Chapter 25: In The Hall Of The Golden King

The Horse Prince (II)

They rode with great haste throughout the rest of the day and the night, and by the next dawn, they had arrived at the gates of Edoras, the thatched roof of Medusheld seeming gilded and gleaming from a distance as they approached. Théodred had been reluctant to delay, for every day meant that any hope of holding the Fords Of Isen as a natural defensive barrier was rapidly diminishing.

Normally, the open country was where the Rohirrim could have most played best to their strengths. But the army that Éomer had reported was far larger than they had been expecting, and ever since hearing about these new weapons that the White Wizard had at his disposal, suddenly, victory did not seem so certain as before. Make no mistake, this was no mere raiding party nor Dunlending warband; this was a full army bred and dedicated to one purpose, and that purpose could only be the material destruction of Rohan as a kingdom, as a people. If only they had had more time... more time to call more éoreds to arms, more time to prepare provisions and strengthen defenses, more time to study and observe this new enemy and acquaint themselves with their weaknesses. If only father had not taken ill and provide the realm the leadership it needed in times as these. If only, if only...

It was for these reasons that Théodred had gone against his better judgment at the time to break from the war and bring this stranger to Edoras. But as they rode onwards, so too did he begin to realize that perhaps her bold claims of being Rohan's only hope were not so extravagant after all as he had initially taken them to be. Or perhaps they were, but regardless, it was not as if Théodred had any better options at the moment. He had seen Elves before, yes, but it had been long ago, and even from what little he could recall, the figure who rode beside him was like no-one else he could ever recall seeing before in his life.

As they approached, the city gates were thrown wide open, and Erkenbrand and one banner-bearer led the way, followed close behind by the Prince and their guest. A dozen riders brought up the rear, serving as their honor guard – the rest of the force had remained out in the field under the command of Éomer and Grimbold, with orders to continue probing and scouting out the encroaching invasion force.

They were greeted at the entrance of the hall by Háma, his father's trusted doorguard, and by another familiar face...

"Dear cousin!" cried Éowyn as she glided down the steps in front of the entrance to Medusheld, her golden hair and green dress fluttering in the breeze. "What news do you bring us from the field?"

"Much," replied the prince, "all of it bad. Your Brother has remained back with the main body of our host, but it appears the enemy facing us are greater in number and in choice of weaponry than we had believed. It is for this reason that we returned; I must speak to father right now!"

"Your father the King is unwell," came a voice from within – a voice Théodred had lately come to despise. Sure enough, within the great doors of Medusheld, a pale wizened face and heavy eyelids peered out from the darkness within. Out of the doors there stepped Grima, Son of Gálmód, the one he had heard that many around Edoras had taken to calling "The Wormtongue". How such a creature could have risen to his position of power and influence within Edoras, no-one could quite tell for sure. He had been with the Royal Court for as long as Théodred could remember, but it was only in recent months that he seemed to have climbed from just one of many faithful servants to his father, to suddenly his voice for all intents and purposes.

"My Prince!" continued Grima in his simpering tone, "I was not expecting your return so soon. These bandits must not have put up too much of a struggle then."

"These 'bandits' you speak of are more like an entire army," growled Théodred, "as we speak, an army bearing the White Hand of Saruman marches upon us. According to Éomer, they number in the thousands, and carry arms that can spit bolts of fire and burning lead across distances greater than any bow."

"My Prince, are we certain we can trust the word of your cousin?" hissed Grima. He cast a falsely apologetic look over at Éowyn as he spoke. "Perhaps Éomer is mistaken? No such weapons of the kinds you describe exist anywhere throughout all the lands of Middle Earth! The White Wizard, aye, yes he would be capable of such a feat, but a whole host of orcs?"

"On the contrary, Director Grima, I can attest to the existence of the weapons that Monarch Théodred is describing," interjected Vidyë from where she was standing beside the Prince. "I am well acquainted with the specifications and technological principles behind similar weapons. Although the Rogue State of Isengard is deploying an as-yet simple muzzle-loading design, they can prove deadly to your current forces, especially in light of their numerical superiority. Furthermore, I have reliable sources that can confirm the validity of Monarch Éomer's observations."

Grima seemed taken aback for a moment, surprised by the appearance of this unexpected journeyer. "And who, may I ask, are you, fair lady?"

She remained expressionless as she spoke: "All that is necessary for you to know at this moment is that I am a friend of Gondor's, and that I request a personal audience with His Majesty Monarch Théoden – immediately, if possible."

"As I have stated before, it would not bode well for the good health of His Majesty The King to be receiving visitors at this moment," seethed the Wormtongue, "especially those who come to further saddle him with further grievances of war and suffering. Can an honest man not be left in peace when he needs it most?"

"Then perhaps I may be of assistance," continued the lady as she stepped forward, refusing to yield, "I have considerable medical knowledge and expertise that I may use to your Monarch's benefit, if you would permit me to do so."

"Grima, let her in!" commanded Eowyn, "if she can heal my uncle, then we will all be indebted to her. And if she cannot, at least let the words she bears to us fall upon his ears."

Grima glared at Eowyn for a moment. And then he smiled. "As you wish, my lady," he spoke, and Théodred winced inside; he had heard of course the rumors that he had set his sights upon her, and he dared not wish these true. He then turned back to face Vidyë: "but know that while you are here, you must obey every wish and request of the King. If your presence here, or any of the words you speak cause him any discomfort or displeasure, then you must leave immediately! Follow me."

My father's wishes, or yours? thought Théodred, bitterly.

"Thank you, Director Grima," she replied, and followed him through the great doors and into the Golden Hall...

Elsewhere...

"So, what's the latest you have to report?"

"It is as we suspected. Monarch Théoden is severely incapacitated by an unknown affliction, one that is possibly thaumically-induced by Mr. Saruman's influence. I could attempt to remedy his condition, but our databases on thaumaturgical medical conditions are as yet limited, and such a task could take a considerable amount of time. In the mean time, Director Wormtongue claims to speak and act on Monarch Théoden's behalf; however, based on his irrational and uncooperative behavior combined with my analysis of his state of mind during this meeting, I have concluded with 99% certainty that Director Wormtongue is knowingly furthering the interests of Mr. Saruman, and will thus continue to act with intent of forestalling the Kingdom Of Rohan's preparations for its defense."

"That's not good at all. If Rohan falls, thousands of people will needlessly suffer and die, and Gondor will be down one ally... and we'll be down one potential trade partner as well. How many days do we have?"

"Based on current satellite observations and rates of marching, I estimate that the armed forces affiliated with the State Of Isengard will cross the River Isen unopposed in approximately seven days' time."

"Christ, that's not enough time. Shit... very well then. I don't wanna do this, but it seems this is what it comes to. You have my authorization to execute Order 27. Godspeed."

"I appreciate your well wishes. Although we synthetics do not believe in the concept of luck (as on most occasions we do not need it), we nonetheless do admire the concept."

The Wormtongue (I)

Night had fallen over Edoras. Unlike the Elves or the Men of Gondor, the people of the Riddermark built their houses mainly with roofs of thatch rather than tile - even the King himself. And thus, due to the ever present risk of fire, very few remained awake past the dusk, save for the guardsmen keeping the watch, or on those increasingly rare occasions for feasting and making merry into the wee hours of the morn.

But Grima, Son of Gálmód, most trusted advisor to the King of the Golden Hall, was at peace with the darkness that surrounded him. He enjoyed it, basked in it, relished his skill at always finding his way through it easily without need of torch or lantern, and then use it to spy on other folk from a distance, or even sneak up to right beside them when he was least expected. This was no sorcery, merely illusion, but he found it had a helpfully and satisfyingly unsettling effect on all those he preyed upon.

I must notify the Master of this, he thought to himself as he stalked through the hallways, pondering on the day's events. He had meant to dispatch a rider, one of those loyal to him, off to Isengard as soon as this mysterious visitor had departed, but that would not have been possible without arousing the suspicion of others. Instead, he intended to leave a message for when the next one of the Crebain would pass through Edoras – the large ravens were beholden to the White Wizard, and frequently employed as such as spies, and they would be certain to relay this vital information onto him.

Truth be told, just as troubling to him as the appearance of this Elven dignitary who hailed from no realm he had ever heard of was the behavior of those who had come back to Medusheld with her. Grima was always disliked by most of the people around here, but tensions seemed to boiling to a head, and unless the Uruk-Hai arrived quickly, there was a real risk someone may move against him by then. He silently began jotting down in his mind a list of items he would need to do. He would have to make sure to double the payments to his personal guards and household, ensure their steadfast loyalty through to the end.

He would also need to continue to stall Rohan's mustering in whatever manner he could. The Master's instructions had been clear. It was becoming well-known now to all, even the lowliest simpleton working the stables of Edoras, that the Kingdom was under attack not by mere Dunland wildmen or Goblin raiders, but a proper army bent on its destruction. There was no point in continued denial any further lest he come across as a right fool. But if he could prolong the preparations just long enough, the Rohirrim would have no choice but to ride out with an army woefully underprepared for the might that the White Wizard had marshaled. And, with luck, the Prince and all his men would perish soon enough. And then there would be nothing to come between him and...

He paused. Right ahead, coming down the hallway in the opposite direction, there walked a lone figure. It too carried no torch or flame, but even through the darkness, he could tell from the way the figure walked just who it was. Éowyn. Perhaps checking on her dear uncle, to whom she had been almost as his daughter, at this hour of the night. Perhaps it was only proper that he too join her in her nightly wanderings...

Éowyn, my dear, he thought to himself as he smacked his lips thinking of the sight of her during the day, her golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. Only one more month of this at most. Once the Army Of The White Hand arrives, I shall be the Lord Of Rohan, as the Master promised, and I shall have your hand in marriage...

The thought remained at the back of his mind as he silently approached her... and then, without warning, the figure spun around on the spot, almost as if she were aware of his presence. And before he could react, she struck him in the head – not too hard or too violently, but just in the right spot and with just the right amount of force that Grima was stunned, and the last thing he could recall was that he had fallen onto his back and the darkness around him that usually gave him comfort had now turned completely black.

Ugh, thought Grima as he came to, where am I? What... what happened? It started to come back to him. Eowyn, was his first thought, how dare you strike me! I will make you regret that! When I am Lord of Edoras, I will... I will...!

He stopped. The room was completely dark, but slowly, he took account of his surroundings and realized he was somewhere else. He pulled himself back up onto his feet and looked around. A great bed dominated the chamber, one fit to host a family, but only one figure slept upon it. He recognized it. It was the royal bed chamber of the King himself. He knew that much from the numerous nights he had spent here, spinning his little suggestions and lies into the King's ears as he slept.

But something was off about tonight that he could not quite place at first. The King was completely silent and motionless. Grima quietly slithered up to his side and placed a hand upon him. He was warm, yes, but... he touched something wet and sticky. His hand retreated in shock. It was blood. King Théoden, Son Of King Thengel, Of The Royal House Of Eorl, was dead, murdered in his sleep.

Suddenly, the silent dark room erupted into chaos; the great wooden doors at the other end of the room were thrown wide open, and in rushed several men bearing flickering torches, shouting to one another. Grima was momentarily blinded by the new light, and he held up his hands in front of his face to shield his eyes. But when his vision adjusted, he could see just whom it was that now stood before him. Háma, the doorguard, led the party, but just behind him came the Prince. And all of them carried the exact same expression of horror and rage upon their faces when they realized just what they were looking at.

There was no means of escape. Grima immediately thrust his arms up in the air, and cried out: "Sire! It wasn't I, My Lord! I... I...!" Words and deceit were usually his strength, but at that moment, they failed him completely.