The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part One: Alone
Book One
By:WhiteLadyOfTroy
Summary:
When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.
About the Trilogy:
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. The Fellowship of the Ring had two books within the text, as did The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started.
About Chapter Six:
As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth. I am sorry for the awkward ending of last chapter, but I didn't want it to be longer than the usual amount of pages, and nor did I want it to be shorter unless there was a good reason. All of my knowledge of what goes on in Isengard's forges comes strictly from the book called The Lord of the Rings Weapons and Warfare. While I realize that some of the information is inaccurate (for example, referring to Arwen as the only child of Lord Elrond), I really have no other access to any source of information as to how Middle-earth weapons are made, and I believe those segments to be truthful. For the length of the ladder, I simply measured what I had assumed to be one earlier (see the last chapter's author note for more detail), starting at some little entrance thing that led somewhere else. Also, please ignore the over-abundance of the words 'material', 'iron', 'ore', and 'semi-refined ore'- there aren't many synonyms for that word! Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon (and please ignore the insertion of Gúthwyn, I know that Éomer and Éowyn had no younger sister).
Chapter SixDisplayed before her was a sight like no other she had viewed. Hundreds of people worked beside tables, overseen by several Orcs patrolling the area. Many of the slaves wore gloves as they beat at glowing rods of iron, occasionally turning them over to hammer the other side. More humans worked a short distance away from them, manipulating the results into scimitar shapes with a rhythmic precision, their tools gleaming in the light of the many fires that were being maintained by young children.
In the center of the vast forge, a humongous pile of the weapons stood, mingled amongst heavy, steel-plated armor. The defensive gear was being manufactured by yet more slaves who worked towards the back of the cavern. Ash, soot, and grime covered everyone's tired, weary faces. The working conditions were terrible, Gúthwyn noted, as she breathed the polluted air while surveilling the scene with horror and disgust. This was where she was going to be working for the rest of her life?
A sudden dizziness took hold of her, and Chalibeth had to catch her before she lost her footing. "We must go down now," the girl whispered, "or we will be late." Numbly, Gúthwyn waited as Chalibeth got on the ladder and began climbing downwards, gulping as she realized how high they were above the ground of the forge. It came to her mind that if there were to be a fire in this place, all of them would not be able to escape in time. As the thought occurred to her, she shivered and tried to forget about it.
Gúthwyn was about to follow Chalibeth when a strong hand gripped her arm.
"Not yet," Cobryn warned as she looked up at him questioningly. "If there is more than one person on the rungs at a time, the whole ladder will collapse." Gúthwyn shuddered, imagining flames engulfing everyone as they tried to flee from a fire as a result of this restriction. She heard heart-wrenching screams and the last few sobs of young children who would die before their time, saw the smoke filling up the cavern and shrouding them with death…
"All right, now she is off, you can go down," Cobryn spoke, interrupting her morbid thoughts. Shaking her head to let go of the ash and fire, Gúthwyn gingerly got on the ladder and began the two-hundred-and-fifty foot descent, often praying for her safety as the structure gave a sudden wobble. It took her twice as long to reach the ground as it did Chalibeth, and when she jumped off, she found that her knees were shaking. She was not afraid of heights, of that she was certain, but never before had she trusted her weight to a narrow creation of wood that looked as if it could fall apart at any second.
Cobryn swiftly dropped down beside them a moment later, and led them to a husky, malevolent-looking man who stood upon a small dais clutching a sheet of parchment in one hand and a leather whip in the other. A tiny shelf next to him held an inkbottle with a feather quill dipped in it.
"Where are you from?" he grunted at Cobryn.
"Mûlnothrim," Chalibeth responded shortly.
"Foolish girl, speak when you are spoken to!" the man snapped, lashing the ground with the leather strip and chuckling as it made an ear-splitting smack. Gúthwyn had to restrain herself from gasping aloud, knowing that intimidation was weakness. Removing the quill from its bottle, the human hastily scratched at the document he grasped.
"Gyllyn!" he bellowed across the forge as loudly as he could. "Get your group out of here! Your shift is over!"
A group of worn out adults came silently, dragging their feet over the floor in utter exhaustion. Taking off the protective gloves that they wore, they dropped them into a small pile of the said article, a couple of them moaning softly as they bent over. Having no sympathy for their plight, the man merely grinned evilly as he watched them struggle towards the ladder. "You have three hours in here," he told Cobryn. "If you do anything that you are not supposed to, you will face the consequences."
Nodding curtly, Cobryn strode over to the heap of gloves with Chalibeth and Gúthwyn following after him. Each of them selected a pair, and, after trying them on to make sure that the fit was good, straightened up and began moving towards the center of the forge.
"Did anyone see where they came from?" Cobryn muttered.
"Who?" Gúthwyn questioned.
"I think the group that we just relieved must have been working on the slag in the material over there next to the huge vat," Chalibeth pointed out.
"Slag?" Having no idea what was going on, Gúthwyn had a bewildered look upon her face.
"It is the residue that is in the- well, we shall show you what to do," Chalibeth responded, casting a glance at the large container next to them. It held hot, molten iron and was ready to divulge its contents at the slightest adjustment of a wooden lever that was connected to the pedestal it stood on. A stone table stood a couple of inches before it, waiting to receive the semi-refined ore. Sweaty and fatigued, a small contingent of workers stood with metal hoes, ready to spread the iron evenly over the rock surface.
"It is not terribly hot," Cobryn explained, "so if we can quickly drag small amounts of it over to our table, we will not get burnt." Personally, Gúthwyn thought that the whole process sounded a bit risky. "Then, we hold it over this barrel," he continued, motioning towards a good-sized cask that, although it was filled with water, had a bright flaming twinkling sinisterly inside of it. Knowing nothing of the cleverness of Saruman, Gúthwyn believed it to be magic, attributing her logic to the fact that the man was, after all, a wizard.
"You see these hammers?" Chalibeth held up three of them, effectively taking over the teachings. "We use these to beat the slag out of the iron."
"What is 'slag'?" Gúthwyn inquired.
"As I mentioned earlier, it is the remaining material that is left in the ore when it gets poured out. Since the iron gets so heated over the fire, and ultimately starts glowing orange, this excess substance shows up as dark specks. They are very easy to see," Chalibeth clarified. Gúthwyn marveled at how mature she sounded for her age. "Then," her mentor continued, "we strike it out."
Just then a hissing sound filled their ears, its source at the iron-containing vat. Swiveling around, Gúthwyn observed the semi-refined ore oozing out of the vessel. The slaves held their tools at the ready, waiting for the opportune moment to begin their work. They started swiftly, raking the hoes over the iron as the container finished depositing its contents, easily separating the thick material into small sections.
Reaching over, Chalibeth grabbed one of these sections, her action duplicated by Cobryn a second later. "Do not take one yet!" he called over his shoulder, seeing Gúthwyn about to remove one from the table. "You need to see what is done first!" Nodding, Gúthwyn moved closer to see what she needed to do.
A second later, a hissing sound arose from the barrel as a cloud of steam erupted from the water. Chalibeth had dipped her piece of iron in, pulling it out a second later to heat it in the flames. Moving it back and forth and occasionally flipping it over to distribute the warmth evenly, she waited for half a minute before yanking it out and hurriedly bringing it over to their own stone counter and placing the iron unceremoniously upon the surface.
"Do not hold it for too long, or then it will start burning through your gloves," she cautioned. "Although they are relatively well-made, their protection is not ever-lasting." Raising the hammer as she spoke, she began whacking the metal, aiming for the darker spots in the now-bright ore. Slowly and yet surely they diminished, and Gúthwyn thought that she had the concept at last. As Cobryn came towards them with his own piece, she went over towards the other table to start her work.
Gasping as she picked up a rod of the semi-refined ore, Gúthwyn wondered how her co-workers could stand the scalding material. As fast as she could, she made her way to the barrel and dipped it in the water, instinctively turning her face away as the vapor immediately fogged up her vision.
Now what? Completely forgetting what she was supposed to do next, she stood there for a few seconds, trying to recapture what had slipped her mind. As the steam cleared, she saw the fire burning in the water. Of course! she realized, swiftly passing the iron over the small blaze. One… two… three… she began counting the seconds in her head, astounded by how quickly the metal heated up. When she reached thirty, she moved the ore to the table, choosing one of the hammers that lay on the counter.
As Gúthwyn began the slow process of removing the slag, she became completely focused on the weapon that she was making. When Cobryn and Chalibeth finished theirs and started the cycle anew, she was barely aware of their going. It was as if some part of her knew that if she did not do her job to the employer's satisfaction, there would be severe consequences.
At last she was done with her task, and looking up from her workspace spotted the next table in the industrial line. Three men were spreading the malleable iron into crude scimitar shapes, using the molds that they had been given to make the chore easier. Hesitantly Gúthwyn approached them, wondering if she was doing the right thing. However, since no one hindered her, she assumed that she was and kept on walking.
"Here is another," she spoke quietly. Above the din of metal clanking against metal, no one heard her. "Excuse me?" This time her voice was a bit louder, and one of the humans turned around.
"I beg your pardon?" he questioned.
"I have another one," she stated. The man smiled wearily, dutifully taking the object.
"Thank you," he replied.
"Your welcome," Gúthwyn responded. Turning on her heel, she returned back to her station and resumed work.
The minutes stretched by and turned themselves into an hour, and then another. By now the whole routine had become a bore, one that Gúthwyn was tired of doing, and could not imagine spending two more of these endless hours performing. Her face now wore the same layer of ash that everyone else's displayed, and she frequently had to wipe her forehead to ensure that none got in her eyes.
She had begun pounding the slag out of what felt like her hundredth weapon when suddenly a man's scream filled the air, rent with pain unequaled to anything Gúthwyn had seen as of yet. Everyone in the forge turned towards its source, frozen as if the ability to move had left them. As Gúthwyn was to find out, the sight was not uncommon, but still placed horror in the hearts of those who had become used to it every time.
One of the slaves that operated the vat of molten iron lay on his back, writhing in agony, his entire left arm covered in the ore. Despite the fact that many of the iron strips that his co-workers created out of the material were not terribly hot, since they swiftly cooled once out of the vessel, this was a different case altogether. Steam still rose from the semi-refined ore as it hardened on the unfortunate human's limb.
"Get back to work, you lazy slaves!" a harsh voice bellowed, causing everyone to wince and hurriedly turn back to their task. Gúthwyn stared at them, incredulous, unable to believe that they had just refused to help one of their comrades. The man needed help- could they not see that?
Thinking of nothing else, she abandoned her labor and ran over to the wounded human. Ignoring his weak protests and her friends' calls of "Gúthwyn, what are you doing?" she kneeled by his side and attempted to scrape off some of the iron, extremely grateful for the thick gloves she wore.
"No… please… you will get in trouble…" the slave tried to move away from her, groaning in pain as he did so.
"I am sorry," she replied, disregarding his warning and referring to his discomfort, "but would you rather have this harden on your arm and be even more difficult to remove later on?"
"You! Slave! Go back to your duties immediately!" the voice yelled again. Instantly Cobryn appeared by Gúthwyn's side.
"You must leave him there," he urged, though not without pity in his eyes. "Hurry!" he insisted as the sound of footsteps coming towards them met his ears.
"No!" she objected, not looking up once. "How would you feel if it was you on the ground?"
"He is right," the man agreed with Cobryn. "I will be able to take care of it myself."
"I cannot just abandon you here!" Gúthwyn argued back, starting to wipe the slave's lower arm while trying to ignore the scalding material.
"Gúthwyn, he will get help," Cobryn responded.
"What did I tell you?" an Orc overseer growled before more words were exchanged. Effortlessly prizing Gúthwyn's hand from its hold on the worker's arm, he lifted her up in the air and then flung her to a bare patch of ground. "Never disobey me again, girl," he snarled at her as she lay on her stomach, gasping from the force of the throw. Raising the whip that he carried by his side, he swiftly thrust it on her back.
Gúthwyn's small effort to raise herself was instantly stopped as a searing pain originated from around her spine. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before and she thought that it suffered no rival. The thought was an assumption that would see itself proved wrong over and over again in the years to come.
Mercilessly, the Orc lashed her nine times more, going harder with each stroke until there were ten separate welts forming on her backside. The shirt that she wore had given no protection whatsoever, and now was shredded in various spots and soiled with its owner's blood. Cobryn, Chalibeth, and the man Gúthwyn had been trying to help looked upon the scene, their bodies frozen as if someone had stopped time. Quite a few other onlookers carried the same facial expressions as they watched, and some of the younger children had squeezed their eyes shut and stuffed their fingers in their ears.
Half of the forge was silent, the only sound coming from it being Gúthwyn's tormented cries. It was now clear to everyone, if it had not been before, that she was new here, and was not used to the punishment.
"That will teach you to listen next time," the overseer stated, refraining from striking her once more with his whip. The scarlet fluid that now oozed from Gúthwyn's back had dampened the leather, and eagerly he raised it to his outstretched tongue and licked it, to the disgust of not a few.
Realizing that he was done, the workers swiftly returned to their chores, not wanting to be placed in the same position. One by one, their attention was relocated to the responsibility in front of them, and as the cruel-hearted Orc strode away from Gúthwyn, the noise in the forge rose to its normal level again.
Gúthwyn lay there for a moment, still stunned with the shock of what had just happened to her. The stinging was overwhelming, and right now she wanted her sister more than anything. The tears streaming down her cheeks were strengthened as she acknowledged the fact that she would never see Éowyn again. When she had tried to help the man, no notion lay in her head of the penalty that would be exacted upon her.
Unexpectedly, a pair of hands grabbed Gúthwyn's arms and pulled her up. "Hurry," she heard Cobryn speak, "before the overseer comes back." Cringing in pain, Gúthwyn wiped the tears originating from her eyes on her sleeve, sniffling as she tried to repress the sobs that threatened to overtake her body.
"Thank you," she managed to reply, looking up into Cobryn's compassionate eyes. Over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Chalibeth observing the two of them as she pretended to do her work. Seeing that Gúthwyn was up, she smiled sadly at her newfound friend and received a wavering grin back.
"We must return to work now," Cobryn responded. "Are you all right?"
"I-I think I c-can manage," Gúthwyn replied, stuttering as she tried to remove the tears in her eyes. The newly formed lacerations still hurt, but already some of the sharper pains were subsiding.
"When our shift is over we will have Abaudia take care of your back," Cobryn informed her. "She has much experience in these matters." Nodding, Gúthwyn squared her shoulders and began walking back to her incomplete weapon. The Orc had not broken her- she had committed no crime and did not deserve that punishment. A few whippings were hardly sufficient enough to tame even the weakest human being, and they certainly did nothing for her.
Chalibeth watched the gradual change of attitude in Gúthwyn, realizing that the next few months would be very interesting to see how the new slave adapted to her surroundings. She could not help but feel, however, that her friend was heading for trouble at times, and hoped that Gúthwyn would soon fall under the dominance of the whip. Ultimately it would be the best thing for her.
Let us hope that she will see the logic behind that, Chalibeth mused. The monotonous rise and fall of the hammer that she held took on a new beat, proclaiming doom, doom, doom.
