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Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer  by Katzilla

Chapter 63: Victory and Defeat


IN THE TUNNELS

Although no warrior, Wormtongue understood at once what to do: strike while the element of surprise was still on his side! Before the guard had the chance to detect the strange shimmer in the air, Gríma jumped forth, and with a vicious slash through the Rohírs neck caused the man to drop his sword. As the warrior staggered back with both hands clutching the wound, Wormtongue stood silently in the darkness and observed his opponent’s death fight with a mixture of relief and cold satisfaction. At last, the Rohír crumbled to the ground with an anguished gargle, and his twitching ceased as life fled his body.

His heart beating like a drum, his murderer listened into the darkness. Could he have really been the only guard the young Captain of Edoras had left to stand watch? Had Éothain been so sure of his plan? As he waited for his breath and composure to return, Gríma did not moving a muscle, expecting momentarily to hear the anxious shouts of other Rohírrim or the sounds of approaching steps from outside. The guard’s demise had not been silent, surely somebody must have heard it and was coming to investigate… and yet miraculously, it remained quiet and finally, Wormtongue felt secure enough to cautiously approach the exit.

With a foot on the stepping stone which would help him to leave the cave, he sheathed his sword and craned his neck. Not a sound came to him from outside, and as he slowly emerged from the tunnel and pivoted, he found to his surprise his surroundings indeed devoid of life except for the distant shouts from the top of the hill. A surge of excitement flooded his veins, a white-hot burst of energy that pushed him down the rocky slope with amazing agility even though the night was already growing old and he had not slept a wink in the long hours since the sun had gone down. Could it really be so easy? Could it really be that his enemies had committed such a crucial mistake?

Insane laughter rose in his throat as Wormtongue hastened down the hill, almost too powerful to contain. When he had first heard the rustle of clothes and the steps in the tunnel approaching his chambers, he had been certain that the time had arrived to pay for his betrayal. And even when the young Róhir had straight looked at him without seeing him, his brethren only a shout away in the next room, Gríma had not believed that escape would still be possible. But here he was now, under the open sky, and no one in sight who would stop him as he left the place of his defeat. But he would be back, oh yes! Now that his escape began to look like a distinct possibility, Wormtongue’s cunning mind already concerned itself with his return to the Land of the Horselords, and how he would exact his revenge on them all.

Invisible except for the rolling gravel and little splashes his feet caused on the wet ground, Gríma Wormtongue at last reached the foot of the hill and began his long journey west…

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THE DUNGEON

Éothain’s heart pounded like a hammer against his ribs as he opened the iron-wrought door to the dungeon and listened. On the long way down, only one torch was lit and its flickering light barely illuminated the stairs enough to tread safely. Intentionally? Perhaps some of the Worm’s henchmen had made for the dungeon instead for the thick of battle, because they figured their chances of defending themselves against superior forces would be better in the narrow confines below Meduseld? Was there a host of Dunlendings waiting for them at the next corner?

With a sceptical glance at Áedwulf, Éothain squared his jaw, and then set foot upon the first step. Aye, he heard something down there, but it was a distant noise and distorted by many echoes. Impossible to tell how many men were down there, but at least, they did not seem to lie in ambush. Treading carefully, the men followed their Captain down the stairs, inwardly steeling themselves for what they would find in the cells.

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

Felrod heard them coming, and his mouth curved in a cruel smirk. At last, he was surrounded. He had already gathered that he would not leave the Hall of Kings alive when the first noises of fighting from above had been carried to him through the rock. The tunnel before him, the only other way out, was still blocked by the other assailants, so he had indeed nowhere left to go except to the afterlife. He had hewn the first two warriors who had unsuspectingly emerged from the shadows, but he was no fool: a man could perhaps hope to hold the tunnel against a host of enemies for as long as he fought smartly, but he could not force his way through them. No, he would die here, in true Dunlending manner, beneath the ground, fighting to the end and hopefully taking as many of his enemies with him into the next realm as the Gods would allow him. Felrod could accept these prospects.

Listening to what was happening behind him while his eyes remained focussed on the tunnel’s exit, the big Halfblood renewed his grip around the heft of his sword. Whoever would come for him in the end, he would not make it easy for them…

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

The cells were empty as far as Éothain could determine in the twilight, and he creased his brow. Where had Gríma kept his prisoners… or had he indeed killed all except for the King and his niece? Were all other members of the Royal Household dead? And his father… was he…? He almost jumped when suddenly his name was hissed from the darkness to his left.

“Éothain? Gods, Éothain, is it really you?” A pale face emerged from the shadows, and at first Éothain did not recognise the emaciated man… but then, with a gasp, it came to him: it was no other than Gamling who stood before him in the nearest cell, bloodied fingers clenching the bars and the eyes in his dirty face widening with disbelief, which quickly changed to exhilaration. From behind Éothain heard the dismayed gasps and mutters of his men, and the cold hand of horror grasped his heart as he stared at the Captain of the Royal Guard. Gaunt and bruised, with dark circles underneath his eyes and his reddish-brown hair a matted mess plastered to his mangled face, Gamling looked like a living ghost as he stared at his rescuers through the bars, but it were those pale blue eyes which told the full tale of his torment.

Forcing a weak smile upon his face meant for encouragement, Éothain stepped closer and laid his hand upon his brother-in-arms’.

“Aye, Gamling. We are here to free you; the Worm’s henchmen above are already defeated. How many are down here, do you know?”

“I have only seen Felrod. He’s in the next tunnel on the right; it is him you hear. I do not know what he is doing there, but…” Gamling interrupted himself, and the joy over his imminent rescue suddenly vanished from his face. “Éothain…”

“We will soon be back with the keys and release you,” the younger man promised, a sudden bout of anxiety robbing his breath as if he already knew what his kinsman was trying to tell him. Although he did not want to utter the words, he suddenly heard his own voice hollowly in his ears: “Do you know what happened…?” He did not dare to finish his question, afraid of what the answer would be, but the pain in Gamling’s eyes told him all there was to know, and his hands clenched around the bars in silent desperation. “Please, Gamling, no. Don’t tell me that--”

“Éothain… I do not know for sure, but Felrod told me…” The old warrior inhaled deeply, reluctant to continue when he saw the pain in his rescuer’s face. And yet it needed to be said, for Éothain had to know. “Felrod claimed that Céorl died two days ago…” Something in Éothain’s expression broke in reaction to his words, and impulsively, Gamling laid his hand upon the young Captain’s arm. “It is possible that he lied, Éothain! The filth has been playing his devious tricks with us ever since his Master seized control over Meduseld; it must not be the truth! He would have said anything to break us!”

Éothain did not even feel Áedwulf’s hand on his shoulder as he straightened in the dark. It could not be, it could not be… but at the same time, he felt that it was so. There was this void within him, this unnameable ache in his soul as if a part of it had been ripped away forever.

“Éothain…”

He had to keep his composure, had to remain in control for as long as the situation was not resolved. He could break apart afterwards, but right now, his men needed him.

“Let’s go and give the swine what he deserves!” he growled as he pivoted sharply, and Áedwulf, a man he had known for many years and who, after Éomer, was his best friend, recoiled from the cold fury in his eyes. “Follow me!” He all but stormed down the corridor, and the heaviness of the sword in his hand felt good. It felt hungry for Dunlending blood.

“Felrod!” Éothain shouted as he stormed around the corner with great strides; his blade striking sparks as he drew it in a threatening gesture over the bare rock walls. “Come here and fight! Or are you too much of a coward to fight against a man who is neither bound nor wounded?” The hulking figure at the corridor’s far end turned toward him, and to his feet, Éothain saw the crumbled shapes of two of his men. The blood in his veins turned to ice-water. He had found the missing group... and the man who had delayed them.

“So you already know then that I killed your father?” Felrod answered his challenge in a calm, casual tone. He did not fear death. His ancestors would welcome him among them after what he had achieved, after the torment he had inflicted upon their eternal enemy, so what was there to be scared of? Behind him, the trapped Rohírrim moved in the tunnel, but Felrod understood instinctively that Éothain would not allow them to touch him. No, the young Captain of Edoras could be just as hot-headed as his friend, the late Third Marshal… but contrary to Éomer, who grew even more dangerous when riled, Éothain tended to pay for his loss of composure. Once rage replaced reason, the son of the late Céorl was vulnerable in battle, and thus Felrod ran his fingers alongside his bloodied blade with a menacing sneer. “This is his sword, by the way. Do you want to taste its bite?”

“Leave him, he’s mine to kill!” Éothain growled in a deep voice as he beheld motion in the weakly illuminated hole behind his opponent.

“Be careful, Éothain,” Áedwulf murmured behind him. “He wants you to lose control. Keep your head.”

I will, but that pig won’t!” Renewing his grasp around the heft of his sword, Éothain cast his friend a gaze of steel. “Stay here. This is between him and me. No matter what happens, you will not intervene!” Áedwulf nodded with a heavy heart, and Éothain turned to face his adversary.

“Come here, lad!” the big Dunlending halfblood roared, approaching his opponent. The Rohírrim behind him were all but forgotten. Aye, he would die, but only after he had cut the arrogant son of Céorl into small, bloody stripes. “I killed your friend; I killed your father; and I killed the Chief of the Royal Guard! I broke Elfhelm of Aldburg, and the White Lady! What would I have to fear from a weakling like you?”

“Come and find out, swine!” Only few strides separated them now, and Éothain slowed down and dropped into a battle crouch. He lifted his sword before his face in a ritual greeting of his adversary, but behind the blade, his blue eyes sparkled hellfire. Felrod’s broad, malicious grin changed to an expression of anticipation as he likewise bent his knees and raised his stolen weapon. His cunning dark eyes did not shrink from the challenge; rather did he dare the son of Céorl to attack first. He did not have to wait for long.

No cry left Éothain’s mouth when he struck: fully focussed and cold bloodlust flushing his veins, his thrust came without warning and with the speed of a striking snake, and Felrod barely brought his sword up in time to intercept. The impact travelled up his arms, and before he regained his balance, Éothain finished his motion and sank his blade into his adversary’s shoulder.

Growling, Felrod knocked his sword aside, and his enraged expression left no question that the teasing was over. Blood flowed freely down his arm as he moved to retaliate, but his opponent had already evaded his clumsy attempt.

“Kill him, Éothain!” Áedwulf shouted. “Kill the bastard!”

“Think of your father! Think of Éomer!”

Éothain did not hear the cries, his concentration focussed on the big Halfblood and nothing else. He moved with the grace a cat; perfectly balancing himself on his toes as he struck and evaded time and time again, marking his foe with each of his slashes and thrust without wounding him seriously. It was the way he fought, relying on speed rather than the raw power of his muscles and weight as the heavier-built Rohírrim. Éomer, of course, had found the perfect balance between strength and speed, and there were hardly any men Éothain knew who could best his friend in their sparring matches. Yet as he lacked Éomer’s powerful build, the son of Céorl had developed his own fighting style and found it in the emphasis on speed. Only few of their heavier Captains could hope to match him once he took his gloves off, and on good days, Éothain had even beaten the King’s son as well the Third Marshal. Now he delved deeply into the wealth of his abilities to exact his vengeance on the man who had spilled his kin’s blood. A quick death would be too easy for Felrod; he would see to it that the man died as hard as possible. With another slash, Éothain opened a dark-red slit in the man’s left cheek.

Felrod realised quickly that he was out of his water. No matter how hard he struck to retaliate, how quickly he moved, his opponent was faster, and the hot wetness of his own blood already ran down his body from several deep cuts, drenching his garments and sapping his strength. He had underestimated the strawhead, he realised reluctantly and ground his teeth as he intercepted another strike at the last moment. From the youth’s light build, he had concluded that a few well-aimed thrusts with the full weight of his body behind the sword would suffice to shatter Éothain, but instead of cutting through the lad’s resistance, he had only hit the bare rock walls. Breathing heavily as he straightened once again, his narrowed eyes shot poisoned darts at the Rohír.

“Are you too much of a coward to stand and fight fair?” Felrod growled and caught Éothain’s thrust with his own sword. Their weapons interlocked between them, the two men stared at each other. “I never fought an opponent who ran away all the time… but I guess I should have anticipated that from you… forgoil!” A chunk of bloody saliva landed in Éothain’s face.

“Then you must have fought only rocks and trees so far, for I never fought against an adversary as slow as you! Even Uruk-hai are masters of the sword compared to your pitiful battle-skills! Have you never heard of footwork?” He jumped back to evade, but this time, his adversary had anticipated the move and followed, and with his full weight behind the strike, Felrod knocked the blade from Éothain’s hands.

“Éothain!”

“No!”

Driven by rage and a sudden surge of triumph, the Halfblood crashed into his lighter opponent and rammed him against the bars of the cell with bone-shattering force – and this time, he saw the pain the young man’s eyes. Dropping his own sword, he drove an iron fist into Éothain’s stomach, now determined to kill the Rohír with his bare hands to make it more personal. And yet from the corner of his eyes, he already saw the Captain’s men dash toward them.

“No!” Éothain could barely breathe against the searing pain in his middle, but he lifted his hand to stop Áedwulf. “Leave us! This is between him and me!”

“Right you are, lad, and I hope you enjoy it!” And with a malicious grin, Felrod landed his fist in Éothain’s face. Something broke under his blow, and suddenly, the son of Céorl sank to his knees. Dazed and barely aware of his surroundings, Éothain sat on his heels, his eyes watering from the punch and blood gushing from his shattered nose. Before him on the ground, his sword sparkled weakly in the twilight and he extended his hand for it, but just as his fingertips touched the heft, his adversary stepped on the blade and pulled him up with one violent tug. Once more, he was hammered against the steel bars, and his breath escaped him in a pained gasp as Felrod’s hands closed around his neck. Suddenly, the Halfblood’s face was close before him, and through the fog before his eyes, Éothain saw the crimson rivulet on the Dunlending’s cheek.

“You want to play with me, lad? All right, I’ll play with you! Greet your father for me if you meet him in the afterlife; I hope it will pain him to see his son follow him to the grave so soon!” Felrod strained, and his strong fingers dug into his adversary’s windpipe. No breath. No… breath… Éothain clawed frantically at the hands around his neck, drew blood, but Felrod barely seemed to mind. “What now, strawhead? Now you’re squirming like a worm in the bird’s beak, but little will it help you. Look at me, so I can see your eyes break as you draw your last breath!”

His strong-boned face blurred in Éothain’s vision. ‘Father… the filth killed Father…’ Giving up his efforts of trying to break Felrod’s grasp, Éothain lowered his hands instead, and a heartbeat later, it was the big Dunlending whose eyes were suddenly bulging. For another moment, the iron pressure remained… and then the strength of his fingers slackened, and an anguished groan escaped from Felrod’s lips although he struggled to hold on. Hot wetness gushed over Éothain’s hand. He had buried his dagger to the hilt in Felrod’s abdomen and opened him up with a vicious jolt upwards.

“This is for Éomer…” he panted through his bruised throat, barely able to draw enough air into his lungs to form the words. “… and this is for my father!” And with another jerk, the blade cut further upwards until it met the resistance of his breastbone. Black eyes stared at Éothain in consternation and confusion – and then Felrod tumbled to the ground, and his movements slowly ebbed away in the growing puddle of his blood. For a moment, everything became very quiet.

Gladly leaning his back against the bars of the nearest cell, for he was not sure whether he would have managed to remain on his feet otherwise, Éothain stared at his father’s dying murderer, and a grim sense of satisfaction overcame him as he rubbed his hurting throat. A moment later, Áedwulf was by his side, steadying him.

“Éothain? Look at me, Éothain!” He did as bidden, moved by the concern in his friend’s eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. Aye, I am. Just give me a moment.” He wiped his mouth and stared numbly at the blood on his hand.

“You are hurt. For a moment, I feared that--”

“It is nothing,” Éothain interrupted his friend, and his gaze found back to Felrod. The big Dunlending was still twitching, but his eyes were already beginning to glaze over with death. “It was worth it. I needed to kill him myself.” He grimaced as he drew his first deeper breath against the pain in the middle of his body. “It was my duty to avenge my father, Áedwulf. To avenge him… or to fail in the attempt.”

The older warrior nodded his understanding and, laying a hand on Éothain’s shoulder, looked up as the last warriors of their éored emerged from the tunnel. A quick inspection of their two kinsmen who had fallen under Felrod’s assault determined that there was unfortunately nothing to be done for them, and with a grim expression on his broad face, their leader stepped up to the two captains. His mouth curved into a derogatory sneer as he glanced at the dying Dunlending to their feet.

“I apologise, Captain. The filth was hiding beside the tunnel’s mouth, and the path was too narrow to evade him. Alas, I wish that--”

“Éothain!” an excited shout interrupted him, and all heads turned. “Éothain, come quickly! We found Elfhelm!”

The men looked at each other with dread. With a curt nod at Felrod, Eothain turned around.

“Take his keys and follow us. All others: search the cells! We do not know who else might be imprisoned here, or the state they’re in. One of you should go and tell the healers to make haste and come down here, too!” He left the men to their tasks as he quickly made for the group of warriors before the cell which held the Captain of Aldburg, Aédwulf close behind. Barely calmed down from the fight, his heartbeat accelerated anew for fear of what he would find in there.

“How is he?” Áedwulf asked as they reached their comrade’s prison, and he blanched as he beheld the prone figure on the other side of the steel bars: half sitting, half hanging in the grip of the iron shackles around his wrists, Elfhelm seemed lifeless. ‘No, no, no… not Elfhelm! Not him, too!’ His fingers clenched the bars, and it seemed to take an eternity until the right key was found to open the door. A moment later, he was at his brother’s side and felt for his pulse while Éothain waited anxiously for his verdict.

Shuddering at the sight of the swollen welts and open wounds that marred Elfhelm’s powerful frame, Áedwulf was nevertheless relieved when his searching fingertips found a reasonably strong heartbeat.

“He is alive,” he stated with a deep breath, and was about to turn to Éothain, when suddenly from before the cell, he heard the words he had dreaded to hear.

“Captain Éothain…” The voice was hesitant, and Áedwulf recognised it as belonging to one of the warriors who had searched the other corridors. Deadly cold turned his stomach into a block of ice as he looked up. Éothain knew what the man would say. He knew whom his men had found. Deep inside, he had known that this one time, Felrod had told the truth. “Captain, please, will you come with us? We--”

“You found my father, and he is dead.” It was not a question, and Éothain’s voice sounded eerily hollow as he turned around. The warriors’ eyes rested on their Captain in silent compassion, and yet none dared to speak as he made his way through them on legs which did not feel like his own. So, it was indeed true. His feelings had not lied, and neither had Felrod. They had freed Meduseld, but they had waited too long. “Lower the Captain to the ground and see that you find the keys to his shackles,” he heard himself say, but it seemed to reach him from the distance of another realm. “Get a healer to him quickly!” With a deep breath, he looked at Bard. “Is he dead, Bard?”

The warrior did not dare to look him in the eye.

“It is hard to tell from outside, but he does not move. Perhaps he is only unconscious.”

No hope lay in his words, nor did Éothain feel any himself. Numbly he followed the man, and oppressive silence stole their breath as they made for the other corridor. Not a single torch had been lit in this cell row, and Éothain shuddered at the thought that his wounded father might have spent the last hours of his life in utter darkness. He tensed as his kinsman halted in front of the last cell before the wall and turned around, and in the flickering light of his torch, deep shadows danced on his face. At last, the moment he had dreaded had come.

“Captain…”

“I know, Bard. Thank you.” Against his will, his feet moved forward, and as he turned toward the cell and waited for the door to be unlocked, Éothain already beheld the unmoving shape on the ground. ‘Béma, no…’

“Captain? Captain Céorl?” Bard tried to address the prone figure, yet without result. The door was opened, and taking his heart in both hands, Éothain walked in and knelt down to lay a hesitant hand on the fallen warrior’s shoulder.

“Father?” It only took one touch to determine that the body before him was rigid with death, and when Éothain cautiously rolled him on his back, he saw at last in the flickering light of the torch into his father’s broken eyes. He did not hear the sharp gasps behind him; did not hear the dismayed murmurs of his warriors as he ran his hand across the tormented features of the man to whom he had looked up all his life and who had shaped him in his likeness; the man who had comforted him whenever he had needed it, and who had encouraged and taught him his whole vast knowledge. The man he had loved from the very bottom of his soul… the man he had failed.

At last, the pain became too great to be contained as it swept like a tidal wave through him and up his throat, and Éothain’s anguished cry echoed through the corridors as he collapsed over his father’s dead body…





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