Chapter 7. The Third Marshal and the Heir to the King - 3
Night had fallen deep. In the darkness, the patrolling guards moved like shadows—vague figures shifting through the gloom. The air was thick with the sharp scent of horses, and now and then came the restless scrape of hooves against the earth.
Éomer, son of Éomund, had held the post of Third Marshal of the Riddermark for nearly two years. And yet this night, he sat by the dying fire, tightening and loosening his whip again and again, until the leather thongs at its end twisted into a matted tuft. Still, he hesitated—uncertain how to begin.
To hold such command and office at six-and-twenty was a rare feat indeed—his lifelong wish fulfilled, and a distinction even his father had not achieved. Yet the years since his appointment had been anything but peaceful.
The King’s illness showed no sign of abating, and the orders issued in his name—filtered through Gríma—grew ever more circumspect: “Make no rash move,” “Provoke no open war,” “Pursue not the foe without leave.” In sum: make no enemy of Isengard. Most of what came from Edoras now served only to bind the hands of captains and marshals. And though the old man upon the throne had grown clouded of late, he remained the liege-lord of all—and to Éomer, more than that: a father. To cast aside that bond, to defy the King’s will, was unthinkable.
But slow constraint, over time, brought disaster. When Elfhild led a company that found signs of the enemy and gave chase, another host emerged and trapped them in the hills. Word reached Edoras, and Elfhelm sought leave to ride in support—but an order had been issued not long before: “No Riders of Edoras are to pass beyond the Folde.” Éomer hesitated only a moment, and sent a Rider to seek Théodred’s leave. But by the time the answer came, it was too late. Elfhild had fallen—and only when Elfhelm rode in at last and slew the wildmen to the last were they able to recover her body.
Théodred, when he heard the whole of it, was furious with him for the first time in their lives.
“You are a Marshal—you must have the courage to bear the weight of command! When the time comes to act, you cannot falter for fear of orders!” The Prince had shut the doors behind them and unleashed a storm of rebuke, sparing neither rank nor pride. “What were you afraid of—that my father or I would doubt your loyalty?”
Éomer had bowed his head and taken the censure in silence. Shame and regret lay heavy upon him—but mingled with them was a wordless, unshakable gratitude.
And in the summer, Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor, came unlooked-for to the Riddermark, seeking the hidden refuge of the Elves—Imladris, as they named it. Éomer received him in Eastfold and afterward rode with him to Edoras. Théodred, long counted among his dearest friends, saw him off in person at the Fords of Isen, lending him a steed fit for the long road ahead. Yet ere long, the horse returned alone, bearing no rider—and no word of Boromir. What came instead was not the son of the Steward of Gondor, but Gandalf Greyhame.
Gandalf’s name was known throughout the Mark, though opinions differed. Some called him a bringer of storms, for trouble ever seemed to follow in his wake; others whispered that he was no mere dealer in fireworks, but a mighty wizard, akin to Saruman of Isengard. Whatever the truth, the King had long granted him leave to come and go as he pleased. Éomer, though he had never met the man, had heard no few tales. And when at last he beheld him, he saw only a weather-worn wanderer—little better than a beggar at first glance. So when Gandalf seized upon a loophole in the King’s words and—with neither shame nor pause—laid claim to the famed Shadowfax, and the horse indeed consented, Éomer could scarcely believe his eyes.
“I thought Shadowfax would bear none but the Lord of the Mark!” he complained afterward. “Who does this old man think he is, to have more claim in Shadowfax’s eyes than you?”
But Théodred only shook his head and smiled, untroubled. “He is no ordinary old man. He looked the same when I was a child—and so, they say, did he when my father and grandfather were young. He has not changed in decades, and cannot be of mortal kind.”
“So he is a wizard, then—like Saruman the White?”
Théodred nodded. “It would seem so.”
Éomer frowned. “Then is this not merely a quarrel between wizards? How are we to know which side we ought to take?”
Théodred’s smile faded. “Whether Gandalf be friend or no, I trust Saruman far less. The hill-men we have taken speak of a white-robed old man who stirred them to war. And of late, Orcs bearing the White Hand have been seen near Edoras. That is Saruman’s mark.”
Even as he spoke, a knock came at the door. Háma entered and bowed slightly before addressing him. “My lord—Erkenbrand has sent word from Westfold. Saruman has declared that all of Rohan now falls under the rule of Isengard.”
It was as good as a declaration of war. Théodred and Éomer sprang to their feet and made for the door at once—but in the corridor, Théodred halted abruptly. Éomer, catching his gaze, stopped as well.
Though the torchlight was dim, they saw it clearly. Éowyn, clad in white, was hastening away down the hall—and behind her, half-veiled in shadow, stood Gríma. One hand had only just withdrawn, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable. No man could have misread it.
Éomer’s blood surged—but Théodred moved faster. The Prince strode forward, seized Gríma by the collar, and slammed him hard against the wall, pinning him with one hand tight around his throat.
“Éowyn is as a sister to me,” Théodred said, slow and quiet, each word keen as drawn steel. “Stalk her again, and I shall call you to single combat.”
“You would slay me—and fear not the King’s hea—”
“Do not flatter yourself,” Théodred answered coldly. “You are not the only leech in the land.”
He released his grip, and Gríma crumpled to the floor.
“Send word to Elfhelm,” Théodred said, the words meant for Éomer. “Remuster the garrison in Edoras. From his command, draw four companies of Riders—we ride for Helm’s Deep. From this hour, all reports are to be sent to both Meduseld and the Hornburg.”
He turned on his heel and strode away, sparing not so much as a glance for the leech. “If Saruman seeks war,” he said, “then war he shall have.”
Éomer did not answer at once, for he still trembled with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. But Háma stepped to Théodred’s side and, after a brief pause, said quietly, “My lord… the King has given no such command.”
“I am his heir. The burden of regency lies with me. I am also his son—and I know he is no coward,” Théodred snapped. “And how many feeble, hollow decrees have we obeyed—neither my father’s nor mine, but hissed from the forked tongue of this snake?”
Now that war had come in earnest, Théodred took full command. Yet still, orders bearing the King’s seal continued to arrive—ill-suited more often than not to the needs of war—and Éomer found it ever harder to reconcile duty with necessity. Rumours began to spread: whispers that he defied the will of both King and Prince, that he overstepped his place, that his ambitions reached too far.
This time, too, he had acted without express leave. Delay would have endangered the defense. Théodred was still in Westfold, and to send for his word would have cost precious hours—perhaps a full day. Éomer made the call—and at dusk, they struck, utterly routing the foe.
Yet on the ride back, he crossed paths with another band of scouts—these bore the livery of the Second Marshal. Théodred himself had taken the field. Their two companies joined ranks, and with their numbers now sufficient, they chose to make camp.
Théodred said little when they met. Whether it was mere weariness or something more, Éomer could not tell—but the rumours had grown thick, and though his conscience was clear, he dared not presume. At last, as the fire dwindled to red embers, he made up his mind.
“Théodred.”
His cousin had long since wrapped himself in his cloak and lay resting—but after a moment, he murmured, “Hm?”
“You are the heir to the King of the Mark. You always have been. As for me—” He paused; the words caught in his throat. How could he speak without sounding as though he sought to excuse himself? “I know my place. You shall lead, and I will follow. Such is the way of things. I have never wished for anything else.”
There was a rustle from across the fire. Théodred shifted with a groan and yawned.
“Did I not tell you to pay no heed to Gríma’s venom? A snake’s mouth spits only poison. If not for my father’s illness, I would never have suffered him to remain in Edoras.”
He paused. Then, more softly, as sleep crept into his voice, he added, “Éomer, you are as a brother to me. If I cannot trust you—then what remains worth living for?”
Soon, Théodred’s breathing settled into a steady rhythm. Éomer listened—and slowly, the weight upon his chest began to lift.
Théodred trusted him. Théodred still trusted him.
Thank Béma for that.
For without it, Éomer might well have begun to wonder if there was anything remained worth living for.