Chapter 7: The Chase

FIRIEN FOREST

Although Éomer had felt cold since the rain had drenched him on the way to the camp, it was nothing against the sudden chill that raced down his spine now at the sight of the enemy. The shock punched the breath from his lungs; paralysed him. For what felt to the son of Eomund like an eternity, his body disobeyed his mind’s frantic orders to get up and run as he stared at the eerie yellow eyes before him. Suddenly, their pale glow disappeared as the orc turned its head, and dimly, Éomer understood that his paralysis had saved him, at least for the moment. Wet and deep within the shadows with the wind coming from the wrong side, the orc had stared straight at him without seeing, and realisation how close his death had been sent the first tremors of shock through his muscles. Still, it was too early to relax, Éomer knew, for he could still hear his foe close by, whispering secretively. Which meant that there had to be others.

Horrified by the thought, Éomer withdrew further into the cover of the fallen tree. In the nearby thicket, he heard the orcs quarrel, and to his dismay he distinguished at least three different voices.

“—wonder what it is that made them forget all caution and run through the forest in the middle of the night, screaming their heads off,” one voice growled, distrustful. “They must have lost one of their own.” A malicious chuckle followed. “Perhaps we will find him first; then we can leave him, nicely prepared, for them as a message they won’t forget.”

“Or they know we’re around and it is a trick to lure us out of hiding,” another one hissed, and by now, it was close enough for its putrid stench to reach Éomer’s nose. Desperately fighting the retching fit, the young warrior breathed through his mouth. “Surely the herders have told them about our little excursion the other day.”

“Well, if it is, we will teach them that such tricks will always turn against them,” a third one cackled. “This is our night, Brothers! The rain covers our scent and noise, and the ugly strawheads will never know we’re near until it is too late. Even if we don’t kill them all, the twenty of us should be able to inflict some serious damage upon them. This night is the best opportunity against the enemy we’ve been granted for many weeks! If we put it to good use, the Master will be satisfied with us!”

Suddenly, the fallen trunk groaned and creaked above Éomer, and the young man clenched his jaws, only narrowly succeeding in biting back the horrified gasp as the orc paraded on the tree under which he had sought cover. Then the legs of another one appeared before him. If the creature ducked …

‘Béma, please! I will do your bidding in this life and the next, but let it not look under this tree!’

“Where are the others?”

The stench thickened yet further, gagging him, and the way he heard the creaking of the ancient leather garments, Éomer understood that the orc was indeed almost close enough to touch. Although it was dark, he saw things dangling from the creature’s belt and knew at once that they had to be human bones. Orcs loved to wear their trophies; they loved to brag about their kills. Would this one soon have another, fresh set of bones to add to its armour?

“I took the freedom to send them ahead,” the orc-leader on the other side of the tree sneered with glee. “They will move in a big circle around the strawheads, and once they’re in position, we will attack them from all sides at once. If we all shoot at the same time, we should be able to bring at least some of them down, and rout the others. We will be long gone before they can organise resistance, let alone pursuit.”

Involuntarily, Éomer’s hand crept down to the hilt of his dagger, although he knew that in the case of his discovery, the blade would not help him much. What would they do if they found him, unarmed and alone, he wondered with horror. Would they kill him quickly, or try to use him in some terrible way to lure the éored into an ambush? If they tortured him, his screams would surely reach the riders, and whoever would come to his aid would die. Arnhelm had been right after all, Éomer realised with sudden dismay – with his hot-headed reaction, he had indeed endangered every single man of their éored!

‘Éothain! Oh no…’

“You make it sound easy, Grûshnig. Too easy, perhaps? I was hunted by the horse-lords before. It was not one of my better experiences. I was lucky to escape.”

“Well, but you are here today, are you not, Trôllnûg? Trust me, this will be a night to remember. Now come, or they will spring our trap before we can even lay it!”

The trunk shook as the orc jumped down, and a moment later, the rustle in the bushes told Éomer that his enemies had disappeared. Still he could not move. With his fingers clenched around his dagger, his eyes squeezed shut, the young warrior sat unmoving beneath the fallen tree, and battled the violent shaking which assaulted him now that the immediate danger seemed to have passed.

‘Thank you, Béma! Thank you. Thank you…’

At last, tension began to diminish, and his cramped muscles to relax enough to let him draw deep breaths again. The violent thunder of his heartbeat gradually slowed, until finally, Éomer felt secure enough to crawl out of his hideout and come to a shaky stand. The orcs’ stench still hung in the air, but aside from that and their footprints on the ground, they indeed seemed to have left. A hand involuntarily feeling for his throbbing head again, Éomer turned in a slow circle. Aye, he was truly alone. No orcs… but also no Stormwing. In her panic, it seemed that his trusted mare had not even noticed that she had lost her rider. The gods alone knew where she was by now.

“--mer?...are you?”

At the distant sound of his fellow rider’s voice, Éomer lifted his head, and dread overcame him with renewed vigour: aye, danger had passed – for him. For his comrades, the horrors of the night were just about to be unleashed. He had to warn them…somehow. He was responsible for this mess; what if any of them died tonight because of his lack of restraint?

‘Call out or sound your horn, and the orcs will be upon you in the wink of an eye!’ the voice of reason made itself be heard in the back of his mind, and although he knew immediately that it was telling the truth, he hated how cowardly it sounded. ‘Do you really think your brothers will be quicker to reach you than your enemies? Those orcs have only just disappeared; they cannot be far yet.’

‘Perhaps if I wait just a little longer…’

As he stared intently in the direction from where he heard the faint shouts of his brothers, Éomer tried to make up his mind, yet inwardly he already knew that he would never be able to live with himself if riders died because of his foolishness. He would warn them… and run. Perhaps, he would make it.

Slowly, he unhooked the little silver horn – an ancient family heirloom, he remembered absent-mindedly, one of the few things he had taken with him from Aldburg when Théoden had taken them to Edoras – and set it against his lips. A deep breath… and then the horn’s distinctive voice carried through the nightly forest; a series of three quick signals announcing the presence of their enemies. For a moment, the world seemed to come to a stop, as if everything – even the trees – held their breath to listen, and Éomer himself felt unable to move while the knowledge flashed through his mind: ‘Now they’ll come for me.’

Breathlessly he stood for a moment longer, rooted to the spot, just waiting for the rustle in the bushes that would announce his imminent death… then suddenly, the lock of fear fell from his muscles, and the son of Eomund turned and ran…

***

THE RIDERS

‘Orcs! Orcs! Orcs!’

The signal carried through the nightly forest, and for a moment, all activity ground to a halt. Wherever riders searched for the tracks of their lost member, heads flew up and half-muttered curses were spat as the warriors reached for their bows and instinctively moved closer together. Back at the camp, the men jumped to their feet and drew their swords.

Since he was still considered too inexperienced to join the dangerous search, Tondhére had not been allowed to join the groups, but even so he knew enough already to understand whose horn he was hearing.

“Éomer, Éomer…” He shook his head and inwardly sent a quick prayer for protection to Béma as he turned around involuntarily to see Arnhelm’s reaction to this development. Yet to his surprise, the scout was no longer where he had last seen him, and another quick look established that the old warrior’s horse had likewise disappeared. Raising an eyebrow to himself in wonder, Tondhére pondered the implications of his findings when the first search group returned to the camp.

Bard, their leader, stared worriedly at him.

“That was Éomer, wasn’t it? He has not returned in the meantime, I gather?”

Tondhére shook his head. The powerful warrior snorted in disgust.

“Stay alert, there are orcs in the vicinity!”

“We heard the signal,” Tondhére confirmed. “Did you find anything at all?”

“Not a thing,” the older man growled as he threw his horse around and stared at the darkness beyond the campfires. “It’s impossible to find tracks in this weather, and even to determine from where the signal came will be hard. I can only hope that Éomer sounded his horn to warn us, and not because he is in danger himself. If those orcs are after him now, I doubt we will find him quick enough to help him. What a pile of stinking warg-dung that is! If anything happens to the lad, I will let Arnhelm know what I think of his bloody ‘revenge’, and I promise you that he will not like it!”

Shifting in the saddle, Bard cast a quick glance at his riders, who all seemed eager to follow where he lead them.

“We must reorganise; it is too dangerous for small groups out there tonight. Let’s find Elfhelm and the others and then see what we can do for Éomer! Hiya!”

***

South of the camp and closer to the mountains, Elfhelm and his riders regarded each other with growing dread, and even in the darkness, the Captain thought he could see the recruit in their midst pale.

“Gods, Éomer…!” Éothain’s fingers clenched around the reins while the warriors in his company stared intently into the surrounding blackness in an attempt to determine the source of the signal. And yet the rain had muffled the sound to the point where it seemed to come from all directions at once, also not helped by the reflecting, close-by mountains.

Squinting in a vain effort to penetrate the almost solid darkness, Elfhelm grumbled: “He must be close to the river and the mountains; else the signal would not cast an echo like this.” He unhooked his own horn. “We must gather on the way, we cannot wait for the others here, or it will be too late for Éomer. Follow me.”

***

FIRIEN FOREST

The son of Eomund was afraid… deathly afraid, and far beyond the point where self admonishment to not behave like a scared little child would have succeeded. Instinctively, he knew that his temper had led him into very real danger this time. Although Éomer did his best to control the rising panic, there was just something about fleeing like a flushed deer that prompted his imagination to run wild with pictures of orc scores in pursuit, gaining on him with every step because they were much more accustomed to the terrain. Darkness was so thick in the nightly forest that he barely saw the trees in his path, and inwardly Éomer knew that the first hole in the ground would result in a broken or at least sprained ankle and seal his fate.

With a desperate effort he shoved the image away, but the sound of his own rasping, frightened breathing was hardly more comforting as he slowed to a walk and turned around in a doomed attempt to penetrate the blackness behind him. Where were they? How close were they? What if this very moment, dozens of black arrows were already fitted to the string in the surrounding bushes, ready to tear into him and punch the life from his body? The constant rain swallowed all noises in the nightly forest, and yet it somehow seemed to Éomer that there was another, heaver sound below it, caused by a great body of water, a fast-flowing river perhaps. The Mering? Was it the Mering?

The young man strained to locate its source when movement in the corner of his eye suddenly claimed his attention. On a branch above him, a big owl landed and glanced down at him with luminous orange eyes and mild boredom. It did not care for his fate, only saw him as an intruder of its realm. As he squinted at the bird, Éomer suddenly had an idea.

‘What if I climbed this tree? Perhaps the orcs will just run on, not expecting me to hide above them? I am so wet; perhaps they will not pick up my scent.’

A more distinct crackle in the undergrowth behind him ripped him out of his contemplation and stopped his heart; a deathly chill racing down his spine as he stood and listened for its source.

‘They’re coming.’

For a moment, his legs threatened to quit their service, and as he stood and stared, high, cackling laughter reached his ears from the other side of the thicket and Éomer knew at last that the hunt was on - he had been found. It was too late to climb up the tree; all that could save him now was speed, and so he ran toward the sound of the river.

As soon as he broke cover, the noise of his pursuers increased, as the orcs had understood that they, too, had been detected, and to Éomer’s dismay, he found that they were not only behind him, but also to his right, almost upon him. Pure, unadulterated panic flooded his conscious and sent a hot surge through his body. He accelerated, running faster than he had ever before in his life although he barely saw his surroundings, and suddenly, fear fell away from him. It was a hindrance, threatened to slow him while he ran for his life, and so his mind shoved it away into a corner while it concerned itself with his immediate survival. The river… it had been no more than instinct to head for it, the only point of orientation, but even as he ran, Éomer asked himself whether he might be able to use the Mering to his advantage.

Could orcs swim? Somehow, he could not imagine them to. If he reached the waters and made it through them to the other side, perhaps he would be safe? Hope barely began to dawn in his heart when gleeful cackling ripped it from his chest – from the thicket before him!

‘But how can they be here already?’

Breaking to the left, Éomer dived into the bushes. They clawed at his garments and lashed his naked face as he forced his way through them, slowed him down while the excited shouts behind him grew louder and louder. Suddenly, although he could already hear the Mering’s mighty voice, the river seemed impossibly far away. They were hunting him like a frightened doe now, he realised with dread. Now matter where he turned, he could already hear them closing in on him, fanned out in a half-circle to push him toward the river, certain of their prey now.

Once again Éomer set the horn against his lips, but before he could waste what precious breath was left in his lungs, the ground disappeared beneath his feet and he tumbled down the scarp. Gasping for air as he laid on his back, for a moment unable to move, Éomer beheld the luminous eyes of his pursuers as the orcs halted at the rim of the declension, staring down at him.

“Ooh, has it fallen?” one sneered in obvious delight. “Perhaps it has broken its legs, too! I am not in the mood for more running; I want to kill it!”

“If it has broken its legs, we can have some fun with it before we kill it,” another one cackled happily. “Do all the things we wanted to do to its brothers, now that it ruined our little trap!”

“And when we’re done with it, we’ll eat it,” a third one suggested as it started down. “I’m hungry. It’s been a day since we’ve eaten, and this one looks tasty!”

Paralyzed by shock, Éomer stared up at them as he blindly groped for his horn, but it was not within reach. The Mering’s voice was deafening now, the air full of moisture. It had to be close. The question was – had he broken his legs?

“Look, it still wants to call for help!” the first orc laughed and clapped its hands. “As if any of its brethen would hear it over the water’s roar. Ha, humans can be so foolish!” Suddenly, a long, crooked blade was in its claws as it slid down the slope.

“First one down gets the piece of his choice!”

They jumped - and in the face of certain death, Éomer suddenly found the strength to move once again. On all fours he turned around, pushing himself up and into a run, but already he saw the end of his path before him, and about eighteen feet deeper, the frothing, roaring rapids of the river. Aye, this was indeed the end of his path, he realised, and came to a stop at the rim of the cliff. A sudden, great calmness overcame him as he stared down.

“There’s no way out of this trap, lad!” the leader of the orcs shouted, and looking back, Éomer saw that the vile things had formed a chain that spanned the entire path. “No need to look! Better get used to the thought and ready yourself to die with honour, or your ancestors might kick you right out of wherever you go when you meet them in a moment. Let’s just see how much pain you can tolerate before you will plead with us to end it.”

The torrent had transformed the Mering into a wild beast. It was not the question whether orcs could swim; nobody could swim in the vicious maelstrom below the cliff. And yet Éomer was not afraid. He had made his choice.

“You will be denied the satisfaction of hearing me plead, orc-scum!” he said, meeting its eyes. “And whatever place it is that I will go to when I’m dead, it will still be immeasurably better than the one you must return to alive!” He stepped into the void…