14: Retreat to Helm’s Deep

Aragorn’s first thought when he came to was that perhaps he had been sleeping too close to the fire, for his lower extremities appeared to be burning, but when he opened his eyes he saw that he was inside his tent and all was dark. He started to move and then thought better of it when excruciating pain flashed through him, leaving him gasping.

"Keep still, Earntungol. You are gravely injured."

"Wídfara?" Aragorn managed to whisper, sounding weak and unsure. He wished desperately for the fire in his left leg to ease, and wondered what had happened.

He felt someone lift his head slightly and then a metal cup was pressed against his lips and he drank thirstily of the cool water. As his head was lowered once more he sighed and slipped into unconsciousness before he could ask his next question.

****

When he woke the next time it was morning. Pain was all about him and he had trouble focusing his eyes. Movement caught his attention and then Wídfara came into view and he relaxed.

"What happened?"

"You were poisoned, my friend," Wídfara said without preamble. "It took some time to flush it out and we’re not sure we got it all."

"Let me see," Aragorn said and struggled to a sitting position. Wídfara helped him, for everything started to spin but then the world righted itself. He could see that his left thigh was thickly bandaged.

"The wound is deep but we have not stitched it yet, for we were not sure about the poison," Wídfara explained.

Aragorn nodded. "Let me see," he said again and there was enough of a command in his voice that the younger man complied without even thinking about it. Soon the bandages were off and Aragorn clamped his lips together in a grimace. The wound was definitely infected and if he didn’t act now he could well lose the leg... or his life.

"Wídfara, listen to me carefully," the Dúnadan instructed. "If we are to save the leg you must do exactly as I tell you."

"Wh-what are you going to do?" the Rohir asked doubtfully.

"What I must," Aragorn replied grimly. "I need boiling water and in my saddle bag is a thin wooden box. Get it for me."

"Earntungol, are you sure? Perhaps I should get Heruthain..."

"There’s no time for that, my friend," Aragorn said hurriedly. "Go, get me some boiling water and clean cloths and bring me the box."

Wídfara hesitated only for a moment before complying. He found the box first and handed it to Aragorn, who began leafing through its contents. Wídfara, meanwhile, went in search of boiling water, which he brought soon after along with Heruthain.

"What are you doing, Earntungol?" the captain asked in concern. "You are too weak to be moving about like this."

"If I don’t act quickly the poison that yet remains will be drawn into the rest of my body. Even if I don’t lose the leg I could very well lose my life and my death will not be quick and painless either. Lend me your knife."

He held out his hand and with some reluctance Heruthain gave him his knife. Aragorn plunged the blade into the pot of boiling water for a moment, then used it to cut away at the skin around the wound, removing the obviously necrotic tegument already turning black. He hissed in pain and his fingers became nerveless.

"Here, let me do that," Heruthain said brusquely. "And Wídfara, if you’re going to be sick, do it outside."

The no-nonsense tone helped to steady the younger man and he busied himself with holding Aragorn steady as Heruthain continued removing as much of the dead skin as possible. When he was finished, Aragorn breathed on some crushed leaves and then threw them into the water, which had cooled somewhat by then.

At once the air was filled with a fresh scent that the two Rohirrim could not identify yet it left them feeling immeasurably better. Even Aragorn’s color had returned. "Lave the wound with the water," Aragorn then ordered, "and place these other leaves inside the wound and bind it."

Heruthain did as he was bid and in a short while Aragorn’s leg was rebound. Then he lay back down with a weary sigh. "Now we wait." With that he closed his eyes, unaware that neither Rohir left his side while he slept.

****

The next time he woke he was feeling feverish but not delirious. His leg still burned but a close examination showed only healing skin. He ordered hot water again and crushed the leaves in it once more before washing the wound with it once again. More leaves were placed within the wound replacing the other leaves that had turned black as they had soaked up the poison. What blood seeped from the wound was now bright red rather than black. He took some nourishment and fell promptly back to sleep, though not before enquiring about the rest of the éored.

"We lost three," Heruthain told him, "and many more were wounded, though none as gravely as you, it seems."

"Do we know from which direction they attacked?"

"From the west," Wídfara answered. "And most of them fled that way or north rather than east."

Aragorn frowned but said nothing and indeed he found it difficult to think and soon he was asleep. Wídfara and Heruthain exchanged worried glances. "Can he ride?" the younger man asked.

Heruthain shrugged. "He’ll have no choice. We cannot linger."

****

The sound of people breaking camp woke Aragorn the next time. He was feeling better, and his appetite was returning, but he was still very weak and his left leg was uncooperative. He had to have Wídfara’s help to walk to the latrines and by the time they came back to the camp he was in a cold sweat. Someone had already taken down his tent by then, and had packed his saddlebags. Heruthain came and looked him over.

"We cannot linger," he said. "We must ride."

Aragorn nodded in understanding, then gave a piercing whistle and everyone gave him strange looks as Mithfaron left the picket line and came directly to his master. "Sah, sah, Mithfaron, mellon nîn. I would ride you but I need your help to stay mounted."

The horse neighed and nodded his head and then to the amazement of all, knelt before the Dúnadan. With Wídfara’s help Aragorn managed to get his right leg over the horse’s back and then the great grey was up and Aragorn was patting him on the neck, looking down at Heruthain with a faint smile.

"Fear not! Mithfaron is Elf-trained. He will not allow me to fall from his back."

The Rohir captain looked skeptical but said nothing, merely nodding to the Dúnadan before turning to his men and issuing the order to mount up and ride. In deference to those who were wounded they did not ride quickly. Nevertheless, they rode as swiftly as prudence allowed. Their first goal was a village that lay northwest from their encampment.

"There was an actual healer there last time I rode through," Heruthain explained to Aragorn as they rode along. "He can stitch you up, for I have not the skill, nor do any others in the éored."

"And I cannot perform such a procedure on myself, for I am too weak yet," the Dúnadan said, nodding his acceptance of Heruthain’s plan.

They did not have far to go, perhaps only five leagues, but Aragorn was reeling with fatigue by the time they reached the village, which was intact, much to everyone’s relief.

"A band of men did come through here yestereve," one of the village guards said to Heruthain when he enquired. "They avoided us and continued northward. As they did not threaten us, we did not seek to stop them."

Heruthain grimaced in disgust. "Such is always the case," he opined privately to Aragorn as they made their way towards the village hall. "As long as we are not threatened we care not for the safety of others. Such selfishness will be our downfall, I fear."

Aragorn said nothing to that, as he was now too far gone in pain to respond anyway. He had to be helped off his horse even when Mithfaron obliged by kneeling again. They brought him into the hall and called for the healer, who turned out to be a wizened old man with clear blue eyes and a sharp tongue. He took one look at Aragorn and roundly told everyone off for incompetence. Then he made them bring Aragorn to an inner room where he was put on a bed. By now the Ranger was nearly unconscious, so he was unaware of the gentle care with which the healer treated him, competently stitching up the wound while humming a wordless tune.

****

Softness and the smell and feel of clean sheets greeted his senses when he came to. It took him a while to figure out why he was staring at a wood beamed ceiling instead of a cloth tent, but then memory came slowly back and he attempted to sit up.

"Here, let me give you a hand."

Aragorn turned at the unfamiliar voice to see an old man with scraggly white hair and bright blue eyes that looked much younger than the lined face that surrounded them. Yet, there was still strength in the man’s arms and Aragorn welcomed them.

"My thanks, sir," he said in a hoarse whisper.

The old man merely nodded, then handed Aragorn a wooden cup. He drank thirstily until there was nothing left.

"I am Haleth son of Déor," the man said.

"You’re the healer."

Haleth nodded and grinned. "So they call me, and so I am. You did a fine job of keeping the wound clean, young man. One would almost think you were a healer as well."

"I am," Aragorn said simply. "I was trained in the healing arts by Lord Elrond of Rivendell himself."

Haleth raised an eyebrow. "Indeed! Even I have heard of the wondrous healing abilities of Lord Elrond." He gave a brief sigh. "I’m afraid my meager skills in the art are barely enough to keep these people whole."

Aragorn shook his head. "Do not disparage yourself so, friend. That these people have someone to care for their hurts is a blessing few are given. I am grateful that you were here. If I had to I would have stitched the wound myself, but..."

"Yes, it would have been very difficult for you," Haleth said with a nod. "Well, let’s take a look, shall we? I was about to change the dressing anyway when you woke up."

The bandages were promptly removed and Aragorn was glad to see that no further necrosis had set in. The wound had been competently stitched together and the flesh was pink with health. "I could not have done better, Haleth son of Déor," he finally said. "Indeed, not even Lord Elrond could have closed the wound any more competently than you have done. Thank you."

The old man practically beamed from the praise and Aragorn wondered how much the people of the village took the old man and his skills for granted. When the bandages had been replaced, Aragorn asked after Heruthain and the others.

"All are resting," the healer said. "The wounded have been looked after and none are in danger of dying. Captain Heruthain says that as soon as you are strong enough to ride, the éored will depart."

"Tomorrow, then," Aragorn said confidently. "I will be ready to ride by tomorrow."

Haleth gave the Dúnadan a skeptical look and grunted as he busied himself with gathering all the healing paraphernalia he had brought with him. "Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that, young man."

Aragorn shook his head. "Tomorrow."

****

Heruthain visited him later and was just as skeptical about Aragorn riding on the morrow as the healer was, but he had known the Outlander long enough to know that the lad made no idle remarks.

"I do not say that the ride will be easy for me or even comfortable," Aragorn said when the captain expressed his doubts, "but I will manage." With that, Heruthain had to be content. Then Aragorn asked the one question that had been on his mind ever since they’d been set upon by the orcs and Dunlendings.

"Why were we attacked?"

"What mean you, lad?" Heruthain looked at Aragorn in puzzlement.

"That band of orcs and Dunlendings avoided every village along the way, but they attacked us, an armed encampment. Why? And where were they originally headed?"

Heruthain drew in a breath at Aragorn’s words. "They were heading for the White Mountains."

The Dúnadan nodded. "Yes, my thought exactly, though it still doesn’t explain why they attacked us when they could have easily avoided us and we would not have been any the wiser."

"Well, perhaps if we ever catch up with the ones who fled, we can ask." Heruthain gave the younger man a wicked grin and Aragorn laughed, then he sobered somewhat.

"Which still begs the question. Are these the same Dunlendings who have been attacking the villages or a different group altogether?"

Heruthain grimaced. "Now you’re giving me a headache trying to keep all these groups straight."

Aragorn gave the older man a wicked grin of his own. "Just spreading the pain around a bit. Why should I have all the fun?"

The captain of the éored threw back his head and laughed long and loudly at that.

****

The next morning dawned grey and cold. A thick fog lay heavily upon the ground and there was the smell of rain in the air. It was decided that with as many wounded as they had it would be best to make their way back to Helm’s Deep as quickly as possible, warning what villages they came upon about the orcs and Dunlendings.

"We must trust that those villages we can warn will send warning to the villages we cannot get to for our route will be straight north," Heruthain said to Aragorn as they were mounting up. "Hilderic needs to be told what is happening here and a message needs to be gotten to Thengel King as well."

"How long will it take to reach Helm’s Deep from here?" Aragorn asked.

"If we ride as steadily as possible, making as few stops along the way as we can, we can be back in Helm’s Deep in five days, maybe six. Weather will be a factor," he added, "for the rains will come in earnest now that we are past the harvest and that can slow us up."

Aragorn nodded, shifting his position on Mithfaron a bit to make himself more comfortable. "Then we had best ride as quickly as we can while we can."

Heruthain gave the younger man an appraising look, then gave the signal for the éored to move out. Haleth, having helped Aragorn to his horse, called out to the Dúnadan. "Take care of that leg, young man. I don’t want to hear that all my good work came to naught in the end."

Aragorn leaned down and offered the old man his hand which the healer clasped. "You have my thanks, Haleth son of Déor." Haleth nodded then let the Dúnadan go and soon the eóred was lost to sight as they rode into the mist surrounding the village.

****

The route Heruthain chose was actually more northeast across the plains where there were few habitations. Only one small village did they encounter in the three days they had been traveling. The rains held off the first two days, but late in the morning of the third day they were quickly bogged down in a morass of mud as the sky suddenly opened up and they found themselves in the midst of a deluge. Aragorn was by then feeling feverish again and some of the other men were also experiencing trouble with their wounds.

"We need to find shelter and quickly," Wídfara said to Heruthain at one point. "Lord Earntungol is in a bad way." The younger man had taken upon himself the task of keeping an eye on Aragorn, making sure he was not in too much discomfort, for which the Dúnadan was grateful, even when he half-resented his weakened state.

Heruthain glanced back to where Aragorn was riding in the middle of the éored and even in the gloom of the rain he could see the man was ready to collapse. His was the gravest injury and the éored had set its pace to accommodate him. The captain nodded.

"There’s a village just ahead, if memory serves. It’s not much, but we should be able to find shelter there."

True to his word the village came into sight about an hour later. It was a dismal place and Wídfara suspected that even in bright sunshine the place would still be depressing. The villagers looked upon the éored with unfeigned suspicion but grudgingly allowed them to take over the sorry excuse for a hall that was the only sound-looking building there. Even so, the roof leaked and Wídfara had the feeling that a good strong wind would blow the place over. Still, once a fire was lit and a hot meal was provided, everyone felt more cheerful.

Everyone, that is, except Aragorn, who was again feverish, though the leg wound appeared to be healing nicely. Then the fever turned to chills and Wídfara was busy finding more blankets to put over him. The bout of chills and fevers lasted through the day and into the night, though sometime after midnight they ceased and the Dúnadan fell into a restful sleep. Wídfara collapsed on a pallet next to the now sleeping Ranger, exhausted from having tended his friend all day. Heruthain had helped when he could and others had taken their turn as well in order to give their youngest Rider a rest, but the onus of caring for the Outlander had fallen upon his shoulders and he was feeling it now. Yet, as exhausted as he was, he could not seem to fall asleep, so he was still awake when Aragorn woke up feeling hungry. Wídfara was at his side the moment the Dúnadan began to stir.

"How are you feeling, my friend?" the Rohir whispered, giving Aragorn a hand in sitting up.

"Better. Hungry."

Wídfara smiled. "I think there’s some stew left and a hunk of bread if you can manage it."

Aragorn nodded and soon he was holding a bowl of the hot savory stew and eagerly eating it, sopping up the meaty broth with some bread that was only slightly stale. It felt like a feast. When he was finished he looked around him with interest. Most of the éored were asleep, their pallets scattered about the hall. In the dim light of the fire he could see the sentries posted at the door and suspected others guarded any other exits not in view. Heruthain was not taking any chances and Aragorn remembered the surly looks of the villagers earlier.

He also noticed how exhausted Wídfara looked. "You should sleep," he said quietly. "I fear I’ve kept you from your proper rest."

"I can’t seem to fall asleep," the younger man said with a sigh. "I think I’m too tired."

Aragorn nodded. "Why don’t you lie down anyway and I’ll sing you an elvish song. It might help."

Wídfara nodded and lay down next to Aragorn’s pallet and the Dúnadan began singing a lullaby that his adar used to sing to him when he was small and disinclined to sleep. The lilting cadence of the song in an unknown language soon put Wídfara asleep, but Aragorn continued singing. As softly as he sang, though, many of the men lying nearby heard him even in their sleep and smiled.

****

The rains did not let up for two more days. Most of the men took advantage of the enforced inactivity to repair equipment, rest or play board games scratched on the rough floor boards, much to the villagers’ dismay.

Aragorn was almost fully recovered by the time the rains stopped, much to everyone’s amazement, for such an injury as he had received would have left a lesser man incapacitated for weeks. "It is a gift of my people, that we heal faster than other Men," Aragorn explained to Wídfara when the younger man expressed surprise at how rapidly Aragorn’s wound had healed. However, the Dúnadan decided to leave the stitches in until they reached Helm’s Deep.

"My cousin can remove them then," he told Heruthain. The captain merely grunted.

They left the village as soon as the rains stopped, for Heruthain did not want to linger any longer than necessary. The villagers, a surly lot for the most part, were glad to see them go. It was slow going, for the ground was thick with mud. It was also still very wet and their camp that night was cheerless, for there was no dry wood for fires.

"I almost miss the constant drip-drip from where the hall roof leaked," Wídfara grumbled at one point as he huddled in his blanket against the damp cold. Aragorn merely smiled. Inclement weather and miserable camping conditions were nothing new to the Dúnadan Ranger.

It took them another three days to reach the spur of the White Mountains that marked the boundary between the Westmark and the Westfold. Rains came again two days after they had left the nameless village and they were all wet and weary by then. Aragorn, especially, was beginning to feel ill again, his wound throbbing, but said nothing to anyone. He forced himself to stay alert and appear seemingly well, though neither Wídfara nor Heruthain were fooled by this. The sight of the steppes spread before them, however, was heartening to them all and they quickened their pace, though it was grueling, especially for Aragorn. They stopped only twice in the nearly eight leagues that lay between them and Helm’s Deep, reaching the Deeping-coomb an hour past sunset. Their arrival caused quite a stir, for they had not been expected back for another two weeks. Gilhael took one look at Aragorn and went pale.

"What happened, Cousin?" he asked in Sindarin as he helped Aragorn from his horse. Aragorn was surprised at how shaky he was feeling and he had trouble focusing on Gilhael.

"Yrch," was all he said and then everything started spinning and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Valar help us," Gilhael whispered as he and Wídfara gathered his cousin in their arms and led him into Helm’s Deep.

****

Yrch: (Sindarin) Plural of orch: orc.