the remains of their éohere had gathered, Éomer had kept a wary eye on the Ents, but occasionally straying over the dead Rohirrim he passed. Several familiar features had been among them the sight of the pain and torment under which these men had died deeply engraved in their faces, until at last Éomer had felt the need to avert his gaze in order to remain in control.

His way through the debris also led him by the carcass of a grey horse, gently swaying in the by now gentle current, and for a moment, a tight band around Éomer’s ribs had pressed the air from his lungs. Unable to breathe until he had found the tack on the stallion’s limp body different from what Firefoot had carried, Éomer quickly left the dead animal behind… and still, with each carcass he had to walk around, his hope to find the Half-Méara still alive diminished.

“Éomer!”a familiar voice had at last reached him from behind the shattered wall, and as Éomer stepped over the last boulders, he had to his great relief looked into the face of his Eastfold Captain and trusted friend of many years, Findárras. ”Béma be praised, you are well!” Greeting each other like long separated brothers, the two men had embraced and then stepped back to regard each other. The red-bearded warrior’s face bore several bruises and swellings and his left eye was half-shut, but other than that and the stiff way in which he held himself, Findárras seemed well enough.

“How is it, old Friend?” Éomer had asked with an uncomfortable glance at the many still bodies behind the tall warrior. Their kinsmen had already covered the fallen with blankets, and still the sheer number of their dead left his blood frozen. “Do we have an overview of our losses yet?” Even as he spoke, another Ent had approached with a dead body in its branch-like hands, and they had stepped back, still distrustful of these strange beings whose fury had cost them so dearly.

Findárras’ relieved expression had quickly changed back to one of exhausted concern and grief upon following his friend’s gaze.

“They are still bringing the dead in, and I do not even want to imagine how many more we will find once the water is gone from the tunnels and pits. But I would count on at least five hundred men.” With a deep breath, the warrior had continued after seeing the same dismay that he felt on his marshal’s face. “I cannot yet say how many horses we lost, because many of them bolted when the trees attacked. We may yet find some of them alive and unharmed running through in the vicinity of Isengard… which reminds me of something. Come. I have a feeling you will like thi!” And with the faintest smile shining through his weariness and grief, Findárras had motioned Éomer to follow. Together they passed through the camp, past the rows of the fallen and through the crowd of riders busy with the building of fires and the treatment of their wounded, muttering hasty greetings as they came and went.

Comforted by the sight of his kinsmen’s care for each other, Éomer had observed their efforts for a moment longer while he followed the Eastfold Captain, and bumped into him when the man halted without warning.

“There!”

Barely leaving Findárras the time to point at the improvised paddock to their left, a powerful neigh had suddenly pierced the air and instantly claimed Éomer’s attention. With a broad, incredulous smile upon his lips, he had turned.

“Firefoot?” For a moment seeing nothing else except for the great grey stallion who regarded him with pricked ears from behind the rope,, Éomer had quickly limped over to receive a welcoming snort and a hard nudge in the chest as the huge head lowered toward him. “Come here, you big grey coward! You are not even wet! Where were you when the water came, huh? Halfway back at Helm’s Deep, I suppose? You are a disgrace!” He pulled his steed closer, overjoyed over their unexpected reunion as his fingers slid through Firefoot’s dark locks and rejoicing in the warmth of the stallion’s breath. “Ran from a tree, did you? And left me to do all the fighting? Some fine companion you are!” An indignant snort answered him, and for a moment, Éomer’s worries had seemed far away.

“Well, the tree-things may have been too much for your steed,” Findárras had said as he had stepped up to them with an amused glance. “But that doesn’t mean that Firefoot was idle. I saw with my own eyes how he smashed in many orc-heads even after you were separated, and when the water came, it was your stallion who chased the other horses through the breach to safety. I would say that he is as much a hero of this battle as his rider.”

“Are you? Are you a hero indeed, Demon? Shall I believe him?” With a broad grin Éomer had ruffled the thick winter fur before stepping back to let his scrutinizing glance wander over his animal friend. “Well, if Findárras says so, I suppose I should, huh?” The stallion’s hide had been splattered with mud and orc-blood, and a brief inspection of the hooves revealed tatters of dark orc-hide and hair still sticking to the horn. Apart from the old gashes in Firefoot’s cheek and shoulder, which had looked well enough, Éomer had not found any other injuries on his steed, and finally allowed himself to relax. In the midst of all this misery, it seemed like a miracle that the Half-Méara had been given back to him alive… even if the grey demon seemed determined to eat his cloak.

“Aye, I love you, too, Big Brother, but I still need this, so if you please?” Shifting his attention back to the patiently waiting Findárras, Éomer at last remembered his other duties which could no longer be delayed.

“Do you know where I canl find Erkenbrand?”

“Over there, talking with Aragorn.” A questioning glance had found him. “Will you leave him in command here when we leave?”

“Aye. I want these men to be given a proper burial, even the ones in the pits. I do not envy the men who will have to go down there and look for them, but it is the least we can do. He will have to assign these tasks to his men, and I will leave him with the majority of the éohere for protection. Last thing we’d need would be for the Dunlendings to attack while our Armed Forces make for Edoras. We will have to concern ourselves with them eventually, but now is not the time. Come.” Looking over to where he had suddenly discovered the Lord of Westfold’s impressive shape, Éomer had motioned his friend to follow him back through the crowd. “When you say ‘we’, does that mean that you will accompany me?”

“Of course I will!” A shadow had darkened Findárras expression. “The entire éored is eager to ride with you, unless you wanted us to remain here… but the men are worried for Elfhelm, Éomer. As am I. If he fell prey to the Worm…”

With a tired nod, Éomer had clapped his friend’s shoulder as they made their way over to where Erkenbrand was organising his riders.

“I know how you feel, old friend, and I, too, pray that we will arrive at Edoras in time to prevent the worst. Now go and tell those who will accompany us to rest; we will ride the night through, and we will not be able to wait for those who cannot keep up with our host.”

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Blinking, Éomer woke from his memories and found that darkness had descended upon the land whilst his thoughts had been occupied with the happenings of the passed afternoon. Straight as an arrow shot into the night, their host proceeded east upon the old road, the most direct way toward Edoras, riding close together. Although night had decked its blanket over their surroundings and shielded them from their eyes, Éomer knew that they were still in the Westemnet, and that many more leagues still separated them from their destination. It would be another long night…