Dear potential reader:
Please note that I do not own any of the characters appearing in this tale. They are owned by the estate of JRR Tolkien. I did not seek profit in writing this tale, I wrote for the enjoyment of writing and hopefully your enjoyment in reading. That said, please enjoy my offering:
Morning had come to Osgiliath and with it, a decision. Captain Dossarch well remembered his king's command but he knew Elessar's intent, as well. For this reason, he felt no guilt for ordering his column to march eastward along the Ithilduin. His sergeant, a hard-bitten campaigner of low birth, did not care much for his decision.
"Speak clearly, Larsh," Dossarch commanded the man. "I mislike this grumbling."
"I say that I mislike not following King Aragorn's command, m'lord," the scarred man replied.
"It is on my authority," the captain reminded him. "And we follow the king's orders."
"His orders were to cross the great river at Osgiliath and turn south to reinforce Prince Faramir's host in the Emyn Arnen." The sergeant reminded him. "Patrolling and routing any enemy we find on the way."
"That is what we're doing," the captain insisted.
"Begging your pardon, m'lord, then why are we marching east rather than south?"
"Because we're routing enemy we've found," the captain told him. "The survivors from the orc raid said that the foe had fled up the river. If we turn south and join with the prince, the orcs will escape through the forest and into the mountains."
"Safer for all if we join with the prince," the sergeant retorted. Dossarch's jaw clenched at the statement.
He well remembered the desperate fighting on the Pelennor Fields. He remembered the ax that pierced his shield and his left hand, and the pain as he fought despite his wound. He remembered the fever and infection that had set in the next day, although he didn't recall the days of delirium that followed. He only remembered recovering his wits, weak as a kitten, to discover that King Elessar's host had already set forth for the Towers of the Teeth. He remembered he strength slowly returning, rejoicing at the news of victory and the fall of Sauron and the days of preparation for the king's return. He then remembered those who had been at the Black Gate being hailed as heroes while he, of no less valor than they, was not.
"We did not accept our tasks to remain safe," he snapped at the sergeant. "We accepted our tasks to defend Gondor. A foe has dared raid our folk, it is our duty to chastise him."
"Most of our lads haven't had the time to harden," the sergeant protested. Dossarch's jaw clenched anew.
He had to admit that the man was right. Of the two hundred who marched behind him, perhaps ninety had lifted a blade and braced a shield against a foe. This march was to toughen soft feet, harden backs and shoulders to bear harness and mail, teach the young soldiers the skills of patrolling, setting camp and operating in unsafe territory...while the threat was still small.
"But the foe is ahead and we're on his trail," Dossarch stated. "Our best trackers, two of great skill, deem the foe small, no more than one hundred. We have riders out to our flanks, front and rear. Our lads may be green, but they're braced with veterans and well trained. We will deal with these orcs, blood our lads and join a stronger host to the prince."
While the sergeant didn't seem completely convinced, he chose to not protest further. For three days, the column continued its march along the Ithilduin with no sign of the enemy other than the tracks and detritus that orcs were want to leave in their wake. For three days, the outriders reported no sign of the foe. Then the trail turned north.
The sergeant protested again, stating that the foe drew them further from their destination, but Dossarch would hear no complaint. "They seek to escape into the mountains," he told the man. "If such orcs can escape, they will tell their lot and the next raid will have ten times their number."
Again, Larsh bit his tongue, unable to argue the wisdom of the statement.
For two more days, the column marced north into rising land, where rushing streams cut deep ravines through the hills. On the morning of the third day, the lead outriders reported the orcs encamped less that a league ahead. Dossarch interrupted the morning meal, sent his riders to his flanks and rear and lashed his column into hasty movment. Less than an hour later, they burst into the abandoned camp to note the fires still smoldering. Almost scenting the foe, Dossarch ordered the march continued at double time.
Again, Larch protested, stating that the lads wouldn't be able to fight after such a march but Dossarch silenced him again. Minutes later, another outrider returned and reported the orcs fleeing in disarray only a quarter league ahead. Heartened by the news, the entire column surged forward. When the first arrows struck his lead rank, Dossarch knew that he had finally overtaken the enemy.
He looked forward to see a ragged band of the foul creatures, perhaps one hundred, with possibly two-score archers. Dossarch barked his orders and the column, green but well trained, complied. The first two ranks locked shields, braced spears and continued to advance. The four ranks behind kept their spears raised to the sky while the column's archers bent their bows towards the foe. Orcs dropped from well-aimed shafts while orc arrows bounced off of shield, helm and mail. Just before the spearmen could engage, the remaining orcs, down to fifty or so, broke and fled further up the ravine where they had made their stand. Ignoring Larsh's protest, Dossarch ordered pursuit.
Hours later, as the sun lowered in the sky, arrows and stones began to rain upon his comlumn from the high cliffs to either side, he realized that he may have been too rash.
Still, he commanded a strong force. Several men fell, but he got his men into a square formation, with the outside men holding shields aloft while on the inside, his archers drove the orcs from clifftops they had been using to rain shot and dart upon the men of Gondor. For a few minutes, Dossarch wondered why his outriders had not warned him of this ambush. Then, he realized that those riders must be dead. He would mourn later, now he had to extract his force from the ambush...by crushing the orcs. He had just ordered the continued advance when cold fear griped him.
Suddenly, his sword arm grew weak and the foe grew larger and more numerous in his mind. He forgot his deeds on the Pelennor fields, fighting despite his wounds. He knew that he was doomed to die in this nameless ravine. Shaking his head, he gained control of himself; he was still a strong man of the west. Unfortunately, not everyone mastered their fear.
Nearby, Larsh stood tall and ready, shouting at the men to remain in formation. Most of the veterans also shook their heads and stood firm; although their eyes were wide with fright. The new men, those who had not tasted battle before today, were unable to control their fear. More than one hundred men of Gondor fled down the ravine in disarray, screaming as they ran.
"Form up!" Larsh roared, rallying those who had stood firm. The ninety remaining men formed into a square as a rumble sounded from higher in the ravine. Then, a powerful host of orcs swarmed from the higher ground to surround the outnumbered veterans.
The men of the west died hard, extracting a price in lives and blood for every one who fell, yet it was still to cheap. Orcs leapt into the spears, dragging the weapons down with their own dying bodies as their fellows swarmed over the fallen. Blades from Gondor hacked down orcs by the dozen, but scores more used their dead and dying brethren to leap into the very heart of the battle square. Soon, the square was sundered.
The veterans still fought hard. Wherever they could, they banded together in bands of a score, a dozen or even a pair, standing back-to-back. Still the foe charged, headless of losses, willing to spend several to bring down each tall man. Dossarch saw Larsh fall, the sergeant's blade in an orc belly, his shield blocking an orc blade while an orc ax sundered his helm. The captain couldn't count the foes that had fallen beneath his own, notched blade when a jolt of pain in his back dropped him to his knees. Looking down, seeing a spear burst from his chest, his last thought was to wonder how men could stand before the fear that had sundered his column.
"You seem troubled, my king."
Eomer, King of Rohan, looked to his aide and friend.
"A man from Gondor rides with us, carrying the red arrow," he answered, nodding to their guest. The man in Gondorian livery rode somewhat away from the King, allowing him some privacy as he spoke with this councilor. "War is upon us. It is a troubling time."
"Yet we have ridden to war before," Hammarn pointed out. "Last summer, we rode far to the south and faced the Haradrim. You were not so troubled at that time."
"Last summer we went to war," Eomer reminded the man. "Yet this time, war has come to us."
"Perhaps if you shared this burden, it would ride more light upon you. My duty is to assist you; why don't you allow me to perform it? Why did you meet with the arrow-bearer in private and not speak of the danger?"
"I will share the burden, yet today," the King informed his companion. "And this is why we ride to Helm's Deep. King Aragorn summons not only the aid of Rohan, but the dwarves of the Glittering Halls, as well."
"They are few in number!" Hammarn protested. "Although a doughty folk, why does the King of the West call for them in addition to the spears of Rohan?"
"We may find ourselves in the Mountains of Shadow, above the lands of Ithilien," Eomer replied. "I had hoped to speak of this matter to my house and to Gimli at the same time, but you are correct that I should share the burden; you may have council that I have not considered. The King of the west believes that we may face battle in mountains and caves. In such a conflict, the dwarves can provide strength beyond their numbers."
"Ithilien! Does war threaten your sister and her husband?"
"As well as my sister-son," Eomer told his friend, his face grim. "While the darkness has not yet threatened Emyn Arnen, it is growing. While Aragorn prepares to march to Faramir's aid, he judged that I would wish to rally to the aid of my sister. He judged correctly."
"Has the shadow returned to Mordor?" Hammarn asked. "What shadow remains in Middle Earth that could challenge Prince Faramir? He is a capable leader of men."
"I know not the name or shape of the shadow. The bearer did not know and from his words, I believe that even Faramir and Aragorn do not know it. Aragorn calls upon me to muster the forces of Rohan to march to Emyn Arnen. Gimli, I and those I see fit to accompany me will ride to Minas Tirith, there to take council with Aragorn himself before traveling to Ithilien and the grim tasks that await us there."
"And did the High King direct the King of Rohan to fetch this dwarf?" Hammarn asked his King. "Does Aragorn, Lord of the West that he is, direct the King of Rohan, and his friend, to deliver messages?"
"Stay your outrage, good Hammarn," Eomer lifted one hand to halt further words, but smiled as he spoke. "Aragorn directed me to pass the summons on to Gimli and his folk. I took it upon myself to travel with the herald and his words. My household can see to the muster of the Eastfold, I go personally to warn the Westfold and to speak to Gimli. The dwarves are both guests and allies, not subjects, so I seek to show them proper courtesy."
"Could certain items at court be wearying your ears?" Hammarn's voice was sly, and his smile was one more appropriate for a man chastising a friend than a councilor speaking to a King.
"Aye, that subject has become most tiresome," the King admitted, with a sigh.
"But it is your duty," Hammarn reminded him. "You ride into danger, yet again. Should I send word to Dol Amroth that you may be in Minas Tirith soon?"
"You overstep yourself, Hammarn!"
"I think not, my liege," Hammarn's voice conveyed the image of a brave, albeit overmatched guard standing his ground against an assailant. "Had you wanted advisers who only spoke what you wished to hear, you never would have appointed those of us who now help you order your realm. No, my liege, your duty to continue your line is more vital to your realm than defeating any shadow at the borders."
"It is a private matter," Eomer protested, although weakly.
"A King's matters are never private," Hammarn countered. "The Lady Lothiriel seems more than willing. You seem just as willing. Why don't you wed and see to your realm's rulership?"
"Do all men face such harassment?" Eomer demanded. "Do all men have a household full of advisers who constantly demand that he wed and beget?"
"Nay, my liege. Most men have a mother to constantly remind him that he has not yet begat her grandchildren. Since I first answered the King's summons, my dam has taken every opportunity to remind me that I have no wife and no children."
"Shall I make a pact with you, good Hammarn? If you speak to fair Ethlyn, and she should accept, I shall speak to the Lady Lothiriel the next time either our paths, or the paths of her father and I, should pass."
"I shall accept this pact, should you promise me that this is an honest offer and not one intended to silence irritating tongues."
"It is in good faith," the King replied. "As you said, and as much as I desire to be wed, I have put off this duty."
"Of course, I sometimes wonder if Rohan needs her king. Look around, Hammarn! Far to the south, see the lad watching the cattle? He and his sire need no king to tell them how to tend their herd. Should wolf, orc or brigand threaten their kine, they will simply deal with the matter. They need no king to order them."
"The lad and his sire can deal with such small threats," Hammarn agreed. "Should a band of brigands, orcs or wolves threaten, they will gain the aid of their neighbors and deal the the issue. But can they deal with a horde? Can they call forth and order the action of a thousand spears? Can they call upon all of the Westfold to tithe a share of their cattle and goods, and use the wealth to construct a place of refuge? Nay, Eomer; Rohan needs her King."
"Even in these times of peace? The Dark Lord fell four years ago!"
"The Dark Lord fell, but there are other evils to threaten folk who would live in peace. Why else would a man of Gondor ride with us, clutching the red arrow?"
"Your words are true," Eomer admitted, after a few moments of thought. "I confess that I made such complaints as much for the excuse to speak, as for truly doubting the need for a king. However, it is still my belief that the folk of Rohan could carry on without, if need be."
"If need be," Hammarn nodded. "But will you put your folk to that need? We look to the House of Eorl for our ruler."
"And the house of Eorl has already produced the next generation," Eomer pointed out. "Eowyn has already given birth to Elboron. Should I fall without an heir, he shall be King."
"And your sister-son is already the heir to the Prince of Ithilien and the Steward of Gondor," Hammarn's eyes showed a touch of humor. Should Aragorn King pass away without an heir, the lad will be forced to take up the stewardship of Gondor, and the rule of Ithilien. Don't burden him with the ordering of Rohan, as well!"
Eomer smiled and nodded his agreement and the two rode among the King's Guard for a long time, reveling in the open spaces of the Westfold and the White Mountains to the south. Finally, Hammarn spoke again.
"There is another reason to establish your house," he told his King...and his friend. "While Prince Faramir is a fine man, he is not of the House of Eorl. I remember my sire and grand sire speaking of the time when your mother-brother took up his Kingship. There were many who thought it not a good thing that a man born in Gondor should sit on the throne. He also decreed that the tongue of Gondor be spoken in his hall, which many did not favor. Although Theoden proved a wise, just and mighty King, it took him many years to gain the trust of his folk."
"My folk would doubt that a child of Eowyn is a true Eorling?" Eomer's face showed a touch of anger at the implication. "I speak not of doubt for myself, but any son raised by both Eowyn and Faramir would make a fine King!"
"But yet another King born outside of Rohan," Hammarn pointed out. "Another King raised speaking the language of Gondor! I doubt not the skill and wisdom of either your sister or her husband, but your folk demand, and have the right, to a king raised among them."
"You speak the truth," Eomer admitted. "And I give you my pledge; as soon as you and Ethlyn are plighted, I will speak to both the Prince of Dol Amroth and his daughter as soon as I see them again."
"That is all I can ask, my King."
Even though the doubt of war followed the band of men, it was a distant shadow and the men were young and hale. They sky was clear and the light breeze warm, so they spoke and sang as they rode. Even the grim herald from Gondor joined in the tales and what songs he knew; although he never let the red arrow leave his hand. As the sun sunk into the west, the walls of Helm's Deep came into view.
"And there are those who questioned my wisdom in allowing Gimli and his folk to settle here," Eomer stated, as the walls of the fortress came into view.
Six years earlier, the fire of Orthanc had torn a gap through the Deeping Wall. Now, no sign of the rent remained. In gratitude for allowing them to dwell in the Deep, the dwarven colony had repaired and improved the wall. Now, it took a sharp eye from no more than an arms' distance away to note where new stone had replaced that which had been broken. While the men of Rohan had seen the dwarves place the stone blocks, it was beyond the skill of such men to note the boundary between the blocks.
"Four short years, and the deep is stronger than it has ever been," the young King concluded.
"The dwarves serve themselves, as well as the realm," Hammarn pointed out. Hammarn was one of the Rohirrim who did not approve of the dwarves living in the deep.
"Are they truly such evil tenants?" Eomer asked. The King had learned, long ago, to not argue with his councilor about such items, but to engage him in conversation.
"I trust not their loyalty," the slightly younger man admitted...as he had many times before. "They have taken no oath of service."
"I have not asked this of them," Eomer reminded his friend. "When I granted them leave to live in the deep, I bade them repair and maintain the keep, to deal fairly with my folk and to stand with us in times of war or other need. How have they failed to do so?"
"But they have taken no oaths of loyalty to the House of Eorl," Hammarn countered. "They do not owe you service, as do the men living in the Mark."
"As you said, they serve themselves as well as us," Eomer replied. "They live a life unlike ours; they do not love horses and open grasslands as do we. They love the mountains and the glooms beneath them. I do not ask for an oath of loyalty since I do not know the best way of ordering them, should they take such an oath. Instead of a tithe, I tax them on their productivity. So far, all parties seem to benefit."
Hammarn remained silent, clearly still not convinced. Before the two could speak more on the matter, hails sounded from the Hornburg, informing the band that they had been spotted. Short minutes later, several riders, one who bore Earkenbrand's banner, rode from the gates.
"Hail, Eomer!" the Marshall of the Westfold called to his king. "Welcome to the Westfold and the Hornburg. May I be so bold as to ask what brings the King of the Mark so far from his hearth and..."
Earkenbrand, a brave man, grew pale when he saw the Gondorian with the red arrow.
"Has war come again?" He mused aloud, then shook his head. "Of course it has! Why else such a token. Forgive me, my king, my wits were slow and dull."
"There is no need for apology," Eomer told him. "Only for secrecy at this time. I would have all here vow to remain silent on this matter. Earkenbrand, I shall meet with you and such of your folk that will prepare the Westfold for war as soon as you can I shall also speak to Gimli."
"He will be awaiting you," the Marshal of the Westfold noted, falling in beside his king as they continued up to the deep. "He saw no reason to sit a horse and come out to see you, when you were coming to the Hornburg anyway."
Eomer merely smiled as the fortress drew closer. He sent his folk to the great hall and turned the reigns of his horse over to one of the lads who came from the stables to see to the mounts.
"Eomer King, I would welcome you to the fortress, but it seems odd to welcome you into your own refuge," the voice, from nearby and rather lower than would be normal brought another smile to the king. "Have you come to assure yourself that we have kept faith, or perhaps to again see the Glittering Caves? You'll not be disappointed with either."
"Hail Gimli," Eomer declared, and grasped wrists with the dwarf he considered a friend. "I have no need to assure myself you are keeping faith, as my folk report as much. I would visit the caves if I could, but time presses too close for a proper visit. It is you I come for, as well as the folk of the Westfold. Grim tidings are upon us and I would have your council in my ears, and your ax at my side."
"You shall have both," the dwarf assured him, then stepped into place beside him as they made their way into the Hornburg.
It was not long before Earkenbrand, Eomer and their most trusted advisers were assembled in the great hall, along with Gimli. A guard stood outside the door, to discourage unwelcome ears.
"I am here to announce grim tidings," Eomer declared. "Gondor sends the Red Arrow and Rohan shall answer. I call upon the Westfold to muster one spear of every twenty available, to assemble and meet the valor of the Eastfold at Edoras, some ten days from now." He paused to look at the dwarf. "Aragorn King also calls for the dwarves of the Glittering Halls to answer this call."
"And we shall," Gimli answered him. "Five hundred dwarves labor and live in the deep. As the men of Rohan answered, so shall we. Twenty five of my folk will put up their hammers and picks and take up mail, mattock and ax and follow me to answer the call."
"They will go with the men of the Westfold," Eomer told him. "First to Edoras and then on to Osgiliath. We travel to Minas Tirith, good Gimli, Aragorn wishes to share words with us before we set forth to face the shadow."
"For a shadow has appeared in Ithilien," Eomer announced to all those present. "It threatens Eowyn, my sister and her husband, their son and the folk that dwell in that fair land. It threatens Legolas and the elves that have set themselves the task of healing the land. If unchecked, it could threaten all of Gondor."
"Could you describe this shadow?" Earkenbrand asked. "Faramir is a valiant man, why do we muster only one spear in twenty to face a threat that he cannot overcome?"
"Numbers alone will not be enough," Eomer told him. "I call for the arrow-bearer to tell his tale, so that I do not speak false."
"These are the words that Prince Faramir has sent from his troubled realm," the Gondorian stated, taking his feet. "Orcs have increased in the Mountains of Shadow, near the pass of Cirith Ungol. A great fear has long dwelt there and Faramir deems that this fear has called the orcs to it."
"At first, this was of little concern," the herald continued. "For the pass lies high in the mountains, far from where man dwells or elf wanders. Yet, this shadow, this fear, has moved lower and now man and elf fear the upper forests and hills. The orcs have followed this fear and now raid and ravage the upper hills. When Faramir rallies his folk, they flee to the shelter this nameless fear affords. It is Faramir's concern that this fear will continue its journey into the settled regions of this fair land, driving the free folk away again."
"I will ride to face any foe," Earkenbrand declared. "But what good will it do if a fear throws me back? This reeks of sorcery and dark powers! Can a man face such?"
"All feel the fear," the herald answered. "But those who have been tempered by great hardships, long journeys and harsh battle seem to be able to master themselves. As with Rohan, most men of Gondor life lives of peace, only rising to battle when called upon to do so. Such men cannot abide the terror that now threatens Faramir's realm. This is the problem that faces the prince; when he musters his folk to march against his foe, only the hardiest can accompany him. They are too few to face the orcs that find shelter behind the shield that the terror affords them. It is King Paragon's hope that enough hardy men of Rohan and Gondor can be mustered to match those orcs that hide behind whatever rallies them."
"Remember this when you muster your strength," Eomer instructed his Marshall. "We will need valiant men; those who have faced war, beast and hard life. Such men may be able to face fear better than others."
"Other than that, there is little warning to give," the herald told them. "The Rohirrim are well versed in slaying orcs; King Elessar bids you to prepare to fight them again."
"I shall heed this advice, as well," Gimli stated. "I will select those of my folk who have seen long journeys, hardship and battle."
"Very well," Eomer stated. "Beyond that, we must look to the provisioning of this force. Earkenbrand, prepare your riders to spread the word while we attend to such details needed to put man, dwarf and horse on the field of battle, prepared and equipped to fight."
For hours, the discussion and calculation devoted itself to food, blades, fodder and wagons to carry them. By the time night fell, man and dwarf had decided what effort would be needed to deliver three thousand spears of Rohan and twenty five dwarven axes to the field in Ithilien. The next day, Eomer, with Gimli at his side, set out on the road to Minas Tirith.
Gondor was still at peace, so the three had no fear of harm. The journey did not tax man, dwarf or beast overmuch. Upon arrival at the fortress city, the three called upon their king and friend. Aragorn greeted them warmly, invited them to dine with him and his wife. During this time, he declined to discuss the crises, stating that such council would take place in the morning. With the hour growing late, stewards from the tower showed his guests to their rooms. With the next morning, Gimli and Eomer were shown to a council chamber, where Aragorn awaited them.
"The time has come to discuss what we face in Ithilien," he stated. "As the herald told you, a fear has come to the upper hills and forests; a fear that few can withstand. I wish the two of you to attend to me as I speak of what I have learned. I am but a man and can err, so I call upon the two of you to judge what I have learned."
"I am more interested in deeds and horses than old lore," Eomer told him. "But I shall aid as I can."
"And I am more interested in stone and iron," Gimli added. "But I will also aid, as I am able."
"Very well," Aragorn nodded. "There has been a terror living beneath the tower of Cirith Ungol for long ages, even before Gondor built the tower. Few who saw the cause of this terror survived to speak the tale."
"Frodo and Samwise did," Gimli recalled. "Sam mentioned a great spider."
"Not a spider," Aragorn corrected the dwarf. "A beast in spider form. Sam even noted that a terror seemed to surround the beast."
"This is not surprising," Eomer shrugged. "If I were to see a spider the size he reported, I would feel a certain fear."
"But Sam and Frodo felt the fear before seeing Shelob," Aragorn pointed out. "Aye, I shall use her name, as Sam reported the orcs using. There is more to this beast than simply a large spider. The orcs would never suffer such a thing to live close to them. With blade, stone and flame they would have killed her or driven her away long ago. No, there is something more."
"At first, I feared that she may be a creature of Sauron's," Aragorn reported. "Like the Nazgul. Or perhaps she is a creature from beyond this world, like the Balrog of Moria. Wondering which, I wrote to the only one left in Middle Earth who has faced Balrog, Nazgul and Shelob."
"Sam?" Gimli demanded. "Aragorn, you go too far! Sam has played his part, leave him in peace!"
"You forget yourself," Aragorn drew himself to his full height. A terrible majesty played about his features. "I am the High King and duty compels me to defend my folk by whatever means is necessary. Should that mean calling upon Samwise of the Shire, I shall do so!"
"But I forget myself, as well," now Aragorn returned to his seat. "You are correct. Samwise, the heir to Frodo, the heir to Bilbo, who helped restore the Kingdom Under the Mountain, has played is part in Middle Earth. His only duty now is to order and cherish his fair realm in the north; and that duty is also his reward. Even if Minas Tirith itself were threatened, I would leave the stout hobbit in peace."
"So you asked for his lore?" Gimli asked.
"Aye," Aragorn nodded. "I had to be firm with him in my letter, insisting that he remain in the Shire. Yet the wisdom he shared was telling. He stated that the 'flavor' of fear he felt with both the Balrog and with Shelob was earthy, similar to the fear he felt when his father was going to take a switch to him for some mischief he had performed."
"Of course, he stated that the terror he felt from the Balrog was greater than the terror he felt from Shelob; and that Shelob's terror was far greater than the switch. However, he said that the terror was the same; the terror of harm, pain and death."
"He claims that the terror he felt from the Nazgul was of a different 'flavor', the terror a child feels with a strange sound echoes from the dark, or when a shadow moves at the edge of your vision. It is the fear of the unknown, of a fate you cannot fathom but also cannot avoid."
"So what did this tell you?" Eomer asked.
"That Shelob is in some way akin to the Balrog," Aragorn told him. "While the Balrog was a fallen Maiar, Shelob is descended from a fallen Maiar."
"Can such a being be slain?" Gimli asked. "All the valor of Kazad-Dum couldn't defeat Durin's Bane, and Galdalf himself fell when he bested it. Is there any left in Middle Earth than can contend with such a foe?"
"Durin's Bane was a fallen Maiar," Aragorn reminded him. "While I suspect that Shelob is descended from such. According to Sam, he used Sting to both stab one of her eyes and inflict a deep stab in her belly. His barrow blade sheared off a claw. I believe that the beast can be slain by steel, given that it is wielded with strength, skill and courage."
"So the issue we face is to find enough men with stout enough hearts to brave the terror that surrounds the beast," Eomer stated. "These men must be able to overcome the orcs that surround Shelob, allowing at least some to face the fiend that has haunted the pass for ages. A daunting task."
"But one that must be done," Aragorn told him. "Else she may look even further afield for her prey."
"You say she's come forth from her tunnels in search of prey?" Gimli asked. "Why do you deem this is her reason?"
"I found one who knew her," Aragorn told him, his face grim. "One who had lived close to her, knew her habits as well as any living being."
"I thought that naught but orcs lived in the Tower of Cirith Ungol," Gimli protested. "And all of those were slain."
"One survived," Aragorn told him. "Wounded, he made his way to the Tower of Barad-dur. It is he who gave the Dark Lord Frodo's mithril shirt and the barrow blade."
"And he survived?" Eomer asked. "The Dark Lord was not merciful, or so I was led to believe."
"Sauron was no fool," Aragorn answered. "While he wasn't merciful, he was wise in the way of command. He knew that his servants needed rewards for loyalty as well as punishment for failure. Those who served him well received such rewards as he could provide. Those who were wounded in his service received such healing as his servants could offer. When I led brave men to rescue his prisoners from the wreckage of his tower, we found this servant, recovering from his wounds."
With that, Aragorn directed a guard to fetch the prisoner. He refused to speak more on the matter, waiting for his servant to complete his errand. Before long, two more guards arrived, with an fettered orc between them.
Eomer and Gimli studied the prisoner. He was no taller than a typical orc, but he was broad and heavily muscled. His long arms hung below his knees and promised to hold frightening strength. When the guards halted, he looked first at the Eorling and the dwarf, then looked to Aragorn.
"So my captor wants to show off his caged bird to his guests," the orc sneered at the king. "Tell me, master, what song do you want this bird to sing?"
"The song of your name and your duties under your old master," Aragorn commanded.
"Very well," the orc replied, then looked towards the other two. "My name is Shagrat," he declared. "And when Sauron held sway over Mordor, I was captain of the tower of Cirith Ungol."
