Chapter 62: Forth, Éorlingas!

THE KING'S CHAMBERS

Like a madman Éothain scythed his way through the attacking Dunlendings, at last able to unleash the accumulated frustration and rage of many years against his enemies, and none could hope to withstand his furious charge. He made them pay for all the fear and hurt their people had endured during Gríma Wormtongue's secret reign. He made them pay for the banishment of his best friend and his own feelings of guilt over not having accompanied Éomer into exile; he made them pay for the shock over seeing his wounded father and Éowyn in their foe's grasp; and he punished them for Gûthlaf's assault on Maelwyn and for all the things he had forgotten over the years but which had caused him many grievous days and sleepless nights. It was a relief.

Hewing the hillmen like grass, Éothain quickly reached the big four-poster to which Théoden-King had been tied in a most ignoble position, and behind him, Áedwulf and his men dispatched the remaining foes in the chambers and then quickly locked the door to the adjacent Throne Room. Not a moment to soon did they reach it, for even as the snap of the lock reached their ears, the wood reverberated under the impact of the guards in the hall rushing to their brethren's aid. Angered and dismayed shouts and threats were yelled through the door, and the Rohírrim understood that it would not shield them from the enemy for long. Where were the other groups now? In order to overcome their adversaries, they needed to storm the Throne Room together from several sides at once, and in the ensuing commotion, hopefully gain access to the door leading outside to let in the rest of their éored.

After dropping his last opponent with a vicious thrust through the man's chest, Éothain quickly established that all foes in the room had been killed before he turned to his King with a respectful nod.

"Sire, we have come to free you, and all who are held hostage in the Golden Hall. Are you well?" Barely daring to look at his ruler for fear to embarrass Théoden-King in his helpless position, the son of Céorl sheathed his sword and instead drew a dagger to cut his ruler's ties.

"Now that you here, I feel much better than I have in a long time, Éothain!" Théoden said and grimaced as he rubbed his wrists, which were raw and chafed from the long time in ties. Even though Éothain only dared to look at him from underneath his eyebrows, he flinched at the sight of the King's gaunt, drawn features, which not even the faint smile that spread now over Théoden's face could brighten. "But tell me, Captain, did you not bring more men with you? For I fear that they are not enough to overcome Wormtongue's minions."

"Aye, my Lord; we thought of that: there are two more groups, each as large as ours, and they will enter Meduseld through the other tunnels, so that we will be able to attack them from all sides at once. Once we win the door to the terrace, we will let in the rest of the éored as well, which – I think, will be more than sufficient to defeat the filth. How many men has the Worm at his disposal, perhaps you can tell us?"

"I'm afraid I can't, for all I ever saw were the men the Worm appointed as my guards. I suppose the rest of them sneaked into the hall through the other tunnels. Gríma never mentioned their number, but even if he had, that piece of information would have been highly unreliable." He inhaled deeply. "Yet I doubt that there could be more than one hundred men in his service; likely even less." A loud bang from the door interrupted Théoden, and for a moment, the wood seemed about to burst under the impact. With a grim and determined look on his pale face, the King of Rohan struggled to sit up. Even in the flickering twilight, he looked weak and sick to the watching men, but an alertness of his gaze Éothain had not seen in years nevertheless gave the warrior new hope. Again the door bent under the assault from outside, and an ominous creaking reached their ears.

"It will not hold for much longer," Áedwulf warned and stepped closer, urgency written all over his face. "Sire, we must get you to safety! Can you walk?"

"I assure you that you will not have to carry me like a frightened child, Captain," Théoden said with all the dignity he could muster, involuntarily straightening. "Give me a sword, and I will be able to defend myself." And yet to his dismay, nausea overwhelmed him as soon as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and with a groan which could not be suppressed, he squeezed his eyes shut. "Béma, what has that Snake done to me? I will kill him with my own hands if I get the chance!"

Before him, Éothain and Áedwulf exchanged worried glances, but before they could reach a decision about their further course of action, the din at the door suddenly ceased and was replaced with dismayed shouts. Áedwulf grinned, as it was clear to him what had happened.

"The others made it into the Throne Room," Éothain explained excitedly to his King, and waved three of his men over. "Gelbrand, Aldor, Fyrth, you stay here. Guard our King with your life." The warriors inclined their heads in acknowledgement. On impulse, Éothain stooped to take the sword from the nearest dead Dunlending, registering that it was a Rohirric weapon originating from their own armoury, and handed it to Théoden. "My Lord, I must apologize for this is certainly not a worthy blade for the King of the Mark—"

"—but it will do until I get Herugrim back from Gríma," Théoden calmed him, inwardly cursing his own weakness as he accepted the sword from Éothain's hands. How much he would have given to accompany these brave men and avenge himself on his captors! But as if to emphasize his weakness to him, the twilit interior of his chambers spun again before his eyes, and he had to shut his eyes as he leant heavily against the headrest. "Go, Captain, and take my good wishes with you. Free our people from this filth! And please, if you can, find and protect my niece. I do not know what the traitor did to her or where he is keeping her, but--"

"We will, Sire," Éothain promised, but dreaded to find that he would not be able to keep his word. "No matter how well Gríma prepared his men, I am certain that they do not know more than the mere the basics of sword-play. None of those we encountered so far did, and I presume that the best of them were assigned the task of guarding you. These here." He indicated the dead Dunlendings on the floor, and then quickly strode over to the door where the others stood with their swords readied. A last glance found the three men appointed the protection of their ruler. "Lock the door behind us and do not open it until battle is over and you hear the signal." Sheathing his sword, he laid one hand on the handle and grasped the protruding key with the other. With a small nod, Áedwulf confirmed that they were ready. A deep breath, a tensing of all muscles – and out they went into the fray…

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GRÍMA WORMTONGUE'S CHAMBERS

As battle erupted outside his chambers, Gríma came to a halt beside his bed, and it took all remains of his courage to look at the greatest failure of his life. His hand which had held the dagger so confidently and would not have hesitated to cut the throat of the young Rohírric warrior only a moment ago, trembled now hard as he stared at Éowyn's blank face. His beautiful lady, the grace of Edoras, was staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, unaware that death was but a heartbeat away. She was what he had lived for – and now she was the monument of his shame, the embodiment of his evilness proven to all who would see her. How had it come to this?

With a deep sigh, Gríma son of Gálmód sought the courage within himself to do what needed to be done for vengeance' sake as he sat down on the mattress beside the White Lady of Rohan. Éowyn had always seemed so strong, as if nothing, not even the worst atrocity he could throw at her could ever unsettle her, and secretly, he had cherished their endless controversies and deemed the King's niece a worthy opponent, well-deserving of his attention. Never once had he thought that his mind games could also destroy her.

Swallowing at the thought, Gríma nevertheless could not help himself: reluctant at first, but at the same time unable to suppress the urge, he gently brushed his fingers over Éowyn's cheek, a butterfly's caress none of those who knew him would ever have thought within his capability. As his hand slowly traced the outline of her gaunt face and the delicate curve of her mouth – how dry her lips were, how sunken her eyes! - the faint whiff of warmth rose from Éowyn's lips against his skin, and all of a sudden, her shape blurred before Wormtongue's eyes and his throat tightened. Suddenly, the hot wetness of tears trickled over his cheeks, and his hand with the dagger trembled more than ever. The guards in the adjacent room were all but forgotten. He and his lady, they were together in a separate realm now, a place no one else could ever enter, and how much would Gríma have given just to have her look at him… to beg for her forgiveness.

In a sudden, violent fit of self-disgust, he took his hand away as if he had burnt himself.

"Gods, help me do this…"

These were the last moments he would ever spend with the love of his life. This was farewell, not good-bye, and Gríma knew that this last image of his love would remain edged into in his mind and heart to the day he died. The thought cut through his insides like a knife. Did he really want to spoil his memories of Éowyn with the sight of her blood gushing onto the sheets? Did he want to ruin his memento of those glorious blue eyes by seeing them break? He swallowed, and fought against rising despair, unable to reach a decision. Éowyn's death would hurt the Rohírrim more than anything else he could otherwise conceive; it would cut them to the bone ... but it would also leave him dead inside. What to do? He had to be on his way, had to use the distraction of the battle outside for his own escape, or he would not leave Edoras alive.

But then again... what did he have left to live for once he was out of here? And what had she left to live for? With no parents, and her brother and cousin dead because of his scheming, the only kin left to her was the King… and after his enormous failure in the protection of his people, how would she ever be able to look at her Uncle with anything but bitterness, even if they both survived?

No, no matter whether his Dunlendings killed Théoden before the attackers would overcome them, Éowyn would forever hear her brother's death-sentence coming from his mouth. There was no way that she could continue to love the old man, and all others had been taken from her. His greed had left her bereft of all she loved. Wouldn't it indeed be more merciful under these circumstances to cut her throat or pierce her heart to give her a quick death, instead of letting her waste away until she would die from grief and despair? Even if Éowyn woke from that horrible state someday, wouldn't desperation sooner or later drive the proud shieldmaiden to take her own life? He could slit her throat now and spare her the agony.

Supporting his weight with one hand, Gríma bent over her, and breathed a tender kiss onto her pale, cold cheek.

"Farewell, my love," he whispered under his breath, and smoothed away a strand of Éowyn's once golden tresses… and, on impulse, cut it off. It pained him to look at it, but he could not leave her without a token of memory. Absent-mindedly, he stuffed it into his pocket. "If we cannot be together in this realm, we will be united in the afterlife. I will find you wherever you are, and prove my love to you. I promise that to you, my love. I swear it. Sleep well now, White Lady of Rohan."

Tearing his gaze from her face, Gríma set the blade against Éowyn's neck. Even in the thick twilight he thought he saw the pulsing of her heartbeat in the thick vein underneath her pale skin. His hand with the dagger trembled. There was still life inside her, although it would not be apparent at first sight. Éowyn's body was still alive, even if her spirit had been destroyed. Only a little more pressure now, and her end would come quickly. She would not even feel the cut in her present state. He inhaled deeply…

…and broke away, his hands trembling so hard that he almost dropped the knife. He could not do it. It was impossible. With an anguished sob, the former counsellor tore himself from the sad proof of his greed, hating his own weakness as he hastily grasped his cloak and disappeared in the deep blackness of the secret tunnel…

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THE DUNGEON

Elfhelm was unconscious. Dissatisfied with his finding, Felrod's fingers clenched the bars of the cell and his eyes narrowed in a stubborn attempt to find a hint that the Captain of Aldburg was only faking his feeble state. Yet even as he threw the bowl of stew at him which he had used earlier to tantalize the starving man with its smell, the wounded warrior did not react, and Felrod understood at last that he would have to find a different target for his accumulated frustration. Not that there was much choice left since Céorl had died, and torturing Théoden's old brother-in-arms, Gamling, was simply not as satisfactory. Although possessed of the same Rohirric willpower as his kinsmen, the man was already a few years past his prime and did not seem to Felrod like a worthy opponent… which also ruled out the other members of the Royal Household held captive. He could force himself on some kitchen wench and let her feel his frustration, but satisfaction was not to be had from the degradation of weaklings.

He had felt triumphant sending Éomer out to die in the wilderness. He had revelled in playing his devious tricks with Céorl for as long as the man had been responsive. Beating the Captain of Edoras to a bloody pulp in front of his shocked men had been one of his greatest rewards, and also telling the proud Elfhelm of Aldburg lies about how he had killed his friend, the Third Marshal, and of all the horrible things his Master had done to that haughty thing the people called the White Lady. No, torturing an old man could not even begin to compare with the breaking of such strong men as Céorl and Éomer and Elfhelm… but if there was no other fun to be had tonight, he'd make the best of it. With a derogative snort, the half-blood turned away from the sight of Elfhelm's prone body.

"If you think you can hide from me forever, you will find out you're wrong, strawheaded bastard!" Felrod sneered, and his fingers involuntarily flexed around the bar in an imitation of wringing the Rohír's neck. "I'll find something to wake you up, and next time I come, you and I will have lots of fun! That is a promise!" His mood even darker than before, Felrod pushed himself off and strode toward the corridor where the Captain of the Royal Guard was incarcerated… when a noise stopped him dead in his tracks. "What the--"

Swivelling and holding his breath, the big man stared at the black hole at the end of the corridor, the mouth of the tunnel leading down to the intersection. Someone was coming up the stairs, and by the noise alone Felrod could tell that it was none of his brethren. No, it sounded more as if an entire host was on the way to the dungeon, and from the faint echoes of battle the rock carried to him now it was an easy guess who was about to pay him an unexpected visit in the dead of night. A grim smile spread over his dirty face. Well, they were certainly most welcome!

A moment later, Felrod had unsheathed his sword –which had formerly been Céorl's blade, but dead men didn't mind losing their weapons to worthier owners– and scurried toward the opening with amazing stealth for a man of his build. Never once did it enter his mind to call for aid as he hid beside the tunnel's mouth, where the attackers would not see him until it were too late. Somehow Felrod doubted that the Rohírrim in their arrogance counted on meeting resistance on this secret path. Well, all the better for him. Expectantly he weighed the heavy blade in his hands, ready and eager to hew the first man the secret passage presented to him. The path was so narrow that it could be held by a single man against a vast group of attackers, and hadn't he, after all, come this way to inflict some bloodshed on the despicable strawheads? Apparently, someone up there had heard his silent prayers.

Felrod's grin broadened, revealing stained teeth as he tensed in the semi-darkness. The assailants were almost upon him now.

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THE GREAT HALL

"The door! Léod, to the door, quickly!"

The shout was almost drowned out by the deafening clamour of battle, the grunting and swearing, the groaning and screaming and rustling of clothes, and over all, the bright hard sound of swords meeting, but Léod did not have to hear the words to understand his task. Together with Falk and Brytta, the most-experienced warrior of their group, he charged through the attacking Dunlendings toward the Golden Hall's barricaded entrance. On the other side of the dark throne room, he dimly made out more adversaries before the door that lead to the King's chambers, and their excitement could only mean one thing: Éothain had made it to Théoden's rooms!

Excitement lent him new strength, and with a fierce cry, the young man skewered the nearest foe and jumped over him in one fluent movement. The Captain's plan was going well: the enemy had been utterly surprised by their attack and unable to coordinate their resistance yet. Even as Léod turned toward the door to clear the obstacles away and open its wings for the rest of their éored which he could already hear outside, he saw from the corner of his eye the door to the King's chambers burst open and spill more Rohírrim at the dismayed Dunlendings.

"Léod, come! Help me!" Falk, his older brother by four years, shouted with an expression of utmost urgency on his face and pushed against the pile of heavy-looking sacks the enemy had used to block the doors from within. Shielded from the enemy by the rest of their group, they quickly cleared an opening wide enough to reach the strong iron bolt which secured the heavy wings. On the other side, the rest of their éored pounded against the thick wood, and Léod knocked his fist against it to give the warriors the signal just as a crossbow bolt embedded itself in the wood beside his head with a sharp thwack.

For a heartbeat unsettled by the realisation how close death had been, the young scout looked at the projectile.

"Ready?" Barely acknowledging the fact that his brother had almost been killed, Falk adjusted his hands underneath the bolt, and together, the two brothers pushed it from its setting. The door swung open, and before them in the darkness stood more Rohírrim than they could count in a rush. "Come in, brothers, there are plenty for of them for all of us!"

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From the corner of his eye, Éothain saw the great doors of Meduseld swing open, and a joyful shout escaped him as the rest of their éored stormed in. "Áedwulf, look!" It had worked; his plan had actually worked! Once the sun rose on the eastern horizon, its light would fall upon a freed Golden Hall, and after all the long years of oppression, they would finally be rid of the enemy within. Now all that was left to do was see to it that the hostages did not come to harm. Théoden-King was already safe and, although weak, in better condition than Éothain had seen him in for months, but what about the others? Where was Éowyn and his father and Elfhelm? And where was their last group, for he could still not see them!

A mighty strike felled another enemy and gave him enough time to catch his breath and cast a quick glance at his surroundings. He found the men of Brytta's group, and Baldor who charged into the Throne Room now with the ferocity of a starving warg, eager to draw his share of Dunlending blood… but he could not discover the group he had sent through the middle tunnel. What had happened to them?

"Áedwulf, follow me!" Together the two captains scythed their way through the crowd, seeing hillmen fall left and right as they moved toward the other leader who – as he became aware of them – quickly approached them. The enemy was all but defeated. "Brytta! You and your men have done great work! Did you discover any of the hostages yet?"

"Aye, we did," the battle-hardened warrior said and quickly backed up against the wall to protect his back. But despite their impending victory, his expression caused Éothain's stomach to clench into a painful knot. "We found the White Lady held captive in the Counsellor's room… alas, we could not detect a sign of the Worm yet. But he can't be far."

"And Éowyn?" Éothain barely dared to ask as his eyes strayed over to the door to Gríma's chambers. "Is she…" 'Alive?' – "…well?" To his dismay, the tall warrior suddenly avoided his gaze.

"Léod said that he felt a heartbeat, but…" Brytta inhaled deeply. "She was still and unresponsive when we found her… tied to the Worm's bed and clad with nothing but a shift." Even in the twilight, he saw his Captain blench. Of course it was clear to Éothain what this discovery meant. What the Dark Counsellor had most likely done to the King's niece. Trying to clear his suddenly tight throat, Brytta continued: "She looked horrible. I do not know what the filth did to her, but I fear that we must assume the worst. I left two men to guard her, but…" he shrugged, and added lowly: "If any others are left and still alive, I suppose we will find them in the dungeon."

After what he had just heard, Éothain deemed that a very big 'If'.

For a moment at a loss for words, the three captains stared at each other, and only gradually did it seep into their minds that the battle in the hall had all but ended with their victory. Had they only succeeded in claiming back Meduseld to find their greatest fears confirmed? What good would their victory be if the White Lady had been savaged… and everyone else killed except for the King? With great effort, Éothain cleared his head and turned toward his victorious brothers… and still he could not detect a single man from Gléowyne's group. A horrible feeling of foreboding assaulted him as he raised his voice to his warriors.

"Rohírrim! I want every room searched; every guest chamber, every storage room, every sack and every vessel in the kitchens… King Théoden and the White Lady have been found, but the others are still missing, and Gríma Wormtongue likewise has not been detected yet! He must not escape! He cannot be far, for I do not believe that he foresaw our assault. He must be hiding somewhere! Guard every possible way out of Meduseld, and the rest of you, go and drive the fox out of its hole! If you can catch him alive, I would welcome it... however, I do not insist. Just keep in mind that you might not be the only ones wanting to let the Snake bleed for his crimes! It would be only fair to grant them their wish, too." He turned around. "The men of my group will follow me to the dungeon! Let's hope that we find the rest of the hostages there… alive!"

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IN THE TUNNELS

It was almost impossible to run down the stairs in almost complete darkness and neither fall over his feet or cloak nor panic, for his violently pounding heart was undertaking a serious attempt to burst his ribcage as Gríma fled from the ominous sounds of battle behind him. Those accursed strawheads! They had been all but defeated! Why could those stubborn peasants not remain on the ground for once and accept that they were beaten? What were they trying to prove, and to whom?

Flickering light before him stopped him in his tracks. The intersection. Holding his breath and clutching his cloak that had saved his life already once in the course of this horrible night, Gríma peered around the corner. His heartbeat thunder in his ears, he slowly elaxed. Except for the unmoving shapes of his dead Dunlending guards, the cave was empty, and quickly he made his way through the corpses of the hillmen. On Gûthlaf's upturned face, the expression of perpetual surprise was etged into his weathered features, and the man from the Misty Mountains would go to the grave with it. A derogatory sneer curved Gríma's mouth downward. Yes, this was what happened to those not constantly on their guard. A fool to the end, the surprised expression on his face giving away his stupidity for all who saw him on his last passage. It was not the expression he planned to wear on his deathbed, Gríma thought grimly as his eyes wandered over the dark stain at the pit of Gûthlaf's throat where the fatal arrow had gone. No, even though he had been defeated for now, he did not plan to let himself be caught. One not so far day, he would return to Rohan and avenge himself for this insult, and when he died sometime in the distant future, it would be deep satisfaction the onlookers at his burial would read on his face, and they would envy him his contentment. It was this thought which would bring him out of here, out of deadly peril.

Once more shaking his head as he regarded the sad shape of the dead Dunlending, Wormtongue's gaze travelled to Gûthlaf's sword – and on a sudden impulse, he knelt down to exchange his dagger for it. It would not hurt to arm himself appropriately with whatever he could find, even if in his eagerness to free Meduseld, the son of Céorl had apparently not thought about leaving any guards in these tunnels. All the better for him, Gríma thought as he hurried through the darkness. The way to Isengard would be long and perilious, and only the Gods knew the trials he would face until he would find safety at last in Isengard… provided it still existed.

Shivering at the thought of making it through all of the Mark only to find Saruman's fastness destroyed, Gríma all but flew down the stairs. What could possibly have happened to delay their army? 'Delay?' a nasty voice sneered in the back of his mind. 'Who tells you that it was not destroyed?' The very idea that the few scattered remains of the Rohírrim's éoreds could have forestalled the White Wizard's hordes was preposterous. The great battle at the Fords of Isen had cost the Horselords dearly; it was simply unthinkable that the diminished warriors had held the boarder against several ten thousands orcs. But then again, he had also thought that nothing could go wrong once he had barricaded himself in the Golden Hall with his minions and the Royal Family providing for their safety.

His eyes narrowed with disdain at the thought of why destiny all of a sudden seemed to have changed its mind about whom to favour, Gríma almost saw the guard at the cave's exit too late. Even as he ground to a halt, the man swivelled and drew his sword, alarmed by the noise behind him.