58: What Is Decided

"Gléomund, I need your help," Aragorn said, and the tone of his voice caused many to stare in surprise, for it was as if Thengel King himself was amongst them. Even Denethor unconsciously straightened, for a moment thinking it was his father speaking rather than a mysterious Ranger from the North. Gléomund leaned back, his dark blue eyes shadowed by the flickering candlelight, his expression wary.

"In what way do you wish for my help?" he asked. There was something about Thorongil, some indecipherable quality of the man that the tutor could only call ‘royal’. It was a quality that Thengel possessed and Fengel never did. The old man began to wonder just who Thorongil truly was.

"I need you and your people to open the gates for Thengel while Denethor and I go to our friends," Aragorn explained. "I will not let Gilhael and Wídfara face alone whatever this Darkness is of which you all speak."

"Are you mad?" Captain Folcwine demanded suddenly. "Your friends, if they are not already caught, will surely be before you can even reach them. Their only hope is, as you say, for you and Lord Denethor to open the gates for the king’s army."

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, and Denethor had the distinct impression that this lowly Ranger was unused to being contradicted. Here was a leader of men, he thought, for all that he has taken service with the king of Rohan.

"Madness or no," Aragorn replied coldly, "I will not abandon them. Had we not found one another this night I would have continued our mission as planned, but you are here and you say you are ready to fight. This is your chance to do so, even if it’s only to open the gates at dawn."

There was silence for a moment or two, save for the uneasy shuffling of feet. Then the young boy who had spoken earlier, stood and gave a surprisingly courtly bow. "I will go to the gates for you, Lord Thorongil, for you and for Thengel King."

Denethor stared at the youngster in amazement and half expected to hear Thorongil politely refuse the boy’s help, but was shocked to see the almost kingly expression on the Ranger’s face as he addressed the young man, speaking almost as if he were his father, Ecthelion, sitting in court.

"What is your name?" Aragorn asked.

"Sigefred son of Sigebeorht, m-my lord," the boy said, looking suddenly nervous.

"His father was a gatewarden," Gléomund said softly, giving the young man a fatherly look. "He was killed in the initial sortie when the traitors took Edoras. His mother is dead as well and so he is alone."

"Not alone, Gléomund," the boy protested. "I have you and Captain Folcwine, do I not?"

"Indeed you do," Gléomund said with a smile.

Aragorn smiled as well, but when he spoke, it was with grave authority which caused many who heard him to wonder, including Denethor. "I thank you Sigefred son of Sigebeorth for your offer. Thengel King shall know of this as well."

"And now both you and the boy have shamed us," Gléomund said ruefully, though there was no anger and he looked upon Sigefred with fondness when the young man blushed. "It is not that we would not aid you, Lord Thorongil, but our army, such as it is, is made up of craftsmen and women and young boys. Captain Folcwine is about the only soldier we have in our ranks."

"Yet these same craftsman, you said, risked their lives to free your captain," Denethor interjected. "Should taking out the gatewardens and opening the gates for your king be that much harder?"

It was Folcwine who answered. "Nay, it would be easy enough, for the ones who guard the gates are few and somewhat lax in their duties I have observed, especially those of the last watch when men dream of sleep or sleep indeed."

"How many men do you have?" Aragorn asked the captain.

Folcwine gave him a wry smile. "You are looking at them, my lord," he answered gesturing towards the others. "Too few made it to the tunnels, but there are those above who are in secret league with us, helping us with food and clothing and weapons where possible. Many of the guards are loyal to Thengel but are forced to work for the traitors for fear of reprisals against their kin."

Aragorn nodded, fully understanding the situation. "Has anyone seen Éolind since she entered Edoras?" he asked, suddenly wondering about the old woman.

Gléomund shook his head. "Not since before Yule, actually. All is done in her name but I doubt that she holds any real power. My guess is Guthláf of Gálmódingsdæl is the true power behind the throne, he and his cronies, Isenbert of Isenbrandingsdale and Léodward of Alorharadsdale."

Aragorn nodded. "This... Darkness of which you speak... how long after the traitors took Edoras did you notice it?"

Silence settled amongst them for a time as they pondered his question. Gléomund looked at Folcwine. "You were being held captive in the barracks to the north. Did you sense anything while you were there?"

Folcwine shook his head. "No, though to tell you the truth, one doesn’t begin to feel uneasy until you pass into the Scamelas further west."

"And you do not know what causes this sense of unease?" Denethor asked.

Folcwine shook his head. "Nor do we know why it is even there. Granted, since Edoras was taken meat has been scarce and the butchers no longer display their meats, so that street is virtually empty."

Aragorn thought for a moment, mentally calling up a map of Edoras in his mind, but he had to admit he did not know all the streets and lanes and alleys. He had his suspicions about the Darkness these people felt but until he knew for sure....

"Could you draw me a map of that area of the city?" he asked Gléomund. "I am not familiar with it."

Gléomund nodded and turned to Sigefred. "Find me a bit of coal, son," he said and in a short space of time the youngster returned, handing the coal to the old man. In the meantime the table was cleared of trenchers and mugs and Gléomund proceeded to draw a rough sketch of the city.

"Here is Meduseld," he said, "and here is the gate. The barracks where Folcwine was being held are here, near to the stables. Further along this lane, moving up the tor is the Scamelas. Your companions, coming down from Meduseld will have to enter this street to reach the gates."

"How far up does the Scamelas run?" Denethor asked.

"Only to here," Gléomund said, pointing to a spot that ran beneath Meduseld. "Beyond this point there is nothing except the wall, for it is too narrow for buildings."

"Hmm..." Aragorn said, his eyes narrowing in thought. "And directly outside the walls at this point is...."

"The cemetery where the kings of old lie," Sigefred whispered, looking uneasy.

Aragorn nodded. Denethor seemed to sense something from his expression. "You know what the Darkness is," he said, making it more a statement than a question.

The Dúnadan shook his head. "No, but I know where it is."

Folcwine gave him a puzzled look. "But we just said it lies somewhere in the Scamelas."

"No, Captain," Aragorn said firmly. "Not in the Scamelas, under it." He traced a path from Meduseld to a point outside the wall. "The Darkness, whatever it might be, lies in the old licweg."

There were gasps from the others, though Denethor, not being familiar with the language of the Rohirrim, looked momentarily puzzled. "Licweg? Ah... the corpse-road."

Aragorn nodded. "Yes. It runs directly under the Scamelas."

"How do we reach it?" Denethor asked the next logical question.

"There are two or three ways in," Aragorn said. "One can enter from the cemetery or from within Meduseld. I have heard there is a way through one of the royal stables, but I do not know which one."

For a long moment silence ensued as Denethor contemplated the rough map and pondered the Ranger’s words. Then, he flashed Aragorn a wry smile and there was the light of battle in his grey eyes. "Well, my friend, it seems we must do the impossible once again. I’ve always wondered what Meduseld looked like from the inside."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and a slow smile crept across his face as his own eyes glittered in the candlelight. "You may get your chance sooner than you think, son of Ecthelion."

The others stared at the two scions of Númenor as if they had lost their minds.

****

Gilhael and Wídfara did not get very far before the younger man doubled over as if in pain and then started being sick. Gilhael was also assailed by a bout of nausea but managed to control his body and concentrated on supporting Wídfara through the spasms. He pulled the young Rider back up the street and forced him to sit against one of the empty stalls.

"Take deep breaths," he whispered as he crouched before the younger man.

"Wh-what was....?"

"I don’t know," Gilhael said. "Some miasma of evil, but I do not know for sure."

"You felt it," Wídfara gave him an accusing glare, "but it did not affect you."

Gilhael smiled at the other man’s obvious suspiciousness. "Do you think not? Nay, good Wídfara, I felt it but I have dealt with the evils of the Enemy before and so I was better prepared to face it and to control my body’s urges to be sick."

The explanation seemed to mollify the younger man, who glanced down the street, his expression now puzzled. "The guards... why weren’t they affected?"

Gilhael shrugged. "Perhaps they have become inured to it or they have some protection against it."

"But what is it doing here in Edoras?" Wídfara demanded, his expression turning to one of disgust and anger. "Never have the Eorlingas trafficked in sorcery and dark magic. Who could be responsible for this?"

"I suspect someone from the rebels," Gilhael replied softly. "Perhaps they decided they needed a little... help." He gave Wídfara a wry grin.

The Rider snorted in disgust, then his expression turned to one of dismay as he stared at the Dúnadan. "What do we do now? Do we dare the street or retreat and find another way to the gates?"

Gilhael glanced up at the sky, gauging the time from the position of the stars and the moon, now shining down upon the city. "To retreat and find another way will take too long," he said. His gaze lowered to the rooftops of the stalls. "Perhaps we should seek a way around the street."

Wídfara craned his neck to see what Gilhael was staring at and winced. Behind the stalls was the section of the tor on which Meduseld sat. It rose above them, the cliff nearly sheer though in the moonlight they could see that it was pocked rather than smooth.

"Ah... Gilhael," the young Rider said, his voice apologetic. "That bit about sheep not caring if it’s night or day?"

"Yes?" Gilhael responded neutrally. He had a feeling he already knew what his companion was going to say.

"I lied," Wídfara said baldly and cringed a bit, expecting to get an earful from the older man.

Gilhael stared at the Rohir for a moment before flashing a smile. "I know." He stood and clapped Wídfara on the shoulder, his expression more sober. "So, are you with me?"

Wídfara just stared at the Dúnadan for a moment in surprise, then nodded, standing as well. "The moon is bright enough, though it is past full, that we will be quite visible."

"Only to those manning the wall here," Gilhael answered, "but there are no sentries, so I do not think we need worry about it. I don’t intend to climb to the top, for that will put us before Meduseld and I want to avoid that. No. I was thinking of simply using the cliff to work our way down to the gates. I am hoping that as we near the area where the barracks and stables are located we will no longer be disturbed by whatever lurks here."

Wídfara nodded. "That makes sense," he said. "Men might be able to endure the scent of evil after a while but not horses."

"Then let us see if we can avoid this... this darkness," Gilhael said as he crouched down and cupped his hands so as to give Wídfara a boost up to the roof of the stall.

The younger man scrambled up to the peak of the roof, then reached down as Gilhael threw him one end of the rope that he still had wrapped around his waist. In a moment the rope was anchored around a roof post and Gilhael hauled himself up. Once he was with Wídfara he looked about. The stalls abutted the cliff and Gilhael wondered if there were storerooms carved into it. Then he dismissed the thought and peered at the cliff itself, his superior eyesight giving him an advantage over Wídfara. He pointed to a place just to their left.

"There," he whispered. "Do you see that seam running off at an angle from where the roof edge meets the cliff?" Wídfara nodded. "If we are careful we should be able to use it to climb and it heads in the right direction," the Dúnadan continued.

"Can we not just jump from roof to roof, using the cliff as a guide?" Wídfara asked. "See, there is only a short gap between eaves."

"Jumping may make too much noise and we cannot assume that the space between roofs will always be as narrow as this one here," Gilhael explained. "Plus, I’m not sure what the radius of the evil may be. Its effect could be just as strong along the roofs as it is along the street. I suspect though that if we rise a little higher we will be able to stay out of its range until we need to descend again."

Wídfara sighed but otherwise made no other comments. "I will go first," he said.

"And why is that?" Gilhael asked, though in truth, he had no objections.

"Because Edoras is my city and these are my people," Wídfara said solemnly. "It is for me to find a way to the gates."

"Then lead on, good Wídfara," Gilhael said in all seriousness, "and may Lord Béma smile on us and grant us good fortune."

With that, the two men inched their way down the roof slope and soon they were climbing the cliff.

*****

"What do you mean to do first?" Gléomund asked Aragorn. "Infiltrate Meduseld or go to your friends?"

"I will go to the Scamelas," Aragorn stated, "for I need to feel for myself the evil of which you speak. Also I wish to find my cousin and Wídfara and make sure they are well, and rescue them if they have been caught."

"They will be taken to Meduseld if they are," Folcwine said.

Aragorn nodded. "In which case, I will need to get into Meduseld the same way Gléomund left it. After that, I will deal with what I find there."

"We will deal with what we find there," Denethor said firmly. "I will not let you venture out alone."

Aragorn smiled. "I would welcome your company," he said.

Denethor snorted a brief laugh. "I would think you would welcome my sword more."

"That too," Aragorn replied and the two men smiled at one another, each seeing in the other a comrade whom he could trust.

"Take Sigefred with you," Gléomund said suddenly, stilling the boy’s protest with a gesture. "He knows these tunnels like the back of his hand."

"Oh?" Aragorn raised a quizzical eyebrow as he glanced at the younger man.

"My grandsire and my father helped build the tunnels," Sigefred said proudly. "I used to play in them when I was younger."

"How old are you, Sigefred?" Aragorn asked suddenly.

"Fifteen," the boy replied a little too quickly.

Both Denethor and Aragorn raised almost identical eyebrows in skepticism while the men around them rolled their eyes and the women smiled knowingly. Sigefred, seeing that no one believed him, sighed. "I’ll be fifteen next month," he admitted, not looking at anyone.

Aragorn and Denethor exchanged amused glances. Denethor barely nodded and Aragorn shrugged. "Close enough I suppose. All right, Sigefred, you will lead us to the Scamelas."

The young man’s smile was nearly blinding. Technically, under Rohirric law, Sigefred was still considered a child. Boys were deemed men when they turned fifteen. That was the theory. In practice they were usually not given any real adult responsibilities before they were eighteen, but under the law, they were allowed to attend the Geþeaht, the assembly of elders in any village, beginning at age fifteen. They had no voice in the assembly but they were considered adult enough to begin making their own choices. If Gléomund and Folcwine, who seemed to have adopted the boy, had wished, they would have been in their rights to deny Sigefred a part of their schemes. But war turned children into adults far sooner than any would like. Aragorn would not demean the boy’s willingness to help and this close to his fifteenth birthday, it made little difference to his mind.

"The night grows old," Gléomund said. "If we are to reach the gates in good time and do what is necessary, we must start now." He stood and Denethor and Aragorn followed him. "Come. Our paths lie together for a time before we must part, each to his own task."

With that, the old man led them to another part of the cellar, opening another secret door. Soon, only the women were left behind, quietly gathering blankets, ripping sheets for bandages, and inventorying their meager supply of medicinal herbs, knowing all too well that such things would be needed before the day was out.

****

Scamelas: Pronounced ‘SHAM-eh-las’. The word remains today in the form shambles (British dialect), literally, ‘benches or stalls on which butchers placed their meat for sale’. Here, Folcwine is speaking of the area of Edoras where the butchers have their shops.

Licweg: Pronounced ‘LICH-way’. Literally, ‘corpse-road’.