E/N: I would like to say that this fic follows the line of the books rather than the movies, so if you haven't read the books a lot of things could confuse you later on. Like Haldir surviving the war. Anyway, like I said, this is a book-fic, not a movie-fic. Thank you for listening.
Love, peace and a paperclip,
-xxx- Elvea
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that New Line Cinema or Tolkien Enterprises already owns *sobs* and I am not gaining any other profit out of writing this than (positive) reviews. So there.
This chapter is dedicated to Godforsaken, my wonderful new beta of the story. So yay her and thanks a lot! |:o)
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Chapter 1 – Éomer's Vengeance
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A chill wind blew over the great plains of Rohan. The night was falling, as if to forebode the darkness that was yet to come. A darkness filled with despair, darkness without any hope of an ending. The Great Darkness of Sauron. Two messengers rode over the plains in haste: one coming from the north and one coming from the west, neither of them bearing good news, both headed for a different destination.
The rider out of the west reached his destination first; Edoras, and therein its Golden Hall Meduseld. His black steed was exhausted and the rider himself had barely enough strength left to stand. Near to collapsing, he came to the king bringing news of great grief. The news that Théodred, son and only child of the king, had died in the Battle at the Fords of Isen cast a shadow over the entire city. From Edoras a new rider now rode forth into the night with the same destination as the rider of the north: Aldburg, Éomer's dwelling in the Folde. The grievous news reached Éomer before dawn.
Sorrow overwhelmed the Third Marshal of the Mark, and he would see no one. Théodred, more like a brother to him than a foster-brother, had passed away before his time and had left no children; he had not yet even taken a wife. His final wish was for Éomer to set things right, a burden heavy on the shoulders of the Marshall.
Not long after this news reached Éomer, the north-rider arrived at Aldburg, no less exhausted than the rider from the west. At first his lord would not receive him, but when he told him it was urgent he was let in. His news was less grievous, but awoke a great wrath in the Marshal: Orcs were travelling towards Isengard over the plains of Rohan, besmudging them with their foul feet. Orcs of the White Hand, akin to those who murdered Théodred. They would not reach Isengard alive or stain the plains with more blood; Éomer would see to it that all of them were slain. They would pay for the grief they caused.
A fourth messenger now rode from Aldburg to Edoras, asking leave for Éomer and his éored to pursue the orcs. But the king, grieved by the loss of his son and poisoned by the words of a wicked worm, denied permission. Before noon the messenger returned to Aldburg.
Éomer looked on the messenger kneeling before him. 'What news from Edoras? What does the King of the Mark bid me to do?'
'He bids thee nothing, lord,' the messenger answered. 'But he orders thee to remain here and let them be.' He straightened himself.
'He orders me to?'
'Yes lord, he does.'
'Nonsense. Those words do not come from him, but from that wretched creature Wormtongue. He wants me to leave the death of my brother unavenged; he wants me to let those foul creatures do as they will. I will not obey that worm. Tell my men to get ready for battle. We will leave tomorrow night.'
'But lord-'
'That is an order.'
'Yes, lord.' The messenger bowed once more and left the halls to get his task fulfilled. Éomer followed him with his eyes until he was gone.
'He does not understand,' he muttered. 'He does not understand my pain. I will make them pay.' With that he turned and left the hall to prepare himself for battle. In the night that followed the next day he rode from Aldburg with one hundred and nineteen men under his command to hunt down and slay the Orcs, as had been planned.
They rode the night away, taking only a short rest just before dawn. Then they continued their pursuit at great speed, thanks to their horses of the noble mearas race. In the late afternoon they could see the Orcs in the distance and they sped on their horses; they were now gaining in on them like a swift oncoming tide.
The Orcs quickened their pace and already had reached a few outlining trees of Fangorn Forest, though the forest itself was still some miles away. When the sun started setting the Riders had caught up with the rearguard of the Orcs, and shortly after they were driving the vile creatures along the line of the river and preventing them from scattering - none would escape their wrath.
Éomer waited with his command to attack. The horses were tiring out and would be far from their best if they were to go into battle now. It would turn a retreat into a massacre and he would not risk the lives of one hundred and nineteen other, also exhausted, men in that way. Instead he ordered his bowmen to do short, swift attacks on the Orcs. They quickly galloped closer to the Orcs, shot and swiftly rode out of the range of the answering bows. This was done several times without loss on the side of the Riders, for the shooting Orcs did not dare to stop and take good aim.
The night fell over Rohan, but Éomer still did not let his men fully overtake the Orcs. He guessed that about two hundred still lived and he knew his men were weaker if it came to battling in the night. The eaves of the forest were near now, and the Orcs would escape if they managed to reach it. Éomer gave the command to encircle the Orcs, but to stay out of shooting range. Once again his men were successful.
A small band of Orcs tried to break through the circle and escape into the forest. All but three were slain; the survivors fled back to their newly set-up camp.
In the cold of the night the Riders lit up small watch-fires within a long bowshot from the Orcs, but they stayed out of the light of the fires and did not show themselves, nor did they make any sounds. Their ring of fires was enough to keep the Orcs away from them; the creatures were wasting arrows shooting blindly at the fires.
The night grew late and fog spread over the plains as the moon came up. Éomer ordered small groups to patrol the ring; he allowed no Orc to live. Somewhere during the hour that followed he sent out several Riders to get closer to the Orcs; he wanted to weaken their main defenses. His men rode close to the hostile camp, dismounted and crawled to the edge of the camp. With a silent gesture, Éomer gave the signal for attack. Swiftly they slew the Orc-guards and their friends, then the Riders quietly retreated.
By the rumor coming from the Orcs, Éomer knew that they had discovered their dead friends and were ready for some very vicious murdering—that is, more vicious than usual. The shouts died down, however, and the Orcs did not attack. Shortly after, the Third Marshal heard another cry and sent one of his men to see what was going on. The man was back in a few minutes.
'Lord, it seems that one of the creatures tried to escape from us, possibly to warn outside troops.'
'Did you stop it?'
'No need to, lord. Éothain had done it for me.'
'Very well. Dismissed.'
The man had not even turned around when new Orc-cries could be heard, inside the circle of watch-fires and out of it. Orcs from the outside were attacking.
'Eorlingas!' Éomer shouted. 'Close in on the orcs!'
In a small amount of time the Riders had all mounted their horses, and they made the circle around the Orc-camp smaller right away while Éomer and a small company rode off to deal with the newcomers. Éomer was pleased to see that the new band of Orcs was not big at all and poorly equipped. He was left with some mild cuts after the skirmish, but he and his men had taken care of the newcomers without loss on their side. They returned to their camp to rest in what was left of the night.
Like a blood-red rose unfolding its leaves, the dawn came over the world. Éomer gave the signal to get ready for attack. The Riders started singing of glorious battles out of the past whilst preparing their horses. The sound of battle horns answering other battle horns greeted the rising sun. Soon all the Riders were ready, and with a fierce cry, they charged at their opponents.
The Orcs shouted and shot all the arrows that were left to them; a few Riders fell in that first charge. But the line of Riders still and wheeled around the Orcs, then they charged again. Those Orcs that tried to flee were pursued and each one of them was slain. One small band of Orcs nearly succeeded in escaping and was nearing the forest; the Orcs had already slain three Riders. Éomer summoned a small group of men and went after them.
The leader of these Orcs was large; Éomer was sure that he had never seen this type of Orc before. Yet he dismounted and challenged the creature, desiring to fight him sword to sword.
Without much effort he blocked the first blow aimed directly at his head. The Orc was quick, though, and Éomer did not get much chance to do other than defending. He knew that the Orc was merely trying to tire him and waiting for a good chance. A cry behind him made him drop his guard for a moment, and he wasn't fast enough to entirely prevent the blow aimed at his side. He'd look at the wound later.
Glaring at the Orc, he attacked ferociously; he wanted his vengeance. Every Orc deserved nothing else but death for what they and their kin had done to not only Théodred but also to all other peace-loving creature in Middle-earth. He cried out furiously, and with one fierce blow Éomer cleaved his opponent's skull in two.
That day the Riders of the Mark slew every Orc still alive. They made a great fire and burned all the Orc-corpses, singing songs of triumph in their labor. Over their fallen comrades they raised a large mound and they sang praises to them in tribute. Before the end of the day they were already on their way back to Aldburg, the cloven skull of the Orc captain left on a spear as a warning to other intruders.
Although they rode all through the night again, they did this at a slower pace and they halted more often than they had done before. The mists that had covered Rohan before were now rolling away, and by the coming of dawn all of them had done so.
Far behind the Riders in the northwest the shady eaves of Fangorn Forest could still be seen, although now nearly ten leagues were in between the forest and the Riders. Even farther away, beyond Fangorn could be seen the glimmering peak of the high Methedras; the last one of the Misty Mountains. The Entwash flowed through this part of Rohan as a swift and narrow stream coming out of the forest. Behind the Riders the thick black smokes of the great pyres could still be seen. In front of them were the last downs of the Eastemnet, or the first in their perspective.
Éomer now wished for haste, fearing that more orcs might have crossed the borders. He urged his men to ride hard and soon their strong voices could be heard crying out over the field as they rode like the wind. Éomer led his host southward, at the western skirts of the downs. The host had passed the first hill almost entirely when they heard a clear voice calling.
'What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?'
Astonishingly swiftly they checked their horses, turned and went riding around the three strangers on the hill, continuously drawing their circle closer about the strangers. All three of them were cloaked in something the Riders had never seen before.
A tall and dark-haired man, appearing to be the leader, stood up straight; the other two were sitting in the grass waiting only slightly anxiously for what was to come.
Suddenly the Riders halted, pointing their spears at the queer trio. Some of the Riders held their bows ready, arrows fitted to the strings. Éomer rode forward from the circle until his spear was within a foot of the man's breast.
'Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?' he demanded from the stranger.
'I am called Strider,' came the answer. 'I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs.'
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E/N: Well, that's it for now. Just hope that this isn't too crappy and that you've enjoyed it. If so, I'll try to update sooner next time. Feedback is very much welcome, especially in the form of constructive criticism. Flames will be laughed at. Thanks for reading.