Chapter 8: Red Dawn

Author's Note: Oookay, here it comes… the big, ugly, battle! Be warned, it's going to be pretty graphic (about as graphic as I dared to write it without having to fear that I might be banned). If this is not your cup of tea, I truly understand, but after seven chapters of foreplay, I felt the need to indulge myself… and a certain someone, who has been waiting for this for far too long! There now, greedy, blood-lusty woman – are you satisfied? – Reviews will – as always – be happily accepted!

EASTEMNET

Éomer had not even begun to dream when an insistent prodding disturbed his rest. Exhausted to the core, the son of Éomund had instantly fallen asleep on his bedroll; a sleep so deep it rather resembled unconsciousness. Now, a voice in the back of his mind made itself be heard, insisting that it was time to wake, that he was urgently needed. 'Leave me alone…' another sleep-drugged voice protested against the strange impulse. It felt like a big rock that was tied to one end of his awareness, a weight that would pull him deeper and deeper if he only allowed it. He did not.

'The battle… - It's not yet time. I just lay down!'

The prodding again. Stronger this time, with its epicentre at his hip. Rocking him. Impossible to ignore.

"Bloody hell…" He groaned. An attempt to swat the disturbance away, eyes still closed.

"Marshal? Marshal Éomer! It is time."

Somewhere deep in the back of his consciousness, Éomer recognized the voice, even if the name of its owner escaped him at the moment. 'Captain… one of my captains…' That did the trick. Somehow, under mobilisation of the entire rest his considerable willpower, he rolled onto his back and chanced a look through the small slits of his half-opened eyelids. 'Aedwulf…'

The warrior in front of him smirked, knowing only too well how waking after a much too short break after everything they had been through felt from own experience.

"My sincerest apologies, Marshal," Aedwulf offered. "But dawn is on its way. Can't be more than an hour off... perhaps even less." He knelt down and held out his hand with a mug of steaming, strong-smelling contents. "Here, have some Everlast. We've made it extra strong. This will get you on your feet in no time."

Numbly, Éomer accepted the mug and peered with revulsion at the thick liquid. Everlast was a brew from a variety of herbs and roots, concocted by their older healer Fúlgrim in Aldburg a few years earlier, and had quickly risen to be regarded as an absolute essential for the Armed Forces. It tasted hideous, like a mixture of warg piss, rotten meat and swamp mud, but its properties never failed to lend an exhausted warrior new power. There was no telling how many exhausted men it had saved since its discovery, and so Éomer did not even consider complaining as he put the rim of the mug against his lips and emptied it with four deep swigs.

"Ugh…" He grimaced and spat, and wordlessly, Aedwulf offered him his water skin. Three more swallows quickly washed the revolting taste from his mouth, and he returned the vessel to his captain. "So many dream of riding with the éoreds," he coughed as he rose to his knees. "I wonder if they would still do so if they knew they'd one day have to wake to this taste…"

"Ah, the joys of life on the plains!" Aedwulf grinned, and helped his commander up.

Massaging his hurting neck, Éomer's first glance went to the east, and it confirmed to him what his brother-in-arms had already told him. Daylight was on the way. Which was good. It was about bloody time they were done here. Many leagues to the west, Théodred was waiting for them… He turned around, now scrutinising what he could make out on the little hillock.

"Did they try anything?"

Aedwulf shook his head.

"I suppose they bowed to the inevitable and decided to conserve the rest of their strength for battle. And before you ask: Éothain and his riders destroyed the rest of the group that assaulted us. They left none alive. In fact, they returned shortly after you… They lost three horses though." He inhaled, and Éomer's gloomy look was reply enough. This foray cost them dearly, and it was clear to both men that the price had not even been fully paid yet. Aedwulf cleared his throat. "I told Éothain to sleep, too. Anlaf took over for him. I suppose he's just waking right now, as well. When first light comes, it will find us ready."

"Aye…" With a soundless sigh, Éomer straightened and rolled his shoulders. Gods, he felt stiff like one of the Púkelmen on the path to Dunharrow. How in Béma's name was he supposed to give battle in less than an hour? Which reminded him… A quick glance around confirmed to him that most of their riders were already in the process of preparing their horses for the expected melee. Bedrolls and other belongings were being packed and stored in their horse's saddlebags, before they could get lost in the fight, and once that was done, the men climbed into the saddles and began to put their mounts through a few exercises to warm their muscles.

Slowly feeling the effect of the Everlast taking hold, Éomer gave his captain an appreciative look and laid a hand upon the man's shoulder.

"Well done, Aedwulf. See that you make it back to your own position, then. Since everyone knows what do do, I suppose there is nothing left to say or do. See that you get some more rest. It will be over soon enough. Good hunting, Captain… and see that you duck when you're supposed to."

"And you, Marshal."

With a curt nod, the warrior turned and walked away. For a moment, Éomer's gaze followed him, then with a jolt, the son of Éomund turned towards their horses. His dark grey head buried in the juicy grass, Firefoot stood at the edge of their herd of war-horses, up to his knees dissolved in the thick grey mist. He looked almost like a ghost in these surroundings, and from out of nowhere, Éomer's thoughts turned toward Sleipnir, the ghost horse, as he approached his mount. A frown spread over his face at the thought of the mighty stallion of the Beyond, who was believed to carry those who had fallen in battle to the halls of their ancestors. He hoped none of his remaining warriors would see the Ghost Horse today.

"Good morning, Grey One!" he said instead, and smiled when Firefoot lifted his head, still munching on a mouthful of grass. From the depths of his mighty chest, a low wicker reached the warrior's ears and brought the hint of a smile to his lips as he reached out and buried his fingers in the silken fur. "Don't eat too much, or you won't be able to move. Unfortunately, the worst is yet to come, and I will need your service one more time."

He pulled the big head closer and pressed his face into the thick winter fur, enjoying the warmth upon his skin. The thought that both he and his mount could be dead in less than an hour was non-existent. It was something he was not allowed to think if he wanted to be effective in battle. Fear was a bad adviser. People made mistakes when they were driven by fear. Rigorously, he pushed it aside and climbed into the saddle to begin his own preparations for the fight.

000

Half an hour later, it could no longer be denied that daylight was on the way. The world lay under a swirling white blanket of mist, ready to be born again, and the birds on the edge of the Entwood had burst into song. It could have been a beautiful morning, yet instead, it would become a red dawn.

The Riders had broken camp, and there had been a lot of activity in the twilight, anxiously and helplessly followed by their waiting opponents. Steam rose from the bodies of the great war-horses as they moved ceaselessly around the siege ring, preparing for the effort that lay before them. Swords were sharpened and arrows collected from the bodies of the fallen orcs to replenish empty quivers, spears retrieved and armour rearranged that had been taken off during the night.

At last, Éomer felt that they were ready. Garulf had just returned from another round around the hillock, and brought him word from the other commanders that their preparations were completed, and that the éored was waiting for their Marshal's sign. A quick glance at the eastern sky revealed that the sun was just about to show its head above the distant hills.

With a curt nod at his scout, Éomund's son turned his prancing stallion towards the hillock and unhooked his silver horn. The clear sound rose over the battlefield, calling his brothers to arms… and was picked up by dozens more all around the siege ring. The orcs jumped to their feet… and the first beam of sunlight flooded the hill on which they stood and blinded them. It reflected on helmets and then on swords which were spontaneously held up to greet it, and chased away the gloomy thoughts of the night. Battle was upon them once more, and they were ready for it.

Coming to a halt at the foot of the hillock, Éomer suddenly heard a strong, clear voice burst out in song. A grim smile spread on his lips as he recognised it as Éothain's, and he joined into their ancient battle tune, which was quickly picked up by their entire éored, swept away on a huge wave of adrenaline:

"We ride out in the morning,

hard on our enemies' track.

We know that once we find them,

they'll never make it back.

Fens and plains and hills we cross,

our weapons thirsty for their blood.

And when we`re done we leave them lying,

their corpses trampled in the red mud.

We've made our vows, to protect what's ours,

To kill what's not, and destroy their lot.

Forever and ever our duty will call,

to vanquish our foes and to protect all."

In the deafening silence that followed their song, Éomer lifted his arm and shouted out.

"Ready!"

With a swoosh, the riders to his left and right unslung their bows and fitted their arrows to the string. For a few heartbeats, nothing happened. A last, deep breath… and then his arm fell.

"Shoot!"

With a sharp whisper, the deadly hail punched into the orcs. Agonised and enraged roars rose into the clear morning air. Several large shapes dropped to the ground. Only few arrows were returned. Again, Éomer lifted his arm.

"Ready! ... Shoot!"

More devastation rained down upon their enemies, cunningly aimed at points in their lighter armour that were not well protected. Dozens of the great orcs stumbled and fell to their knees, riddled with arrows. Mercilessly, Éomer gave the signal a third time, and then gripped his spear.

"Forth, Éorlingas!"

He kicked his heels into Firefoot's flanks, and the grey stallion jumped into action. The riders accelerated uphill like a wave on a storm tide; swallowing the ground beneath them, eating up the distance. Before them, still unable to see them in the low light of the rising sun, the remaining orcs lifted their crude swords in defence.

"Stand your ground!" a mighty voice rose over the din of their hoof beats. "Or I will personally kill you! Stand your ground!"

Closer! And closer still, almost upon them! So close now that Éomer could make out the reflection of the sun in the bulging, red-veined eyes before him. The stench of the enemy hit his nostrils. He tensed and drew back his arm, focussing on the Uruk directly in their path. The beast bared its fangs at him and roared, spittle showering from the gaping maw as it ran to meet them. With a wild answering yell and his full body weight behind the thrust, Éomer threw his spear, and it caught the creature in the pit of its throat and went halfway through. A black shower erupted from its jaws. Dropping the sword, the orc's hands went up to its pierced neck, and yet before it had a chance to drop, they were upon it. The dying beast was rammed to the ground and vanished beneath their horses. Only a moment later, Gúthwinё sparkled brightly in its master's hand, thirsty for blood.

Like a battering ram, the éored forced their way through the exhausted orcs; hacking, slashing and riding down everything in their way, an unstoppable force of nature, only halting once they reached the peak of the little hillock. There they turned around, joined by their brothers-in-arms who had fought their way up from the other side, and with combined strength, came upon the fleeing orcs once more, the thunder of their hooves drowning out all other sounds.

"Get the Whiteskin! Kill him!"

As the spearhead of their forces, Éomer suddenly found himself surrounded by Uruk-hai. Firefoot's assault had been too fast for the éored to follow, and cunningly, the beasts had closed the gap behind him and isolated the commander from his warriors. He cursed and threw the stallion around, having sensed motion out of the corner of his eye. Black claws clutched at him, grasped his boots and tried to pull him from the saddle. He slashed at them, severing a forearm here and a hand there, but now the orcs on the other side had reached him.

With a furious shriek, Firefoot reared, and his hooves smashed the face of the nearest foe in, sending him to the ground. Yet his forelegs had barely touched the soil again when he already rounded his back and kicked, almost unseating his rider.

"Éomer!"

He looked up, frantically searching for help, but there was only the writhing black mass around them, roaring, stinking, hell-bent on tearing them to pieces. A huge two-hander with spikes at its tip swung toward them, and only in the last moment, Éomer managed to deflect the blow that would have taken off his leg. Enraged, the beast bared its fangs at him and crouch as if to jump, but suddenly, with a shower of blackness, the tip of a spear burst from its chest.

"To the Marshal!"

It was Éothain's voice he heard, and Éothain's face which suddenly appeared before him. Lifting his sword hand in greeting, Éomer was ill-prepared for a sudden, violent tug from behind. His feet slipped from the stirrups, and even a quick grasp for the pommel of his saddle could not save him. He fell.

"Éomer!"

Years of practice and catlike instincts sent him into a controlled roll over his shoulder and landed him on his feet, striking out even as he rose. The mountain of orc before him roared in agony as he dropped like a stone, both of its legs severed just below the knees. Quickly ending the beast's pain with a stab to the eye, Éomer whirled around.

"Firefoot!"

His stallion was fearsome to behold as he rose on his hind legs once again, only the whites showing in his eyes as he hammered his hooves at the nearest orcs and jumped forth with bared teeth, a predator in the shape of a horse. And yet he did not seem to hear his master's call.

"Éomer, quick!"

From out of nowhere, a gauntleted hand appeared in Éomer's vision. He grasped it and jumped, unthinking, pure instinct, to find himself in the saddle behind Éothain.

"Go!"

Scatha, his friend's bay gelding, burst into action and, with a mighty jump, propelled himself straight through the wall of orcs that separated them from the rest of their riders, closely followed by Firefoot, and the pursuing orcs were met with another hail of arrows from the Rohirrim.

"Damnation…" was all Éomer was able to utter as he fought for breath. "That was close."

"Too close…" Reaching, Éothain managed to grasp Firefoot's loosely hanging reins, and quickly, his commander and friend slipped over into the empty saddle. Anxiously, Éomer's eyes travelled over the grey frame, looking for injuries, but finding only smears of black orc blood upon his hide.

"Next time we attack, please leave us the chance to join you, all right? One could think your horse has a personal feud with this particular band of orcs."

Still breathing hard, Éomer nodded

"Thanks, Éothain. I owe you."

"Ah well…" his friend snorted, already turning away to get an overview over the battle. "Regard it as payment for last month. We should be even now." He narrowed his eyes. "It seems to me that most of the orcs are destroyed, but what's this over there?" He pointed ahead.

Following his gaze, Éomer beheld a throng of orcs and riders in close combat. There were about a dozen of the dark beasts, who seemed to use an unusual strategy to fight their way towards the forest, back-to-back, some of them even equipped with bows they had claimed. Even as they looked, three of the Uruks made a sally and jumped at a grey horse with a distinct two-coloured mane.

"No!" Éomer hissed and spurred Firefoot towards the fight, Éothain close behind him. Right before their eyes, the horse was surrounded and its rider torn from the saddle while it still fought to free itself. An icy chill raced down his spine at the thought of how close he had come himself to falling prey to this tactic. Without stopping, Éomer exchanged his sword for a spear, ripping it from the body of a fallen orc as they thundered ahead. In the meantime, other riders had noticed their comrades' predicament and turned, but they were too far away to help.

One of Garulf's attackers roared in pain as Éothain's precisely aimed arrow punched into its shoulder, and for a moment, all heads turned toward the two approaching Rohirrim. Using the diversion, the grey stallion reared and catapulted itself through a narrow gap, shrieking in terror. Its rider wasn't as lucky. Even as they came within range, the scout disappeared in the middle of the enraged orcs.

With a cry of pure rage, Éomer threw the spear and sunk the entire metal head into the back of the nearest beast.

"Hey!" a roar greeted them. "Hey, Whiteskins! Look here!"

It was a mountain of an orc, a Uruk of a size they had not met before, clad in gruesome amour of skin and bones that was already soaked with black and red blood alike. The group's commander, without a doubt, and before him in the mud, the sharp claws sunk into the skin of his head, Garulf knelt, desperately, uselessly trying to escape the terrible hold. Blood streamed down his face in frightening amounts. Éomer swore and reached over his back. No arrow left! Next to him, Éothain swore at the same revelation.

"Look here, Whiteskins!" the chieftain shouted with a horribly amused laugh. "This is what would happen to all of you if you fought fair!"

Even as Éomer kicked his heels into Firefoot's flanks, his blade again in his hand, he knew that their attack came too late. Right before them, the Uruk's claws clenched as he pulled Garulf to his feet with a violent tug that almost ripped the skin from the warrior's scalp, a long, black knife in his other hand…

In a desperate impulse, Éomer threw his sword. In a silvery arc, Gúthwinё sailed towards the offender. But it was not the way its owner had ever used it before, and so it was only the hilt that struck the great orc in the chest and glanced off. With a guttural roar, the beast sank its knife into Garulf's neck, opening a yawning red gap just beneath his chin. The scout's knees buckled, but before he could fall, he was thrown right into his marshal's path.

No time to evade. For a heartbeat, Éomer saw his rider's bloodied face through Firefoot's ears – the next, he was catapulted into the air as his stallion leapt over the dying warrior. They landed in the midst of the remaining orcs… and he was weaponless, Éomer realised with a jolt! For a moment, he could only stare as the beasts advanced… and then a sharp sound reached his ears, and his attackers dropped to the ground, each pierced by at least a dozen arrows. Except for their commander…

The great orc still stood, although the shafts of two arrows stuck out from his arm and leg.

"Halt!" Éomer shouted over the din of the advancing éored, and lifted his hand. "Do not shoot! He is mine!" His eyes tore into those of his adversary, murder written on his face as he turned Firefoot around in a tight circle.

"Marshal!" Hilt first, Éothain offered him his sword even as the rest of their riders closed the circle around them. He knew better than to argue with his friend now.

Wordlessly, Éomer accepted his blade, while beneath him, Firefoot stomped his hooves threateningly into the ground. He lifted his chin in challenge.

"You gonna fight me from the back of that beast, horse-boy?" The Uruk spat. "Just what I expected. You know that I would tear you limb from limb in a fair fight!"

"A fair fight?" Éomer's eyes blazed, thoroughly ignoring Éothain's whispered "Éomer, don't!", or probably not even hearing him. He was in a tunnel, and on the other end, there was only Garulf's murderer. No Éothain, no riders, no one. "You want a fair fight? I'll give you a fair fight!" And with those words, he slipped from the saddle.

He did not hear the dismayed murmurs of his riders, had no eyes or ears for anything but the dark shape before him as he approached his opponent with large, determined steps. The blood pulsed through his veins; muscles vibrated with tension as rage and battle-fever united in his body. Everything became clearer, sharper. Every little detail stood out in stark contrast. The orc's blood-soaked armour. The arrow-shafts in its flesh, moving as the beast drew back its spiked broadsword. The cruel, horribly amused glint in its bloodshot eyes.

Two paces before his adversary, Éomer came to a stop. In challenge, he extended his arms, then slowly dropped into a crouch.

"Well, come on, abortion!"

The crude blade swung toward him before he had even finished, its arc unexpectedly low. At the last moment, Éomer blocked the blow which would have otherwise cut off his legs, and used its energy to answer with a quick swipe that neatly shaved off his opponent's left ear. The orc bellowed in rage.

A grim smile tugged at Éomer's lips. The beast was mean and strong, but it was slow.

"You want to tear me to pieces? Here I am! Come on, warg-trap, or are you a coward?"

With a furious roar, the orc leapt at him, black wetness glistening on its thick neck, the broadsword scything through the air in a deadly half-circle and striking sparks as it clashed against Éothain's sword – and knocked it from Éomer's grasp.

He did not hear the dismayed cries around him. As the sword swung toward him once more, Éomer dropped to the ground and rolled. Something sparkled in the grass before him, a glint of sunlight on metal. Gúthwinё! His fingers closing around the hilt, he finished his move and jumped to his feet. A quick thrust opened a long gash across the orc's back before it could turn. The beast grunted and stumbled.

'He's lost a lot of blood,' Éomer realised with satisfaction. 'He's getting weaker. It's all about good footwork now.'

"I'm here!" he taunted, and danced away before his opponent could turn around, punishing him again with a stab into the muscular thigh. "Come and get me!"

Red eyes regarded him with infernal bloodlust as the orc turned toward him, limping now, its chest pumping like a pair of bellows.

"Stand… still!"

Their eyes met, and in them, Éomer could see everything he could ever have wanted. The orc was finished. Time to end it. He straightened… and lowered his sword.

"All right… Come!"

With a breathless roar, the beast jumped at him. He saw it all very clearly as he stood there, unmoving, Gúthwinё hanging beside his legs as he goaded the orc into a last, desperate attack. The cold glint of the black metal upon the descending broadsword, the strike powerful enough to split him down the middle like firewood. At the last possible moment, he moved.

A flicker of his wrist, then a sharp upwards motion with both hands leading the blade, every ounce of strength in his body incorporated in his strike, a furious cry leaving his lungs. The steel cut through bone as if it were butter, and the broadsword tumbled to the ground behind him, the hands which had led it still clenched around the hilt.

For a moment, they stood before each other, eye-to-eye. Close enough to touch. The orc's maw opened wide in a blood-curdling roar, impressive fangs glistening with saliva. Easiest thing in the world to stick his sword into the gaping hole and be done with it. Yet it was not what the son of Éomund wanted.

Dropping into a crouch, he lashed out again, and this time, all its iron determination could not keep his adversary on its feet, for they had been severed from its body. On bleeding stumps, it toppled backward. One step, two… and then the great body crashed to the ground with an agonized groan.