65: Triumph and Tragedy

"Kill them! Kill them!" Aragorn heard Guthláf scream as he ducked under the sweep of the Haradi’s scimitar. He had lost track of Denethor in the melee and was unsure where Wulfred or Hardbeorht were. The archers had done an excellent job of sowing confusion among the traitors with the judicious use of their arrows, especially when several men rushed in from outside, having heard the fighting or been warned of it. Once the struggle began in earnest, though, they had put aside their bows and had taken up swords with equal deadliness.

Aragorn and the Haradi had moved away from the central fire pit, though the Dúnadan kept one eye on the Umbari, still lying where he had been struck down. He needed to defeat his opponent and secure the necromancer before the man regained consciousness and attempted to flee or cast a spell. Unfortunately, the Haradi was more skilled than Aragorn had anticipated and he was placed almost immediately on the defensive. The Haradi gave him an evil grin, his expression one of confidence that he would win this bout. That confidence, however, proved short-lived. As the man brought his scimitar down for yet another killing blow, Aragorn suddenly dropped to the ground, forcing the Haradi to overbalance when the expected parry never came. The Dúnadan rolled on his back in time to bring his own sword up so that the man neatly impaled himself on the point. There was a blank look of surprise on the Haradi’s face and then his eyes closed in death, his body sagging further down the sword.

Aragorn managed to wiggle his way out from underneath and pull his sword from the man's body, casting a quick glance around to see what was happening. He spied Denethor with three other Gondorians as well as a couple of the Rohirrim fighting the soldiers surrounding Guthláf, who still stood there screaming orders but was not joining in the fight itself. Hardbeorht was down and Aragorn could not tell if the young man was dead or merely unconscious. Of Wulfred there was no sign.

Throughout the hall, men lay dying or dead, but it appeared that Thengel’s men had the upper hand. Aragorn watched as Denethor slew another of Guthláf’s men, thereby creating an opening in the defensive circle around the traitor. Immediately, before Guthláf’s men could close the gap, Denethor dropped his sword and then recklessly charged at the man, bowling him over before he even had time to bring his sword to bear, knocking the sword out of Guthláf's hand in the process. Denethor rolled onto his back so that Guthláf was now acting as a shield. With a flick of his wrist the Gondorian had a dagger at the man’s throat.

"Stop or he is dead," he yelled.

If he was expecting immediate obedience, however, he was disappointed, for, if anything, Guthláf’s men fought even more fiercely than before. Guthláf, in spite of his perilous position sneered. "We’re already dead, Stanlending," he said contemptuously. "Your threat is meaningless."

Aragorn saw the smile on Denethor’s face and shivered involuntarily. "Then, you won’t be disappointed when I slit your throat here and now," the Gondorian said in a conversational tone. He made to do just that but Guthláf yelled, "Stop! Stop! Do as he says!"

But some of the men refused to do so. They knew that they were already dead men, for Thengel would show no mercy to them for betraying him, so they fought on in desperation, but it was a lost cause, and soon they were dead. Two or three simply fled, and Denethor let them go.

"They will not get far," he said as a couple of his men hauled Guthláf off him and began securing the traitor.

Aragorn, meanwhile, had secured the still unconscious Umbari, gagging him for good measure to ensure he would be incapable of casting any spells. He bound the man’s wound and gestured for two of the Rohirrim to stand guard over him. "Let none near him and if he awakens, call me."

Then he went to check on the condition of some of the other men who had fallen. Hardbeorht, he found, still breathed, though his wounds were grievous and Aragorn was unsure if the young man would live beyond the morrow. He was attempting to bind the Rider’s wounds when Denethor approached.

"Where’s Wulfred?" Aragorn asked, not bothering to look up from his task as the Gondorian knelt beside him.

"I saw him running after the man Guthláf called Waldamer," Denethor answered. "What do you want to do now?"

"We need to secure all of Meduseld," Aragorn replied. "How many men did we lose?"

"Fewer than I feared we would," Denethor said. "Hardbeorht appears to be the worst wounded, and my man, Anborn, has a broken arm. We lost three or four but the rest are able to fight still."

Aragorn nodded. "See if you can find the king’s standard that we may place it where all can see. Let all know that Meduseld is now in the hands of the king."

"Even though Thengel is not here and may even now lie dead in the streets of his city?" Denethor asked incredulously.

"Even so," Aragorn said firmly. "If the king’s standard is seen flying then perhaps the rebels will lose heart and those in hiding will find the courage to come out to do battle for their king."

Denethor nodded. "I will see to it, then. What will you do?"

Aragorn gave him a quirk of his lips. "Find Thengel and let him know that he can claim his throne whenever he’s not busy."

Denethor snorted. "I will see that Meduseld is secured and the wounded treated while you do just that."

The two young men exchanged grins, clasping each other in a warrior’s salute. "Before I go," Aragorn said, "I wish to see Guthláf and the Umbari into the dungeons where they can do no more harm."

Denethor nodded. "That will be the wisest course." Then he cast the Dúnadan a sly smile. "Would you happen to know where they are?"

Aragorn smiled. "Follow me," he said and led the way down to the dungeons. In a short while the outlaw and the necromancer were placed in separate cells. For good measure neither was unbound and they continued to be gagged. Two men, one Rohir and one Gondorian, were chosen to stand guard over the two prisoners. The other rebels, at least those who were alive, were herded into the kitchen and forced to descend into the cold cellar. A heavy table was overturned and shifted to block the cellar door, effectively imprisoning them.

Once the prisoners were secured, Aragorn left in search of the King of Rohan while Denethor led a search throughout Meduseld looking for other rebels who might be hiding, but none were found, only frightened servants who had been forced to serve Guthláf and his cronies. One of the scullery maids, a young woman barely out of childhood, came forth with a ragged piece of green cloth, thrusting it at Denethor.

"They was gonna t’throw it on the rubbish heap, they was," she said in Rohirric, which one of Wulfred’s men translated into Westron for him. The Gondorian unfolded what turned out to be the king’s banner, soiled and torn but still recognizable. "I waited ’til dark and rescued it. Kept it hid under m’mattress."

Denethor stared at the maid in wonder, the girl blushing in embarrassment, her eyes down. "What is your name, young lady?" he asked gently as he handed the standard to one of the Rohir archers, giving him a nod. The man nodded in turn and then left to raise the banner over Meduseld.

"Dernwyn, lord," she said, giving him an awkward curtsey.

"Thank you, Dernwyn, for saving the king’s standard. I will make sure Thengel knows of your brave act."

The maid blushed even more, murmuring something unintelligible before fleeing to the safety of the kitchen and her work. Denethor and the men with him smiled indulgently at her retreating figure. Then the son of Gondor’s Steward sighed, rubbing his hand across his eyes. "I only hope Thengel is alive to hear of it."

The others nodded grimly, silently hoping the same. Then Denethor gathered himself. "Come. Meduseld is ours," he said as he strode briskly back to the main hall. "Let us ensure that it remains so. I want every conceivable entrance into the Hall covered, especially the main doors and...."

****

Aragorn slipped out of the main doors of Meduseld to behold a grim sight. Wulfred lay dead surrounded by the bodies of several other men, including Waldamer. The loyal Rider had made a good account of himself before he died, Aragorn saw with grim satisfaction as he checked to see if any were yet living. There were none. He rose from his crouch just as some of the warriors who had followed Wulfred into Meduseld came out to secure the front entrance. They gathered around the fallen warrior, giving him a warrior’s salute before they went about the grim business of clearing the bodies away. Wulfred they lifted reverently and took him back inside the hall to lie in state. The rebel dead were pushed to one side though Aragorn had no doubt they would be given proper burial when the time came. Thengel would see to it, if he still lived. The Dúnadan scanned the city from his vantage point, trying to see what was happening, hoping to find some evidence that Thengel still lived. He remembered Waldamer saying something about the Scamelas and swept his gaze in that direction, shielding his eyes to see better in the sun’s glare. By now it was nearly noon and the battle for Edoras had been going on for nearly six hours, longer if one considered the battle against the barrow-wight and the necromancer.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the gold-washed armor of the king glinting in the noonday sun. Thengel was still alive and it appeared that he and his men were winning against their foes. He turned his attention to other fronts and saw that slowly the enemy was being forced back towards the tor. It was important that they not gain entrance to Meduseld itself. He turned back to the hall and found Denethor standing by the fire pit surrounded by a ring of warriors as the Gondorian issued orders.

"Thengel King lives," Aragorn announced without preamble. "I saw him still fighting in the Scamelas."

All eyes turned on him and there were obvious looks of relief on the faces of the Rohirrim. Denethor nodded grimly. "And the battle, how goes it?"

"The enemy forces are being driven to the tor," Aragorn said. "We need to make sure that they don’t make it all the way here or they may overrun us."

Denethor nodded. "We have a dozen or so archers still able to draw their bows. Think you that will be enough to force the enemy to surrender?"

Aragorn grinned. "Why don’t we go find out?" he said as he picked up a bow from one of the fallen archers and gathered arrows for himself.

Just then, the Rider who had taken the standard returned, informing them that the banner was aloft. "Though I doubt anyone has noticed," he said.

Denethor turned to Aragorn. "Go and see what you and the archers can do while I hunt for a way to let all know that Meduseld now belongs to Thengel King."

Aragorn nodded and led the archers away. Denethor grabbed the man who had raised the king’s banner. "Dúnstan, we need to get people’s attention. Do you know where the battle horns are kept?"

Dúnstan grinned, gesturing for Denethor to follow him. "The armory is this way, lord."

****

Thengel leaned on his sword, catching his breath. He was weary but he knew the battle was not yet won. Beside him stood Hildebrand, sporting a deep cut on his sword arm which he was bandaging with Folcwine’s aid while the three of them stood between two of the meat stalls, keeping out of the way of the fighting that was still raging around them. Assured that his First Marshal was in good hands, Thengel scanned the street, nodding in grim satisfaction. His men were holding their own now that they were joined by some of those who had originally opposed them. He had been both surprised and pleased when the young guardsman had called out, declaring himself for his king. It was a brave thing to do and he hoped the man had survived so he could reward him suitably. He happened to look up towards the tor towering above them and felt his eyes widen in disbelief and then he smiled.

"Look!" he said to the two men beside him.

They glanced in the direction in which he was pointing and both gave startled gasps. "He did it, then," Folcwine said in an awed whisper. "He actually did it."

"Indeed," Thengel said, his eyes brightening with renewed hope. "Let us therefore make sure...."

"’Ware!"

Before any of them could react, someone rushed in front of Thengel, his sword upraised, attempting to parry the blow that had been aimed at the king. The man however failed to deflect the sword and the thrust meant for the king instead found its way into him. Thengel was in time to raise his own sword and cut the assailant down. Then he knelt beside the guardsman who had placed himself between him and the traitor’s sword. The man still lived though there was no doubt that he was only minutes away from death.

"Rædwulf!"

Thengel looked up to see a young man come running towards them, his face stricken with grief.

"Rædwulf," he called again as he knelt beside Thengel. Folcwine and Hildebrand were now standing in guard position to ensure their safety.

"That is his name?" Thengel asked and the young man nodded, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks.

Rædwulf opened his eyes though he seemed not to see them, his gaze fixed on something else. He gasped for breath. "Th-the king... he...."

"He lives," Thengel said softly. "Thanks to thee. Go now in peace, knowing thou hast the king’s favor."

Rædwulf shook his head. "Nay," he said in a rasping voice. "I... I betrayed...."

"No, Rædwulf," the other guardsman said, soothing Rædwulf’s brow with a gentle hand, "You redeemed yourself. I swear it." The look of anguish when he glanced at Thengel told the story and the king nodded.

"He speaketh truly, Rædwulf..." he paused, looking up at the other man with a questioning look.

"Son of Wulfstan," the young man supplied. "I am his friend, Cyneric son of Cyneward."

Thengel nodded, then looked down at the dying man. "Cyneric speaketh truly, Rædwulf son of Wulfstan. I, Thengel son of Fengel, declare thee ‘unforcúð ond unforworht’. Let thy sacrifice be thine uncéast between us."

Rædwulf blinked, giving Thengel a brief nod, then he turned his head slightly, his gaze now on his friend. "Ash...Ashlind... m-my son..."

"They will be cared for," Cyneric promised, weeping all the while. "I will bring them into my own household. Have no fear for them. They will never know want. I swear it, Rædwulf."

Rædwulf closed his eyes. "Good," he whispered and a smile crept across his face even as he breathed his last.

Cyneric stifled a sob and looked at the king with pleading eyes. "He... he was afraid... we all were...."

Thengel laid the dead man gently on the ground, then clasped the other by the shoulders. "He died a hero’s death," the king said kindly. "He will be honored as such. No stain will fall upon his wife and child." Then he gave the young man a searching look. "You are the one who declared himself for me."

Cyneric nodded. "I am many things, Thengel King," he said, "and I have done things of which I am not proud, things done in fear and doubt, but never let it be said that I was cyningslaga."

Thengel was about to comment but before he could draw breath, a horn sounded from above them. Its notes were sweet and silvery and Thengel felt joy leap in his heart. He stood and, shading his eyes, looked up and saw Denethor standing before the doors of Meduseld, surrounded by archers. The horn itself he recognized: cunningly wrought all of fair silver with a baldric of green. He knew that wrights had engraven upon it swift horsemen riding in a line that wound about it from the tip to the mouth; and there were set runes of great virtue. It was the Horn of Eorl the Young, made by the dwarves and taken from the hoard of Scatha the Worm, which he had brought from the North and it was a great heirloom of Thengel’s house.

As the notes of the horn rang across the city, the fighting slowly ceased as all looked up in wonder, unsure of what it portended. The sound of it caused many different reactions among those who heard it. Joy and hope entered the hearts of Thengel’s men, while fear sapped the wills of the traitors. Many of Thengel’s men who lay wounded or dying through the city felt heartened by its music. Outside the city walls, Gilhael, checking on Wídfara, felt his heart race and he had to steel himself from immediately leaping up, sword in hand, to answer that call. Wídfara, who had been moaning in pain, suddenly ceased, a smile on his lips as he slipped into deep healing sleep. All around the healing tent many of the wounded also had contented looks on their faces, their pain lessened, if only for a brief time.

Back in the city, Denethor blew the horn one more time, then, as the last note drifted away on the breeze, he lowered the horn, looking out upon the city.

"Men of Rohan," he shouted, "look ye upon the banner that flieth above the roof of Meduseld." He pointed upward without looking. "It is the King’s banner. Thengel King holds Meduseld."

Thengel, when he heard Denethor’s words, gave Hildebrand and Folcwine a wry grin. "It’s nice to know I can be in two places at the same time," he whispered and the two men grinned back.

"Cease your fighting, ye who have taken arms against your rightful lord," Denethor continued. "Guthláf is taken prisoner and your cause is lost. Surrender now and mercy may yet be yours."

"He’s assuming much," Hildebrand said with a scowl.

"He is attempting to minimize the number of dead," Thengel said with an approving nod. "Rohir against Rohir... that we have succumbed to kin-strife even as the people of Gondor once did...." he sighed, shaking his head as he looked down at Cyneric cradling his dead friend’s body, still mourning, though there was the same look of hope in his eyes that he saw in others standing about, listening to Denethor’s speech. "I would have it end, here and now," the king continued.

Hildebrand and Folcwine exchanged glances and then nodded to one another, as if coming to some mutual decision. The First Marshal turned back to Thengel. "Then, we should get you to Meduseld as quickly as we may, so that Lord Denethor’s words are true in fact as well as in spirit."

"If the traitors see you there," Folcwine said, "they may well surrender."

Thengel nodded and looked around at the men standing uncertainly, still staring up at the tor. "Put down your weapons," he ordered. "Surrender and I will see that you are all treated with justice and not with vengeance. I know that some of you fight for Guthláf for fear of your kin’s safety and not because you are disloyal to me. Surrender now and prove yourselves true men of the Mark."

Such was the force of his words that, first one, then another dropped their weapons, standing mutely with expressions ranging from sorrow to relief. Soon all had surrendered. Thengel nodded, pleased, and addressed his own men. "Secure them but do not mistreat them. They are your kith and kin who have been misled or coerced into fighting against us. Then see to the dead."

Those thegns still living as well as those, such as Cyneric, who had declared themselves for Thengel early on, took charge of herding the prisoners back down the Scamelas to the warehouse where many of them had been housed. Meanwhile, Thengel, Hildebrand and Folcwine followed.

They progressed through the city towards the stairs leading to Meduseld with Hildebrand shouted, "Make way, make way for Thengel King." Folcwine remained at the king's side, his sword drawn in guard position.

As Thengel passed through the throng, his men began to cheer. The sight of Thengel seemed to take the heart out of those who had willingly opposed him even as those who had fought unwillingly gladly handed over their weapons in surrender. At every turn Thengel instructed the army to treat the prisoners and any enemy wounded or dead with respect. "For I will have none dishonor themselves with petty vengeance," he concluded and so what many had feared would happen to them did not. Only a few of the worst betrayers would not surrender and they were either killed or they fell on their own swords.

As the three men reached the stairs leading to the Hall, they were met by Hildebrand’s sons, each with a prisoner in tow. Thengel recognized them as Léodward of Alorharadsdale and Isenbert of Isenbrandingsdale. The former appeared dazed and there was a deep gash on his head, roughly bandaged. Isenbert merely looked murderous and he was gagged. Thengel gave his nephews an enquiring look.

Hilderic, who was dragging Isenbert along, grinned. "He was saying some unflattering things about you, Uncle. I decided I wasn’t interested in listening to them."

Thengel nodded. "Bring them along," he ordered as he began climbing the tor. He noticed Hildered gently speaking to Léodward who gazed at him with a look of innocent trust as the young man led him up towards Meduseld. "What happened to Léodward?" he asked.

"Tripped in the mud and blood and banged his head against stone," Hildered explained. "I thought he was dead at first. When he came to, though, he appeared witless." The young man frowned. "I’m not even sure if he knows where he is or what has happened."

"We will let Thorongil take a look at him," Thengel said. "His healing skills are quite profound and he may be able to help him."

By now they had reached the porch. He saw Thorongil and Denethor standing together. Denethor still held the horn while Thorongil had relinquished his bow and stood beside the Gondorian, a smile creasing his face at the sight of Thengel coming up the stairs. Denethor also smiled as he bowed to the king, handing him the horn.

"Welcome, Thengel King," the son of the Steward said formally. "Thy throne awaits thee."

Thengel took the horn and nodded, saying nothing, for in truth, he knew not what to say at that moment. There were too many conflicting emotions running through him and his one real desire was to fall into the arms of his beloved Morwen and weep. Instead, he walked regally into Meduseld with the others following. Down the central nave he strode and up the dais to stand before them. He gazed across the sea of expectant faces and smiled faintly as he sat on his throne, the horn lying on his lap.

After a long moment of silence he spoke. "It is good to be back home," he said softly.

At once, a great cheer rose from those in the Hall. "Westu hál, Thengel!" they all shouted. "Westu hál!"

And as the men continued to cheer, Thengel, sixteenth King of Rohan, sat on the throne of his fathers, clutching Eorl the Young’s horn, and wept.

****

Standlending: Gondorian, literally ‘Stone-land person’.

Unforcúð ond unforworht: 'Honorable and innocent (of wrongdoing)'. Unforcúð also means ‘brave, noble’.

Uncéast: Oath of reconcilation.

Note: The horn which Denethor blows is, of course, the very Horn of the Mark that Éowyn and Éomer will give to Merry many years later. The description is taken directly from The Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter 6, ‘Many Partings’.