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Stirrings of Shadow  by Fiondil

57: Friends in Low Places

Gilhael felt a hand on his leg and realized that it was Wídfara trying to get his attention. He patted the younger man’s head as a signal and then felt Wídfara’s hand shift so it was touching his own, but there was something in it, something cold and lethal and Gilhael realized it was one of the knives he had used to scale the wall. In the press of the moment, he had forgotten that the Rider still had them. He wrapped his hand around the knife and then slowly brought it close to his body to take it into his right hand. Then he felt Wídfara’s hand on his leg again and realized that the Rider meant to give him a second knife so that they both had a pair. It was small comfort, for the knives were flimsy weapons, but the older man appreciated the gesture on Wídfara’s part.

All this time, the soldiers were inspecting the various buildings, most of them locked for the night. Some patrolled the wall. None had yet discovered the cubby-hole. Gilhael could tell from the way the search was being conducted that someone was bound to find them and wondered what he would do. Even if he managed to kill their discoverer, he could not kill all the others who would follow. He feared they were doomed.

His fears were justified when a dark figure came abreast of the opening and, pushing a torch toward it, peered in. The man was standing just far enough away that Gilhael could not take him without lunging and the soldier would have enough time to shout a warning before he killed him. So the Dúnadan did the only thing he could think of. As the man spied him, his eyes widening in shock, Gilhael smiled, put a finger to his lips and winked. He knew it was a futile gesture, but he was not going to go down cowering like a whipped dog. The soldier apparently did not notice Wídfara crouched further back in the darkness, his eyes solely on the Dúnadan.

"Hey, Cyneric! Did you find something?"

Both the soldier, obviously Cyneric, and Gilhael flinched at the unexpected voice coming from one of the other soldiers. Gilhael was the first to recover, merely giving the other man a nod of understanding, keeping his expression neutral, hoping that the look of respect that he gave the soldier would let the man know that he held no animosity towards him for doing his duty. This was war after all, and in war there were always casualties. Gilhael was not so arrogant as to assume he would be exempt from that harsh reality and accepted his fate with stoicism. His one true regret was Wídfara, but that could not be helped.

Then, much to the Dúnadan’s everlasting surprise, Cyneric, who never took his eyes off of him, answered his fellow. "No, nothing. I thought I saw something, but it was just a rat." Then, he turned, blocking the opening so the other man could not see into it. "There’s not enough space in that hole to hide even a child never mind a grown man, so let’s move on to the next building." With that he took his companion by the arm and steered him away.

Gilhael wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but didn’t dare, for they were not out of danger yet. There was always the chance that someone else would look in, if only out of curiosity, and then they would be just as dead. Yet, as the minutes went by, that did not happen. Finally, the one called Waldamer snarled an oath.

"Nothing! Nothing!" he nearly shouted in frustration and anger. "Just a wild goose chase, then. All right, let’s form up and return to barracks."

The other men were quick to do as ordered, for it was late and they had been roused out of their sleep for what appeared to be a fruitless search for intruders. None of them could figure out how any intruders could have gotten into Edoras anyway and most of them didn’t care, having been conscripted by their new overlords into working for them, their families held hostage to their continued obedience.

In moments the patrol was on its way back down the street and soon Gilhael and Wídfara were alone. The Dúnadan kept a hand on the Rider’s head to keep him still until he deemed it safe for them to leave. He counted slowly to a hundred before he stirred, bending down to lift the younger man up. Then they stepped cautiously out, still wary.

"I thought we were dead for sure," Wídfara whispered into Gilhael’s ear, careful to barely breathe the words for fear that the sound of his voice would travel.

Gilhael merely nodded, silently thanking the Valar for small favors. He did not know why Cyneric had not betrayed them, but he was thankful to the man nonetheless. Without saying a word, he took Wídfara’s arm and together they followed the unsuspecting patrol. Both of them wondered if their friends were faring any better than they.

****

"How many do you think we can take with us before they kill us?" Denethor whispered to Aragorn as they hugged the doorway of the house where they were trapped. The Gondorian had his hand on his sword hilt, ready to sell his life dearly. Aragorn gave him a shake of his head.

"They will try to take us alive," he said, "so unless you plan to fall on that sword of yours...."

He got no further, for two things happened almost simultaneously. The first was that they were spotted. With a shout the approaching patrol began running towards them. The second was that the door they had been pressing themselves against suddenly opened and with a startled oath they fell through, arms hurriedly grabbing them and pulling them into the house. The door slammed shut and a bolt was thrown. There was no light so neither man could see who their rescuers were, if indeed they were being rescued.

By now the patrol had reached the house and someone was pounding on the door, demanding that it be opened while others were checking the shutters to see if they could gain entry through the windows. All this while, Denethor and Aragorn were being held tightly by their unseen rescuers, who silently led them unerringly through the room, stopping them at one point. Above the noise of the patrol trying to force their way in, Aragorn could detect the sound of scraping and then a shaft of light blinded him momentarily when a trapdoor sprang open.

"Quickly, down these steps," someone whispered loudly and neither Aragorn nor Denethor offered any protest. In minutes they were down in a cellar surrounded by a half dozen others, all of them clearly Rohirrim. The last man down lowered the trapdoor, shutting out the dark.

Before either Aragorn or Denethor could speak, another of their rescuers gestured them towards one of the stone walls. "There is a tunnel here. We must away."

"Will they not find the door to the cellar?" Denethor enquired.

The man smiled grimly. "The latch is cleverly disguised as a knot in the wood," he explained, "and the door lies flush with the rest of the floor. They are not likely to find it until it’s too late."

"Who are you?" Aragorn demanded. "How is it you were there to rescue us when our need was great?"

"We will explain it all later," the man said somewhat impatiently. "Come. We must away. We are not entirely safe here."

They had to be satisfied with that and with a nod of acceptance, Aragorn followed the man with Denethor right behind. The other rescuers trailed them and the last one into the tunnel shut the door and Aragorn realized that to the casual observer, that part of the cellar wall would look no different from any other part.

The tunnel was carved from dirt shored up by thick posts. It was also narrow and low so that the taller men had to crouch slightly. It was not a straight path either, winding in a random pattern and Aragorn suspected that the route followed the contours of the mount on which the city stood. Their passage was swift and before long they were coming to a seeming dead-end. The man who had spoken to them earlier pressed a hidden lever and a door opened into another cellar. This one was also occupied by both men and women, most of whom stared at the newcomers with a mix of wonder and trepidation.

"Ah, you found them."

Aragorn glanced around and saw someone limping towards him. "Gléomund!?" he exclaimed in disbelief.

The royal tutor smiled and the two men embraced in greeting. "Ah, Lord Thorongil, glad I am to see you again."

"But how?" Aragorn demanded.

"How do I come to be here, or how do you come to be here?" Gléomund replied with a laugh.

Aragorn shook his head, giving the man a rueful smile. "Both, I suppose."

The royal tutor nodded. "Let us make you comfortable first and I will endeavor to explain, but first, who is your friend whose looks are so similar to yours? Has a brother or cousin from your homeland come to aid you?"

Aragorn laughed and Denethor just smiled. "Nay, good Gléomund. Let me make you known to Lord Denethor, son of Ecthelion who is the Ruling Steward of Gondor. My lord Denethor, this is Gléomund who is or rather was the tutor of Thengel's children... and mine."

Denethor had had long experience in keeping his thoughts to himself and so showed no surprise at Aragorn’s words, merely offering Gléomund a brief but courteous bow. "Westu hál, Gléomund."

"And to you, Lord Denethor," the tutor replied with his own bow. "Come. We have not much but what little we have we will gladly share as we trade tales."

Thus saying, Gléomund escorted them to a trestle while a couple of the women in the group hastened to place trenchers and mugs on it. The men sat on benches and the rest of the party gathered round, some sitting on barrels, while others crouched on the dirt floor. The fare was poor by any standards — some slightly stale dark bread, a couple of onions and watery beer — but both Aragorn and Denethor accepted the meal graciously, thanking the serving women, who responded with shy smiles and awkward curtsies.

No one spoke as the meal was shared, but eventually Aragorn pushed his trencher from him and gave Gléomund a hard look. "You were reported dead," he said baldly.

Gléomund nodded, not at all upset. "Most of the people in this room have been presumed dead."

"So, how did you know I was here in the city and in need of aid?" Aragorn demanded.

"Well, as to that," the royal tutor said, "you were spotted when you came up the street."

Both Denethor and Aragorn exchanged surprised looks while Gléomund and the others watched with amusement. It was Denethor, however, who turned to the tutor and asked the questions burning in both their hearts. "How? Who?"

Gléomund gestured to one of the men leaning casually against a nearby wall. By his bearing and the weapon at his side, Aragorn and Denethor knew this one was no common warrior but a leader of men. Gléomund introduced him as the man stepped forward. "This is Folcwine son of Folcred, once Captain of the Guards of Meduseld."

Aragorn showed a measure of surprise as the man gave him a bow. "Cyneric will be glad to know you are alive, Captain Folcwine," the Dúnadan said.

Captain Folcwine raised an eyebrow. "How do you know young Cyneric?"

"Oh, I ran into him while I was scouring Meduseld in search of Prince Théoden," Aragorn said with a straight face, though his eyes were bright with merriment at the dumbfounded looks on most of those there, including Denethor.

Gléomund chuckled. "I heard about that. This is, what, the third time you’ve penetrated the enemy’s stronghold?"

Aragorn grinned. "Something like that."

Denethor gave the Dúnadan an appraising look. "You’ve been busy my friend."

Aragorn just shrugged, then turned to the tutor, his demeanor more sober. "Gléomund, explain please. More than just our lives are at stake here. What has been happening in Edoras?"

Gléomund sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "What hasn’t been happening, you mean. When you managed somehow to enter Edoras and free the hostages from right under Éolind’s nose, you set off a firestorm of repressive measures upon the good citizens of this city. Life became suddenly more dangerous and many were forced to flee into this warren of cellars."

"How did these cellars come to be connected in the first place?" Denethor asked. "One doesn’t need to be a Dwarf to see that much labor went into the making of the tunnels."

Gléomund nodded. "It was during Fengel’s reign when first these tunnels were made. It was an unhappy time for all and many feared the knock on the door at midnight."

"Would not some of the rebels know of these tunnels, though?" Aragorn asked.

Folcwine gave them a mirthless chuckle. "Well as to that, the knowledge of the tunnel system is rather limited. Most people, if you ask them, will deny their existence, claiming they were merely stories. Not everyone in the city was busy making these tunnels, you must understand, just some who saw or perhaps even foresaw the need. There were always rumors of their existence, but no real proof and those who knew the truth kept the knowledge to themselves. Even I did not believe in them until I was forced to by present circumstances." He cast a rueful look at Gléomund, who merely smiled, giving the captain a nod as he picked up the tale.

"When I was no longer capable of riding with the éored," he said, pointing to his lame leg, "I spent my days while healing in the company of the court bard, a second cousin on my mother’s side, who took me in as I had no other family. He was a learned man, even by the standards of Gondor, for he could read and write, not only in Rohirric but in Westron as well. As I had nothing better to do with my time, I learned all he was willing to teach me... including of the existence of the tunnels."

"Ah," was Aragorn’s only reply, nodding for the man to continue.

"Yes, well, when the invasion began, I was happily in the one room in Meduseld where one of the tunnels began."

"Interesting," Denethor said with a raised eyebrow. "Any room in particular?"

Gléomund gave the Gondorian a rather wry look. "The kitchen privy."

For a moment there was disbelieving silence and then Aragorn threw back his head and started laughing. It wasn’t long before Denethor joined him, enjoying the joke as well. The others in the room all had wide smiles.

"There was no way to warn anyone," Gléomund continued, "so I took to the tunnels and contacted some people whom I knew were also aware of the tunnels. Slowly, we’ve been gathering our forces and biding our time, seeing as many of our family to safety as we could."

Aragorn nodded, glancing about at the expectant faces of their allies. "Most of them fled to Dunharrow. Only a few died along the way. Your families thrive and are eager to return to a freed Edoras."

There were sighs of relief and excited murmurs among them but they died as Gléomund continued his explanation. "One of the last to be rescued was Captain Folcwine. He was on the point of being executed when we were able to extricate him from his predictament."

Folcwine laughed. "He means, a group of men, craftsmen all and not a warrior among them, stormed the guard barracks where I was being kept and made away with me, leaving my guards unconscious, most having been attacked by rolling pins and the odd pitchfork."

Gléomund gave the man an indulgent smile. "It worked, so you should be grateful."

"As indeed I am," Folcwine laughed. "I almost pity the poor guards who had to explain how it is they lost me to someone wielding a rolling pin, though. I would love to have been there for that."

Everyone else joined in the laughter. When they were calmer, Aragorn spoke, his eyes on both Gléomund, as the group’s obvious leader, and Folcwine. "Thengel King means to break this siege. My companions and I were sent to open the gates at dawn. We need your help."

"Companions?" the tutor enquired, casting a glance at Denethor who responded with a thin smile.

"Four of us came over the wall behind Meduseld," he said and there was a collective gasp among the listeners; Folcwine’s only response was a raised eyebrow. "We split up," Denethor continued. "Lord Gilhael and young Wídfara are even now making their way along the western wall towards the gate."

"The western wall, you say?" Folcwine demanded. At Aragorn’s and Denethor’s nods, he grimaced and shook his head. "I fear your companions are in grave danger then. That part of Edoras has been forbidden to all on pain of death. Only certain guards are allowed along that way and none of us have been able to ascertain the reason for it."

"There is a feeling of... wrongness," someone interjected. Aragorn saw a young man, a boy really, whose expression was fearful. "I tried to sneak into that area to see what was going on there, but I had to turn back. There was something... evil lurking in the shadows down by the gates." He looked somewhat abashed, as if admitting to a weakness.

Folcwine patted the youngster’s shoulder and his expression was sympathetic rather than condemnatory. He turned to Aragorn and Denethor. "I, too, have attempted to wander into that area, but there was a miasma of darkness that I did not understand nor did I wish to investigate further. I cannot explain it."

Aragorn and Denethor exchanged worried glances. "Neither my cousin nor Wídfara mentioned feeling anything like that when they started on their way," Aragorn told them. "Gilhael, especially, would have been attuned to any sense of evil, for he has had long experience in combating the dark arts of the Enemy who appears to have risen once again. If there had been any trace of such evil, Gilhael would have returned to us immediately to warn us."

There were furtive glances among the others as they tried to figure out the meaning of it all. "We’ve never attempted to approach the western wall from behind Meduseld," Folcwine said, staring at Gléomund, who gave him a confirming nod. "We deemed it too risky so close to Meduseld itself. The entrance at the other end we thought would be safer."

"I sensed no evil where we came over the wall," Aragorn said.

"Nor did I," Denethor added, "and I, too, have had experience in combating the evils sent by the Nameless One."

"Then whatever lies there must be at the northern end of the street," Folcwine said. "I pray your companions do not find themselves walking into a trap... or worse."

For a second, looking at Aragorn in pity, Denethor thought he saw deep pain and guilt in the Dúnadan’s eyes. Then, the moment was gone and Aragorn’s expression became unreadable. Denethor would never know that Aragorn had spared himself a moment to grieve for the possible fate of his cousin and friend before putting aside all grief to become once again the Chieftain of the Dúnedain and Isildur’s Heir, already formulating plans for what must be done to end the siege.





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