Chapter 60: Assaults in the Night

EDORAS

Never had a sunset been anticipated with greater impatience in the City of Kings; the last hours of golden light from the cloudless sky nothing short of torture despite it having been the first clear day for quite some time. But when at last the shadows lengthened and darkness fell over the capital of Riddermark to cover the streets from potentially spying eyes, Áedwulf and Éothain gathered their éored on the square. Expectantly the warriors awaited their captains, eager to become active at last and deal with their foes as they saw fit after the long days of enforced apathy. Behind them stood the citizens, likewise armed with everything they had found which could be used for a weapon and hoping to be allowed a part in their foes’ downfall, and be it only to spit into their faces once their corpses would be thrown out of Meduseld.

An expectant cordon opened to allow the two captains into the crowd’s midst, and as Éothain ascended the platform next to the flag pole, the older warrior gave him an encouraging glance full of confidence. For a moment, Éothain’s eyes wandered over the marketplace and the many eager faces regarding him in anticipation of their orders; his whole body tingling with the atmosphere of raw and yet unchannelled power waiting to be unleashed against the usurpers. With a deep breath, he began, restraining himself to keep his voice low lest the enemy should hear him from the top of the hill:

“My dear friends and fellow kinsmen, I thank you for your attendance in such great numbers; it strengthens my confidence seeing the same eagerness that I feel in your eyes to free us from our enemy’s siege at last! I understand that all of you want to go and avenge those of your kin and friends you lost to the Worm’s schemes, but make no mistake: even if we have the advantage of surprise on our side, it will still be a difficult and dangerous undertaking! Chances are that yet more lives will be lost and more sacrifices must be made before the sun will rise over a freed Edoras tomorrow. Our enemy has holed up in Meduseld with his Dunlending brethren, and while the hillfolk has never been adept at close-quarter battle, it will not be easy to make use of our greater number and superior skill in the confined tunnels within the hill. We must also not forget that Gríma’s greatest advantage are his hostages.He still holds the King and the White Lady prisoner, and possibly even more members of the Royal Household as well; thus it must be our priority to ensure that they will not come to harm.”

“Where does he hold them?” a voice asked, and Éothain turned to the older warrior who had uttered it. “In the dungeon?”

“We do not know,” the young Captain said truthfully. “Yet for a variety of reasons we suspect that the King and Lady Éowyn are kept inside their chambers, while the others are being held in the dungeon – presumed they are still alive.” A sharp intake of breath from many mouths could be heard over the square. “For this reason, we must be extraordinarily quick and coordinated in our attack; once we are in the tunnels, there is no room for error. Áedwulf and I will now select the men who will accompany us, and I must ask everyone else who remains outside to be patient. We all want to rip off the Worm’s head, but please, do not walk up to the Hall just yet! Our foe is cunning, and for sure has he manned the windows of Meduseld with his guards. I doubt that they can see or hear us down here for as long as we keep our voices low, but a large group of you suddenly walkingup the path in the middle of the night would beyond doubt be noticed. One half of our éored will hold itself ready in the storage shed beneath the hall from where they can see the western windows, and as soon as we gain access to the Hall and the hostages are safe, we give them the signal. Only then will they attack the door and windows, and you are free to follow them. We will come at the enemy from two sides, and the Worm does not have enough forces to withstand us. But you must wait for the signal, or our attack might result in the death of the hostages. Most of you know which parts of the city can be observed from above, so make sure that you wait somewhere else. Hold yourself ready and be prepared, because then will be the time to repay our foes in blood for all they did to us.”

Éothain fell silent, and again his gaze wandered over the eager faces before him., a grim smile tugging at his mouth. He surely did not want to be in Wormtongue’s place now. Was there anything left to say, something he had forgotten perhaps, or was it truly the time to act now? He looked at Áedwulf, and saw the older warrior nod with a satisfied expression on his bearded face.

“Very well. All men of our éored stay here, and the rest of you, go and take up your positions. It is time.”

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Midnight had passed when the sixty warriors Éothain and Áedwulf had selected for the attack through the tunnels made their way to the back of the hill. Together they had chosen those men most experienced at close-quarters battle and those most skilled with the bow, and sent the others to the shed to wait for their signal. Now the men followed them in perfect silence, their unseen approach favoured by the darkness of the new moon. A perfect night for an assault, but of course Wormtongue had to know that as well. Underestimating their foe would result in disaster.

As they approached the tunnel’s entrance, careful to tread silently on the rocky terrain, Éothain suddenly noticed a pale light emanating from their destination and lifted his hand. Immediately the men stopped and sought cover in the thick shadows, while their young Captain crouched behind the nearest rock and listened tensely into the night.

“What is it?” Áedwulf whispered into his ear, not yet having detected the source of his friend’s concern from his position behind Éothain’s broad back. “Have you heard something?’”

“There’s light.” Éothain pointed his finger at the soft glow. Moving his lips in a silent curse, Áedwulf likewise ducked behind the rock.

“Guards! That accursed filth! How can he have learned of our plan? I refuse to believe that there is a traitor among us.”

“I do not think that the Worm knows about it,” Éothain murmured under his breath. “He is simply being cautious. I suspect that it means our ploy with the glass worked, and that the dog is dead. It could be coincidence, but we both know Wormtongue well enough. He does not believe that such things happen at random. Perhaps he smells something, but he can’t be sure.”

“But what if he suspects foul play? If he positioned a host of Dunlending in that cave, we have a problem. Not that we could not defeat them, but we could hardly hope to do so unheard.”

“That is true, but I do not believe so either. Anyway, we will know it soon enough.” With a brief glance back over his shoulder, Éothain quickly found among the anxious faces of their warriors the one he had looked for: Léod, a serious young man of nineteen summers whose skill with the bow was only surpassed by his stealth. The man he needed right now, and the youth understood his silent order immediately, for their eyes had barely met when he already pushed through his bewildered kinsmen to report to his commander.

“What can I do, Captain?”

“It looks as if our foe planted guards at the tunnel’s entrance. You and I, we will go and make short shrift of them now; quickly and soundlessly.” Éothain cut the young man a scrutinizing glance. “Shall we go?” He noticed with satisfaction that he could not detect even the slightest sign of fear in the keen eyes before him.

“Aye, Captain. Ready whenever you say.”

“Áedwulf, you and the men wait here for our sign. Come, Léod.” Without a second glance, Éothain turned to go. With a curt nod at the éored’s second-in-command, the young warrior followed him, seeking his way through the treacherously loose gravel with the sure-footedness of a goat.

Silently they approached the entrance, now able to pick up pieces of a muffled conversation from below. Straining to understand the words, Éothain quickly established that there were only two different voices. Did it mean that there were only two guards to be dealt with? Or were there more, sleeping nearby perhaps, while those two they were hearing held watch? Again he held his breath to listen to their adversaries’ quiet exchange, but it was the guttural language of the Dunlendings that reached his ears, and he did not understand a word. Looking up, Éothain saw Léod silently shake his head to indicate that he, too, could not follow the conversation, but then he laid a finger against his lips and cautiously edged closer to the hole to take a glance inside.

His fingers clenching the heft of his sword, Éothain tensed. It was impossible to see anything through the magical blanket; the light which had betrayed the new arrangement seeping out only from underneath the loose edges. It complicated the situation tremendously: in order to not alert other potential guards, they needed to kill the two below them instantly, not allowing them a single sound. How were they supposed to shoot with such accuracy if they couldn’t even see their targets? Looking back to where he could make out Áedwulf’s dark shape, Éothain wrecked his brain for a solution, yet before he could think of a new plan, Léod returned from his foray and leant close to his ear.

“There’s only two of them,” he whispered, his words barely audible. “There is a small tear in the fabric through which I saw them. They’re armed and clad in mail, but they’re also sitting right below the blanket - impossible to miss. With an arrow to their heads, they will be dead before they hit the ground… or we could jump in and cut their throats, but that could result in a fight.”

Éothain shook his head.

“No, that is too risky. The entrance is too narrow to allow us both in at the same time. We’ll shoot them, but through the neck or the eye. Dunlendings have strong bones; arrows might not penetrate their skulls.”

“We’ll have to shoot at an angle then. Very well.” The youth nodded eagerly, already turning around to crawl back to the opening.

“Can you do it?”

“I know how to shoot that way, Captain. I’ve done it before.” Silently, Léod made his way back, and with a last glance at the rock where the rest of their éored waited, Éothain followed him… and as he approached the faint glow of the fire, he felt at last battle-readiness flood his veins. ‘I’m coming, Father! Hold on but a little longer! I’m almost there!’

With infinite caution, the two Rohírrim positioned themselves around the hole, and Léod pointed out the tear in the blanket to his commander. His heartbeat pounding in his ears as he craned his neck to cast a glance inside, Éothain immediately detected the two Dunlendings below him. They were indeed wearing light armour, making a fast killing shot difficult… but not impossible. Slanting his scout an intense gaze as he lifted his hand, Éothain communicated his order with two quick gestures: he would take the right man… and they would aim at their enemies’ eyes. Nodding, the young man unslung his bow and fitted an arrow to the string without looking. Although occupied with his own preparations, Éothain could not help being impressed with his kinsman’s calm demeanour in the moment of truth. This was a man to keep an eye on, destined for great deeds in this war… provided he survived this night. With a deep, soundless breath, Éothain focussed on his target. They would have to shoot simultaneously.

The Dunlending was restlessly moving his head, looking nervous. And how right he was to feel this way, for these last breathes he took would be his last, Éothain thought with grim satisfaction; his eyes narrowed to slits. The string touching his cheek, he drew back the arrow and took aim, moving with the target ever so slightly and anticipating its next move. The eye was a small mark to hit, but now the son of Céorl felt the great calm he always felt before mastering a difficult shot. Béma was looking at him now; he could not miss.

As if sensing his peril, the Dunlending suddenly looked up – and collapsed in a lifeless heap as Éothain’s arrow embedded itself in his eye with a sharp thwack. A heartbeat later, his friend dropped to the ground as well. Briefly his fingers flexed in the dirt, then with a shudder, all tension left the man’s body. Outside, the two assassins waited with baited breath for the alarm that would away give their deed … but it remained calm. Cautiously Éothain lifted the blanket and peered down. The Dunlendings lay still now, very obviously dead, their remaining eyes staring unfocussed at the intruders. An unconscious smile wandered over the Captain’s face. It was only the first part of the rescue, but so far it was going well. Quickly looking up to motion the anxiously waiting éored over, Éothain lowered himself into the cave, taking the blanket with him as he would need it for the following, crucial part of their plan.

As Áedwulf and the others arrived at the cave’s entrance, Éothain preceded a few cautious steps into the tunnel to listen into the quiet while his gaze darted over the dark rocks. Only few torches along the uneven, precarious path had been lit, making the darkness in the tunnel almost complete. No doubt is was another precaution ordered by Gríma, as it would put intruders at a severe disadvantage against the hillfolk, who were used to moving through the bowels of the Misty Mountains every day. They’d have to watch their steps and the stairs.

As there was nothing else of interest to see, Éothain turned back to where his men were still lowering themselves into the cave. One glance at Áedwulf and a curt nod confirmed that so far, everything was going as planned, but it was clear to all of them that the difficult part of their rescue attempt was still to follow. With a deep breath, Éothain unfolded the magical garment in his hands… and threw it over his head, disappearing right in front of his soldiers’ eyes. He would precede and shield them from their enemies’ eyes in case of the unlucky incident they encountered them on their way up.

“Éothain?” Áedwulf asked quietly, his voice barely more than a breath, and deep discomfort could be seen on his face over not being able to see his brother-in-arms. Involuntarily, he reached out. Behind him, the men not yet acquainted with the garment’s effect although they had been told about it whispered excitedly.

“I’m still here,” Éothain murmured, and pressed one end of the invisible garment into his friend’s hand. “Hold on to this, but don’t pull. Are we good to go?”

The warriors readied their bows and stared at the void where they knew the son of Céorl to be. They were ready. Whoever they’d encounter on the stairs would be dead before he could utter a sound.

“Good. Now follow me… and watch your step; the ground is uneven. A single false step might be enough to alert the enemy of our coming…”

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EASTEMNET

A horrible scream woke Éomer from a diffuse dream of fire, raging water and glimpses of a bloody battle, and he sat up groggily, his hand on the heft of his sword. For the longest moment, the son of Eomund stared into the darkness in profound disorientation, not at all certain whether the terrified scream had not been part of the nightmare that had haunted his sleep. Yet before he could decide, the cry was repeated, and this time, it did not stop. It was a sound of utter terror, freezing his blood as he jumped to his feet with his sword in his hand. Who was it? Who was attacking them? Gradually he became aware of a flurry of frenzied activity all around him; movements and shouts and the screams of terrified horses.

“What is it? What is wrong with him?”

“Help him, please, Gandalf!”

“Let me through!”

As he strode toward the clamour, Èomer’s memory returned with a jolt: they were still on the road to Edoras, somewhere in the Eastemnet. Although they had initially planned to ride through the night, exhaustion and the road’s bad condition had at last forced them to stop and wait for daylight, of which he could not yet see a sign on the eastern horizon. For how long had he slept?

“No! No! Please, no! Help me! Help me!”

The voice belonged to one of the two hobbits. A nightmare? But shouldn’t he calm down now that he had woken and found the source of his terror gone? Alarmed by the sheer terror in the Halfling’s shouts, Éomer stepped pushed through the cluster of warriors that had gathered around the scene.

“Pippin! Pippin, look at me!” Gandalf’s authoritative voice could be heard now. “Pippin!” The last shout died in an agonised sob. “It’s over. It’s gone. You are save. What happened, tell me, quickly!” And then, after a short interruption: “No. Tell me that you did not--”

“I-I-I… I only wanted to take one look, Gandalf! Please, I meant no harm!”

“And by now you ought to know that that is usually when the worst happens, Peregrin Took!” The Wizard snorted, and his tone changed from concern to anger in a heartbeat… and there was also an incredible urgency to it that troubled Éomer greatly. “Nevermind, since it has already happened – tell me what you saw.”

Clearing the crowd, Éomer beheld Gandalf and Aragorn kneeling on the ground next to the violently shivering Pipping, and the other Halfling – ‘Merry’, he remembered his name – knelt next to his friend, who sat hunched over and wrapped his elven cloak so tightly around himself as if the garment could make him disappear if only he did it right.

“Pippin, listen to me: you must tell me; it is important!”

“Tell him, Pip!” Merry soothed his friend, one hand on the younger hobbit’s back. “If there is danger ahead, we need to know of it!”

“I… I saw the Eye…” a terrified sob. “I knew that I was not supposed to look into it, but I-I thought-“

“You thought?” Gandalf boomed, shaking his head in anger, but already concern was getting the best of him again. “I doubt that. When will you ever learn, foolish Took? It will be too late when your curiosity has put us all in the grave.”

Ashamed, the young hobbit lowered his eyes. “When I looked into it, I knew at once that I had made a mistake, and I tried to look away, but… it was impossible. I could not take my eyes from it, although I felt this evil presence reaching out at me and seeing right into my head and heart. And then it asked me who I was…” The men around him exchanged worried glances, and Éomer furrowed his brow, still not understanding what had happened, except that it had to be something serious. He could not remember having ever seen the Grey Wanderer so anxious.

In a brave attempt to calm down, Pippin swallowed the last sob and asked: “Was it the Dark Lord, Gandalf? Was it Sauron?”

“You already know the answer to that, Pippin, or you would not be so afraid. So rightly afraid, I must add. He has seen you, and knows our whereabouts now. The question is what he will conclude from this. What did you answer when he asked you for your name?” The anxiety in Gandalf’s voice troubled Éomer more than anything else. Even if he had no inkling of their new predicament, it was an easy guess that the hobbit had committed a most serious mistake by… doing exactly what? And what was that talk about the Dark Lord’s eye? He exchanged a worried glance with Findárras who stood close by.

“Nothing.” Pippin whispered, now as much terrified by the wizard as by his dream… or vision… or whatever it had been. “I told him nothing, or at least I hope so. I was too horrified to speak, or think… but I do not know what he saw. It felt as if he invaded my … my whole being… as if he sucked everything I knew right out of my brain…” Laying a hand on his mouth in dismay, the hobbit’s eyes widened. “What if he saw Frodo and Sam--”

“Shush!” Gandalf interrupted him forcefully, looking about to close the hobbit’s mouth himself for good now. “Do not speak of it aloud; because as you have just been proven, the night has ears! There is nothing we can do to remedy what has happened, except hope that our foe has not found out about them.” A worried glance was exchanged between him and Aragorn as the two very different warriors rose to their feet. Merry helped his friend up and, laying an arm around Pippin for he was still shaking, led him away. As they pushed through the observing Rohirrim, Éomer thought he heard Merry’s consternated sigh: “Why do you always have to do those things, Pip?” He did not hear the answer, because at that moment, Findárras’ claimed his attention with a question.

“I still don’t understand just what he did. Did you?”

His mind entirely somewhere else while the Riders’ dispersed, chatting among themselves to make sense of the scene they had just witnessed, Éomer’s gaze remained on the Istar as he bent down and picked something up... something round, wrapped into a blanket. Something he had apparently deliberately waited to retrieve until no one would look… something Éomer had seen before. ‘It is a dangerous thing...’ Furrowing his brow he watched as the wizard quickly stowed away the mysterious object in the temporary safety of Aragorn’s saddlebags.

“I am not certain,” he remembered Findárras’ question at last, but held captive by Aragorn’s meaningful gaze. And yet their eyes had barely met when a hissed cry suddenly pierced the low murmurs of the dispersing riders. With distress the Marshal found that it originated from one of the always imperturbable elves.

“Something is approaching; something fell! Mithrandir!”

Fear reverberated in the cry, and the discovery froze Éomer’s blood. What on Arda’s green plains could scare a first-born when even the battle of Isengard and scores of enemies had not? Listening with baited breath in an attempt to determine from where the danger approached, Éomer suddenly felt the short hairs on the back of his neck and his arms rise. A deadly chill crept into his stomach. “What is this?”

And then he heard it, too, and his men as well. Low at first and distant, rather a vibration than a noise, but quickly rising in volume as it approached: a dull throbbing sound, slow but rhythmic, like a giant’s heartbeat, and it seemed to Éomer as if the inken blackness around them thickened and contracted to give birth to a creature of pure evil. A foul stench suddenly assaulted his nostrils, and suddenly, their steeds bolted, wild with terror. With a rush of air, the Riders raised their bows at the sky even if it was impossible to make out a target.

“Nâzgul!”

The Elven bows sang in unison; and a heartbeat later the sharp thwack the Rohirric arrows followed. Once more the dull flapping sound reached their ears, by now sounding mighty and close – and then a terrible screech pierced the night, and the warriors dropped to their knees and covered their ears in a vain attempt to shut out the blood-curdling screech while their hearts froze in terror.

Through the panicked din, Éomer suddenly heard Gandalf’s shout in a strange tongue, and the Istar’s voice vibrated with incredible power as he raised his staff. A white flame shot up from its tip, and the pale light illuminated a nightmarish scene: a gigantic worm-shaped thing swooped down at them from the sky, leathery wings folded on its back and mighty talons spread to grasp whatever it could reach. As the aberration raced toward Gandalf, a horrible maw filled with sword-long pointed teeth opened to devour the wizard and inside a blood-red forked tongue twitched in anticipation – and then a pained roar shook the night as the bolt of lightning hit the creature’s chest, and mighty wings unfolded over the Rohírrim to hoist its bulk back into the air.

The second before the fell beast disappeared into the night again, Éomer caught a glimpse of a falling limb and a river of black blood raining down– and of Aragorn, who stood challengingly upright with Anduril in his hands. Then darkness swallowed them, and with a rush of foul air and a tormented screech, their attacker fled. In stunned shock, the warriors stared at each other in the weak starlight, and the dull flapping of the winged demon vanished in the distance before the power of speech at last returned to the men.

“What in Béma’s name was that?” Findárras burst out, his trembling voice an indication of the horror they had just witnessed. All eyes turned to Aragorn and Gandalf. A weak light still emanated from the Istar’s staff, barely enough to enable the men to see each other, but the wizard’s grave expression could not be missed.

“That, Sons of Eorl, was the first glimpse of our true enemy. It was one of the Ringwraiths; one of the Dark Lord’s mightiest servants… and I fear that there are more of his kind.” Gandalf’s brow furrowed as he looked at Aragorn. “So their Master has given them new steeds at last. It is certainly no improvement to our situation.”

“He came for Pippin,” the Dúnadan said meaningfully, his gaze resting on the two hobbits who stood among the Rohírrim with wide, scared eyes. “When Pippin looked into the Palantír, he revealed our location to Sauron… and as chance would have it, one of his foul servants was close by, perhaps on the way to Isengard to find out what happened to his ally.” He exhaled, for a moment seeing only the hobbit. “He thinks you have the Ring.”

“We must continue to Edoras immediately,” Gandalf said forcefully, his gaze seeking Éomer among the warriors. “We cannot linger here even a moment longer. If that wraith returns with his brethren…”

“How many more are there of these things?” Éomer asked although he was not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Eight,” Aragorn replied, and uncomfortable glances were passed between the Rohírrim as it slowly dawned on the men what they were up against in this war. “And I agree, we cannot remain here. We must leave the plains, even if we can only proceed on foot until dawn.” He, too, looked at the Riders’ Marshal , and all heads turned toward Eomund’s son in expectation of his orders.

Éomer’s decision was made easy by the revelation that they had no choice. Out here on the plains, there was no cover should their attacker return with reinforcements… and at the same time, the thought that these aberrations could assault their unsuspecting kinsmen at Edoras froze his blood. No, they had to reach their destination as quickly as possible.

His gaze wandered over the expectant faces of his men, the tension among them palpable, and at last Éomer took a deep breath: “All right; we’ll proceed… but first, we will need to find our horses.”