Chapter 61: Hide and Seek

EDORAS

Éothain did not understand how it could be that, since he had first ascended the stairs, they seemed to have stretched to more than double their original length. Endlessly the narrow path spiralled upward in almost complete darkness; barely more than a fissure in the rock, and from his suppressed breathing and unbearable tension a nasty headache was beginning to pound behind the Rohír’s eyes. Stopping every few steps in a useless effort to loosen his muscles which vibrated under the unrelenting strain, the son of Céorl felt as if they had walked through the eternal darkness of the hill for hours until at last the long, soft curve leading to the intersection lay before them. Now it was only another twenty-six steps until they would see what destiny – or rather Gríma Wormtongue – had prepared for them.

Sensing Áedwulf close behind him, Éothain stopped and laid hands and ear against the rock, closing his eyes as he reached out with his senses. And he could hear it, however lowly: the merrily crackling fire whose faint flickering light illuminated the tunnel where they stood… the soft snoring of at least three men… and a deep sigh and lowly words spoken by someone who sounded very much awake. No sounds of a dog. Perhaps luck was on their side.

Briefly removing the blanket from his head, Éothain turned toward his men, and their concentrated expressions filled him with confidence. Aye, they were as ready for this task as they would ever be. With few gestures he communicated what he had heard, and that they had to expect at least two waking guards. If they would indeed not encounter more than five guards altogether at the intersection, their chances of disposing of them unnoticed by the enemy seemed good. In any case, his men knew what to do; their briefing had been thorough. It was clear who would follow whom into which tunnel, and who would shoot at the targets left or right they’d find. Since nothing else was left to say or do, Éothain disappeared under his camouflage again with a tense nod, and a moment later, the blanket in Áedwulf’s hand twitched as its wearer proceeded upstairs.

--------------------------

Felrod stared numbly into the twilight behind the flickering fire. Around him, his brethren snored like a pack of well-fed wargs, except for Gûthlaf who poked around in the fire with his empty iron spit, undeniably bored. Yet the big Dunlending hardly even perceived his presence. His thoughts were somewhere else, circling the one question that had occupied him for the past days without having found an answer: how could he have been so foolish to make his advances on his Master’s trophy although he had well-known that Éowyn was off-limits? Why had he not taken one of the scared kitchen-wenches instead for his pleasure? And how would Gríma punish him once Saruman’s army arrived and cleaned the hill and the lands around it of the strawheads forever? That there would be a punishment for his ill deed was out of the question for Felrod; after years in Gríma’s service, he knew his Master too well.

The big Dunlending frowned, and the shadows on his weathered, roughly-hewn face deepened. On the other side of the fireplace, Gûthlaf slanted him a quick glance from underneath his bushy brows, but knew better than to ask for the reason of his commander’s unease. It was dangerous to address Felrod when he was in such a fell mood, and Gûthlaf had learned his lesson weeks ago. So instead of asking, he shifted his attention back to the fire. Not that the others’ mood was much better, but at least they were sleeping now and not giving him any trouble. Despite Gríma’s promises, they were still waiting for their rescuers, and just yesterday the new Lord of Meduseld had brusquely stifled all questions concerning their army’s whereabouts, his pale eyes sparkling with annoyance as he shouted at them. Whether they believed him to be a liar, Gríma had asked, and none had dared to answer although there had not been a single man among them who did not doubt his words by now. Saruman’s hordes were on their way through the Westfold and would soon arrive to end their waiting, Gríma had promised once again, and then added with a meaningful glance that those who doubted him would truly be sorry by then.

His threat had been potent enough to suppress the hillmen’s silently brewing rebellion one more time, and yet Gûthlaf had seen something else in Gríma gaze besides his anger, and the discovery had troubled him far more than being unjustly shouted at: his Master was uncertain himself. With all his shouting and all his aggression, Gríma had not succeeded in concealing his own insecurity, and the revelation that their leader no longer seemed to believe in his own words had sent a chill down Gûthlaf’s spine. Without the White Wizard’s army, what would become of them?

The man from the Misty Mountains furrowed his brow as he pondered the possible implications. It was clear to them all that the Strawheads would strike back if they were given the time; history was full of such examples... and what they would do with an enemy who had insulted them to the core by taking their ruler hostage and desecrated the halls of their forefathers was something Gûthlaf did not even want to begin to imagine. Rapt in his own gloomy thoughts, he jumped as the sound of Felrod’s voice woke him from his contemplation. The big man rose to his feet and slanted him a contemptuous glance.

"I’ll make another round and make certain that the guards are in position... and not asleep." With a heavy boot, he prodded the man sleeping next to him in the side. "Wake up, you stinking rat! You’ve slept long enough!" A stern gaze grazed Gûthlaf. "If I catch any of you sleeping again when I return, you’ll not live to see the light of day, I swear!" And with that threat, he shuffled off into the tunnel leading to the dungeon. Gûthlaf’s black eyes followed him for a moment before he spat into the fire. He knew why Felrod had chosen that path even if he had tried to make his choice look arbitrary: nothing could lift his rotten mood better than passing on at least part of his misery to their captives.

Following the big man’s way until darkness swallowed him, Gûthlaf silently asked himself who Felrod would choose for his scapegoat tonight. Not that there was much choice left: since Céorl had passed beyond all torment, Elfhelm had undoubtedly become his Captain’s favourite, but in the course of the past days, his responses to his captor’s cruel assaults had weakened, too, and there was no doubt that the stout Eastfold warrior would be next to pass into the realm of his ancestors. That would leave only Gamling and a few insignificant servants for Felrod’s pleasure, as the King himself and his niece were off-limits. And what would Felrod do once this foul mood overcame him with no one left to take it out on; kill one of their own?

Not liking the prospects the least bit, Gûthlaf lifted his gaze to Wolf, the man Felrod had woken with his kick – when something in the darkness behind the man claimed his attention: it looked like a ripple in the air, a strange reflection where only darkness should have been. Furrowing his brow as he became aware of his comrade’s puzzlement, Wolf also began to turn around, and his hand went for his sword.

They were both too slow.

----------------------

There were indeed no more than five men, three of them sleeping, and no dog in sight, Éothain noticed with great relief as he peeked around the corner. Béma was with them! Drawing back his elbow to give Áedwulf the signal, Éothain spread out his arms to hold the blanket like a sheet before them while his men took positions. On the narrow path, Léod and his older brother Falk dropped to their knees, and their arrows pointed at the two waking men. Using the space below Éothain’s raised arms, Gelbrand and Brytta aimed for two of the sleeping Dunlendings while Áedwulf targeted the remaining man over his shoulder. For a moment, the warriors stood like a strange monument of war with their bows readied for the shot – when the first Dunlending’s head flew up and his eyes narrowed, and Éothain knew that they had been spotted.

What happened then seemed to go very slowly, and he saw it all detail: the man’s eyes bulged and his chest expanded with the breath for the cry that would give them away while his comrade still turned around – and then the arrows punched into them, simultaneously released so that only one sharp sound could be heard, and with a dull noise, their dead bodies dropped to the ground. Flawless! His breath escaped him in an almost painful, relieved burst.

Stuffing the blanket under his belt, Éothain unsheathed his sword and stepped into the intersection to prod his foot against the closest Dunlending’s side. To his right, Áedwulf stuck his sword into another foe’s chest who had twitched weakly. Their eyes met, displaying both encouragement and tenseness at the expectation of a dismayed shout from a foe they might have overlooked. And yet it remained quiet. With another deep breath, Éothain turned toward the left tunnel, believing it to be the one leading to the King’s chambers. The one he would take. Well-briefed, their men split into three groups behind him without question, and they separated. The invasion of Meduseld was finally underway.

As they ascended through the tunnel, Éothain changed back from sword to bow, and shortly behind him, Gelbrand and Áedwulf, too, only waited for the first target that would present itself to them. They did not have to wait for long.

"Felrod? Is that you?"

The question was cut short by their hail of arrows which also felled the men behind the questioner, and they stormed forth, knowing that whoever was left to guard the King’s chambers would now either raise the alarm or kill their prisoner, both of which they could not allow. They burst into the room, and in the twilight Éothain saw his assumption confirmed at once. From the embers in the fireplace, a red glow reflected on metal as a sword was lifted over a dark shape on the bed to his left – and then with a bright sound, it fell the tiled floor as Éothain’s arrow punched through its bearer’s chest. With his next arrow he killed the first Dunlending storming toward him, and then dropped the bow to go for his sword.

"Intruders! Intruders!" a voice yelled and suddenly ended in a pained grunt, and the night exploded into violence.

-------------------------

Gríma woke with a start. For a moment disorientated and not knowing what had ripped him out of his restless sleep, he straightened and listened breathlessly into the darkness. He had chosen the chair as his resting place for the night instead of his bed, because he could no longer bear to lie close to the living dead body of the woman he had desired and destroyed… and still he had it not found it in himself to leave her entirely and seek rest in Éomer’s deserted room or in one of the guest chambers. Neither had he ordered his men to carry Éowyn back to her own chambers where her sight would no longer distress him, for such an action would have meant admitting defeat to others beside himself. Even the not very bright Dunlendings would have understood the meaning of that measure, and although Gríma knew that he would never reach Éowyn in the secret realm to where she had fled, he was not yet ready to concede his defeat to his minions.

For a moment, his uncomfortable gaze wandered to her unmoving shape, almost having forgotten what had woken him – when the noise was repeated. His head jerked around, and without transition, his heartbeat accelerated as he listened breathlessly into the darkness. The noise was distant yet, barely more than a notion, and yet Gríma immediately understood what it meant: this was it, the attack he had expected. Somehow the enemy had found the tunnel, and now they came to have their revenge.

For a second, he sat in his chair, stunned, his stomach a solid block of ice and his legs two lifeless sticks attached to his body – and then a sudden panicked shout from within the hall loosened his paralysis.

"Intruders! Intruders!"

Jumping to his feet, Gríma lunged for his closet. For a moment, the massive darkness within looked inviting, and he had to fight the urge to hide inside its roomy dimensions. It was what a frightened child would do, but the cunning voice in the back of his head knew better: of course they would look for him in there first; it was too obvious a hiding place. No, he had only one chance...

-------------------

Preceding their group, Léod, Falk and Brytta stormed up the tunnel, ready to riddle whatever target presented itself with arrows. Yet despite the unmistakable sounds of battle erupting from somewhere behind them, their own path remained curiously free of enemies all the way until they moved aside a massive wall-hanging and burst into the large, dark room behind it. The large, dark – and empty – room. Quickly the warriors changed from bow to sword as they searched their surroundings: yet no one stood behind the heavy curtain or hid in the big wooden closet at the wall; nor where there any other secret niches or tunnels to be found behind the other tapestries... but there was a dark, unmoving shape on the big four-poster to their left. That the person had not even stirred upon their entry could mean only one thing, and on reluctant feet which did not want to carry him there for fear what he would find, the young scout walked over.

"Who is that?" Brytta asked behind him, and unanimously, the men pointed their swords toward the bed as if they feared that the shadow could suddenly jump at them. With a huge lump forming in his throat, Léod stared down upon the slender shape. Had they found the first casualty of Wormtongue’s malice? Whose chambers were these? The King’s? Had they found their dead King? Involuntarily holding his breath, he bent over the lifeless body – and suddenly drew in a dismayed gasp.

"My Lady! My Lady! Gods, no!" He looked at the others. "It is the Lady Éowyn!"

"Éowyn!"

"Béma--"

Heated and horrified curses were spat into the darkness, and for a moment, despair bore heavily down upon the warriors as they stood around the bed, their eyes lowered to escape the sight of their horrible find. The White Lady of Rohan... dead?

"Go and light the signal!" Brytta ordered the others, and they stormed off. "They are waiting for it outside!" He inhaled deeply, the pain in his gaze mirrored by Léod as he looked at the young scout. "Cover her and follow us. Quickly." Thankful to leave the room, he turned and left the youngest member of their group to his task.

Reluctantly, Léod stepped closer, and his insides twisted into a knot. He had not known Marshal Éomer’s sister personally, but Éowyn’s withdrawn, sad beauty and the inner strength radiated by her eyes had inspired many wistful thoughts among the warriors of Edoras although it had always been understod without question that the King’s niece was unattainable for commoners like them. There was not a man to be found in the city and beyond who would not have torn himself in two for the White Lady... and yet they had failed; she was dead.

A cry of despair rose in Léod’s throat as he stared into Éowyn’s expressionless eyes. How did they deserve this cruel fate that despite their courageous attack, all that seemed to be left to do for them was to cover the corpses of their killed instead of saving their people? Bending over Éowyn’s still shape, Léod grasped the blanket to draw it over her head... and paused. Again he regarded her intently. No, it was folly... or was it? What good would it do, despite giving him nightmares for the rest of his life? And still he could not help himself as he laid his hand against her slender neck, expecting to find her skin cold to the touch and her body slack with death.

Were the others also dead, he wondered. All members of the Royal Household? The King and his guard; Háma, Gamling and all the others who had disappeared after the Worm had seized control over the Golden Hall? Had they entered a tomb by storming Meduseld? A strong, regular pulse throbbed against his fingertips and Léod stared down, dumbfounded and for a moment failing to comprehend. The White Lady was still alive? But then why did she not respond? What had Gríma done to the King’s niece?

"My Lady Éowyn? Can you hear me? Give me a sign if you can." Intently, he stared at the still pale face hoping to see even a faint hint of an expression there, a wink or – he was not alone! Swivelling before he rationally understood what had alarmed him, Léod pointed his sword – at the void behind him. There was no one. Deep lines forming on his brow, he narrowed his eyes. What had it been? A noise? The fleeting feeling of warmth on the back of his neck, a careless breath? What? All his instincts cried out and alerted him of another presence in the room, and yet his eyes refused to reveal his foe. Dropping into a crouch, Léod stared into the darkness beyond the tip of his sword...

---------------------

Still like a stone, Gríma Wormtongue stood with his back against the wall, and his fingers flexed around the hilt of his dagger. He did not breathe, did not even dare to blink as the young warrior stared right at him – and through him. The youth was almost within reach, the tip of his sword only few inches from Wormtongue’s chest, and for a heartbeat, Léod looked to Gríma’s eyes as if he were about to slash the air upon the slightest sign of a disturbance. Perhaps if he moved first, he would be faster, Gríma thought, his muscles tense with anticipation of the thrust with which he would cut through the Rohír’s neck. But he hesitated.

------------------------

Breathlessly, Léod listened into the darkness through the thunder of his heartbeat. His whole body prickled with the notion of being observed, with the feeling of prying eyes upon himself, but try as he might, he could not detect the spy. There were not many hiding places in this room and they had already searched them all... all but one. Cautiously he knelt down to look underneath the bed... but found the space there empty as well.

------------------------

Gríma’s jaw clenched, and his fingers around the dagger twitched in anticipation. It would be child’s play to cut the youth’s throat right now while he was on the floor and his attention distracted, and for a heartbeat, the urge was almost too powerful to resist. But then Wormtongue heard the others in the adjourning room and restrained himself. Even if he succeeded in killing the young man with one strike, the noise of the lifeless body hitting the ground would alert his kinsmen, and Gríma harboured no illusions that even if he made it into the tunnel before the Rohírrim found their dead comrade, his chances of survival would be slim.

Against all odds, they had found the entrance to the tunnels, which meant that they knew of the existence of the magical fabric by now. From there it was only a small jump to the revelation of what had happened and in the narrow pathway, there would be no evading the furious Rohírrim if they ever overtook him. Knowing his own awkwardness on the dark stairs, Gríma did not doubt that the warriors would be faster than he, and all his invisibility would not protect him from a well-aimed arrow or sword-strike when they found him. No, escaping that way not an option, as much as he wanted to leave the hated enemies with a last token of his hatred to spoil their victory.

And still he loved his own life more. Forcing himself to remain silent and wait for the assailants to leave the room and join the battle in the Golden Hall which he heard now erupting in the distance, Gríma waited. All which lay between him and a gruesome death was the thin layer of Saruman’s cloak...

------------------------

"Léod! What is keeping you? Come quickly!" Falk stuck his head in the room, and upon his shout his brother jumped. "We gave the signal; fighting will soon commence. They need us in the hall. Perhaps we can even open the door for them."

"I’m coming." Straightening, Léod furrowed his brow as he slowly rose to his feet, reluctant to leave these chambers when his whole being told him of a yet undetected danger. And yet Falk was right: the room was empty, and their Captain needed them in the battle against the Worm’s henchmen. With a sad glance at Éowyn, he shook his head and turned to go... and suddenly whirled around to slash at the air in an impulse he did not understand himself.

His hand on the heft of his half-drawn sword, Falk took a quick step back. "Léod?" He narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"

His chest rising and falling with deep breaths, Léod took a last glance around. For a moment, he could have sworn that there had been someone else in the room; had almost felt the malicious gaze upon his back like the touch of a feather. It was hard to accept that his nerves apparently had played tricks on him, even if he usually wasn’t prone to such weakness.

Irritated by himself, Léod tried to push back the thought to clear his head for battle as he stormed out of the room, unaware that he was passing right before the foe he had looked for…

------------------------

Tension fell from Gríma in a huge lump, relief so intense it was almost painful, and he had to shut his eyes. For a moment, he was unable to move. Whatever had prompted the young Rohír’s last furious slash, it had almost settled Wormtongue’s fate: missing him by the breath of hair, the blade had scythed through the air before him, and only at the last possible moment had Gríma succeeded to suppress his terrified gasp that would have given him away.

The door in the adjourning room opened and for a moment, the noise of fighting increased as the Rohírrim stormed out.

"You two, stay here;" Gríma - to his dismay – heard an urgent whisper just before the door closed again. "Guard her with your life!"

He waited with baited breath, but the warriors left for the protection of Éowyn’s hollow shell remained outside, and slowly, Wormtongue’s heartbeat slowed down enough for his mind to take command again. His mutilated lip a thin line, he stared at the prone figure on the mattress, and unconsciously, his fingers clenched around the heft of his dagger. There was still one possibility to turn victory into defeat for the proud, sure Eorlingas. Even if they succeeded in claiming back their cursed wooden barn from him, he would make sure that there was nothing else to salvage for them.

His dark eyes even darker with renewed purpose, Gríma stepped forth, and the dagger felt good in his hand as he silently approached the bed...