Chapter 49
Rhûn, May the 25th, FO 4
"My Lord King?". The whisper became a choke, the young man who had spoken paled, his eyes darted in panic to their captors. Thankfully they hadn't heard him and walked away.
"Léod, what are you doing here?".
His squire of many years looked shaken. "Eorl. Your name is Eorl!", he spoke, loudly this time, "How could you have forgotten? What have they done to you?".
It took Éomer a moment to realize they were not alone, that they had an audience to whose benefit Léod was speaking. Tiny cells were lined on either side of the alley and in each were two occupants - the vast majority Rohirrim, whose faces were painted with a grotesque combination of disbelief, hope and dismay. The Easterling prisoners among them looked mostly uninterested, which he deemed a good thing. "Do they understand us?", he asked.
"No. But there's another one– Distal is his name, who speaks the common language".
"Where is he now?".
"Covering his twelve hours shift. He'll be back at dusk". Léod touched his shoulder with the tip of his fingers - the gesture awkward, like he was making sure he was real and not a product of his imagination, "I was sure you were dead, saw you going down with the landslide…".
"I barely survived", he said nodding at the arm in the sling.
"What happened to you?".
"After I fell into the river, I was swept downstream for many miles. While I was unconscious, I was captured by an old couple and from there, I was sold from hand to hand until I got here today. What of you – all of you?".
"Slight variations of the same tale – we fell into the river and managed to swim to the riverbank, where we were captured by the retreating army and spirited away".
"What of the war? Do you know what happened after the landslide?".
"Distal overheard the guards saying the war is over, that Gondor and Rohan have won and that two of the Easterling leaders are dead. This quarry belongs to the one who survived – Gorgan they call him".
"If the war really is over, then why are we still here? King Elessar would have surely called for an exchange of prisoners".
"We don't know if there had been negotiations yet. And Distal says Gorgan won't care anyway".
"You seem to trust this man".
"I don't know if I trust him. But I don't see what interest he'd have in lying to us".
Éomer groaned. His throat was as dry as the desert. "How many of you are here?".
"Nine, plus another ten being held in a lower section". Léod paused, then added in a grave voice, "There were two more of us, but they were executed last week".
"Who?".
"One was called Frumheort - a young man from the Eastemnet. The other I do not know".
Léod's voice was heavy with dread and Éomer knew to brace for worse to come. "Tell me".
"Distal says Gorgan was a great chieftain before the War of the Ring, leader of one of the largest tribes. After he lost his only son and a younger brother on the Pelennor Fields, he descended into madness and made it his mission to avenge their death, spent years campaigning for war. Last week, the guards came and picked Frumheort from our group, and another man from the other. We were taken outside, where they had arranged an arena of sort. The moment I saw the men betting and exchanging silver, I knew what was going to happen. They gave Frumheort and the other man a sword and ordered them to fight to the death. After they refused, a man stood from a raised platform - Distal later told me it was Gorgan himself. The crowd grew quiet, I felt like winter had suddenly engulfed Rhûn. I cannot explain it. The man is evil, Eorl. He said if they refused to fight, they'd both die wishing they hadn't. They stood up to him, Frumheort tossed his sword away and spat at Gorgan's feet".
Léod sat next to him and took his head in his hands. He cried so quietly, Éomer could barely hear his gasps. He remembered his first day of service as his squire like it was yesterday: seventeen years old, cheeks scattered with a handful of hairs he groomed religiously every morning, hopelessly shy around girls. He had given his best performances around Lothíriel, not a doubt about that: whenever she was around, he'd regress to a babbling, sweaty mess. He wasn't his best warrior nor the most cunning, but he had always kept him by his side because he trusted him, and because he had a good heart and worked twice as hard as anybody else.
Léod's fingers raked through his knotted hair. He wasn't sure he knew, but he had started slowly swaying back and forth. "This place is part quarry, part mine - none of which are things the Easterlings are known to be masters. It was built in the recent years, in an attempt to find easier sources of metal for armours and weapons. Distal is the only miner left from those early days: all the others who started with him have died in various accidents and when the masters run out of prisoners that were slender enough to fit into the narrowest tunnels, they resorted to children. After Frumheort and the other Rohir refused to fight, Gorgon had one of those kids taken to the arena: he told him the Rohirrim had decreed he should die and had one of his men hang him". He pointed a finger at the corner of the cell and whispered, "Sometimes, at night, I see him standing over there. Staring at me, accusingly, the purple marks around his neck bleeding. I-I think I'm losing my mind".
Éomer kneeled in front of him. Unable to offer words of comfort for there were none, he held him with one hand at the nape of his neck, their heads touching.
"Frumheort cracked", he continued after a while, "He started screaming and cursing them, until Gorgan asked whether he wanted him to bring another of his little ants to the arena. At that, Frumheort retrieved his sword and swore he'd fight, but it was too late. He and the other man did not die until the next day. The things they did to them, I… I don't want to say, don't ask it of me, I beg you".
For hours no one spoke, until a group of prisoners covered in dust and soot was returned to their cells and others taken away.
"They intend to make us all fight against each other at some point, don't they?".
Léod exhaled. "Aye. Gorgan is planning a tournament. He's found wealthy men amongst his people relishing in the idea of seeing the same Horselords who have humiliated them on the battlefield, humiliated in return, forced to fight like dogs, stripped of their dignity".
"Do you know when this tournament will take place?".
"We've heard Gorgan was called to meet with the other chieftains, that he won't return until the end of the summer and that he's waiting for the dust to settle because he cannot afford to antagonize the other tribes now".
Éomer dragged himself up and stood by the bars of his cell, his fingers curled around iron rods that wouldn't surrender so easily. "We won't be here when the tournament starts", he said resolutely - he'd die before letting such fate befall his men! "Have you ever tried to escape?".
A man in the cell to his right answered. All he could see of him, were his hands. "We witnessed some trying during our early days here. They overwhelmed the guards easily but once outside, it was over. The elevator is the only way in and out and not only it is well guarded, but it needs a person on the ground to operate. Not to mention it moves so slow, it makes you a sitting duck for the entire time of the descent. If there is a way out, it is not the way we came, but rather the one we are going. See the man they just locked in that cell? That's Distal, he says he has plan".
Éomer looked over to see a lying figure. He couldn't make his face but he seemed asleep, curled on himself, an empty bowl still caught in one hand. If he had been working for the past twelve hours and he now awoke him to talk, he'd surely tell him to sod off. He'd have to wait.
"Tell me about this plan".
"The man in charge of the quarry is one of Gorgon's generals, a man who can barely distinguish granite from metal let alone plan how the excavation should proceed. Distal grew up around here and says some miles to the East there's a spring and, not far, concealed by the vegetation, the entrance to a large underground system, one he used to explore as a lad".
"How does that help us?".
"In the tunnel we're digging, the rocks are different - chalky, brittle, water drizzles right through them. He's convinced that, unknown to the quarry master and his men, we are heading straight for these caves and intends to use it as an opportunity to escape".
"Awfully noble of him to share his plans".
"Not noble at all. In fact, he plans on using us as a diversion of sort. Says we are worth more than him and once we run, the guards will be too busy chasing after us and he might just stand a chance at freedom".
"That sounds more like it. Do you think he's right?".
"I cannot say. He's an unpleasant character, but he seems to know what he's speaking of. Truth is, Eorl, his plan is our only hope. So, we've chosen to believe him".
Éomer couldn't blame them for it. "How long does he think it will take to get to the other side?".
"Days. Weeks. Months. You pick".
"We don't have that much time", he growled in frustration. He pondered how much he should say, whether it would be advisable to keep for himself the concerns about the situation in Rohan. But they needed to know: his men needed to know their families might be in danger, they needed to know there was another reason, beside escaping this sadistic tournament, why they needed to break free and go back home with the greatest urgency.
"I didn't fall into the river", he finally admitted, "After the landslide, I was injured but still on solid ground. Korul – one of our Easterling spies, tried to save me. He tossed me a rope and was hauling me to safety, when someone put a knife in his back and then proceeded to severe the line I was hanging on".
His confession had Léod resuscitate from his catatonic state, "You saw who did it?".
"It was Balca, Councillor Widca's eldest son".
All movement around him stopped, it felt as if the cave itself was holding its breath. Léod looked like he had been turned to stone, so much he wasn't even sure he was still breathing. The rest of the Rohirrim in the surrounding cells were in a similar state.
"Balca tried to kill you?".
"Yes".
"He's the reason why you got separated from King's guard in the first place! He charged blindly ahead and his men ended up cutting right through our front lines!".
"He did?". Éomer couldn't remember. Ironically, he had more vivid memories of the aftermath of the landslide than of what happened before.
"Yes! Until now I thought it had just been the reckless move of a man with more ego than brain. But if you say he tried to kill you, then maybe he was trying to expose you to the enemy in the hope they'd manage to get a fatal blow in! There's more to it, Eorl. He is here".
His head snapped around. "He?".
"Balca. He too was captured and is held with the other group of prisoners".
"Are you sure?".
"Yes. I saw him the day they took us to the arena. Could hardly recognize him, really. Spoiled brats don't fare well in captivity, was told he got his arse whipped a few times".
"Not nearly enough", someone hissed to his left.
Upon discovering this new bit of information, Éomer experienced a perverted sense of pleasure. The cheer didn't last long though, for the bastard's presence in the quarry hardly changed a thing: "Something's happening in Rohan. Balca must have been acting on his father's orders. I fear Wídca will try to take power and, if I am right, then our loved ones at home aren't safe".
The mood in the tunnel took a sudden turn, anger taking over from despair. "We'll dig faster", said Léod, "and if that doesn't work, then we'll find another way!".
The voice on the right agreed. "Aye. But we can't tell the other group about Eorl. If Balca finds out about him, he'll surely try to sell him to our captors in exchange for freedom. And we need to get Eorl to work the same shift as Distal - if and ever we reach the cave, we'll only stand a chance if the maggot's there to show us the way out. We need Eorl to be always with him, so that he may be among the ones that will escape".
Éomer gripped the man's forearm and spoke with a confidence he wasn't sure he possessed, "Do not lose hope. Rohan has survived worse enemies and more painful betrayals than this. We will manage to set ourselves free and, until then, the Queen will fight for your families!".
Later that night, as he lied on the cold hard ground, Éomer asked a question that had long been buzzing in his head, "Léod. The night before the battle, did you mount a tent for me to sleep?".
"I did".
"There was a cup of tea inside. It tasted different from the one you usually make - sweeter. Did you put it there?".
The answer took a while to come. "No".
"Did I look like myself the next day? In battle, I mean".
Another long silence. "You did not. I remember thinking you seemed… fatigued. Captain Éothain noticed it too. I think he wanted to take you away from the frontlines, but you refused".
Éomer rolled on his side and stared into the darkness.
Edoras, June the 1st, FO 4
Lothíriel's eyes lingered over the map, a sense of uneasiness growing within her: she still believed stalling had been the right thing to do, but she couldn't delay Wídca's reaction indefinitely.
It had been a week already.
Marshall Erkenbrand had confirmed the destruction of the bridges on the Isen and word of the brewing rebellion had been spread. It was only a matter of days before Wídca lost his patience and she still had no idea what his true plan was.
Restlessness and frustration had become her daily companions.
In the midst of the pitch-black darkness of those days, two most welcome news had come to afford her much needed hope: a letter from her father, assuring Elfwine was safe and currently being escorted to Ithilien together with Beyrith and Théocanstan; and another from Marshall Elfhelm – the content of which very few knew about, informing her the war was officially over.
It was dated May the seventeenth - eight days before she had sent word to abandon the campaign in the East and return to Edoras immediately. If she was lucky, her order might find the Rohirric army much closer to the Gondorian border than she had initially anticipated and thus, their arrival in Edoras could be a matter of weeks instead of months.
Lothíriel finished her breakfast and walked to the window. The sky was overcast, it might start raining at any time. It didn't matter: her morning walks with Firefoot had become part of her daily routine and whether under a warm sun or engulfed by cold gusts of wind, she never skipped taking him out - sometimes well before dawn since she had troubles sleeping. For some reason, talking to him calmed her, lent her clarity when she thought she was drowning. Moreover, their walks served the double purpose of ensuring she made enough regular public appearances – last thing she needed, was to have her subjects think she was hiding in her apartments and bawling her eyes out.
That morning, as she walked back from the enclosure, she noticed a commotion at the Golden Hall's entrance. A couple was being escorted away by the guards and, as their paths almost crossed, she recognized the woman and the woman recognized her. "Your Grace, I beg you!", she cried.
"Saehild?".
"Your Highness knows this woman?".
"I do. Release her!", she ordered the guard who was holding her.
He complied, albeit hesitantly, "She barged in the hall, claimed your Highness knew her and demanded an audience. We thought her an imposter because… well, you know…".
"Saehild why are you here? And who's this young man?", she asked nodding at the lad who accompanied her.
"His name is Almer. He lives in Hadleigh, his father was a hunter. We… we bring news, your Grace. If you'd please hear us", she begged, her eyes looking at the crowd, her intent obvious. She wanted to speak privately.
Lothíriel handed the rope of Firefoot's halter to one of the stable boys and signalled Saehild and Almer to follow her. The walk back to her study was accompanied by a great deal of agitation from one of the guards, who kept asking over and over again whether she was sure she knew the woman. Finally, Lothíriel had enough of it, "I know what she does for a living! And if you know it too, it's because at some point you either paid for her services, or those of one of her girls!".
The man's face turned as red as a beetroot. "I n-never…".
"Do shut up and go back to your post!", Lothíriel cried and barely resisted the urge of slamming the door on his nose - she shouldn't snap so easily, lest her men might thing she was hysterical. With only Eofor, Saehild and Almer in the room, she beckoned the woman to speak.
"Thank you for granting me audience, your Grace. I wasn't sure you'd remember me".
"It's been many years, but I remember those days in Hadleigh all too well. We've exchanged a few letters and I never forget a friendly face. Now tell me, Saehild, what is that you came to tell me, that could not be shared in public".
The woman squared her shoulders. She hadn't aged well, the stern beauty she remembered had withered away. "Days ago, a messenger from Caerdydd informed us about the rebellion and asked us to keep an eye out. I hadn't thought much of it until that point, but in the past couple of weeks we've had an unusual number of customers at the brothel. Mostly foreigners - some Gondorians, some… I don't know. They always behaved themselves but for some reason, I disliked them. The next time they visited, instead of the usual watered-down ale, I served them the strongest liquor I had so to daze them, and enlisted Almer's help to track them without being noticed. We followed them for half day. He can explain better than me where exactly, but we eventually came across a large camp".
"How large?".
"I don't know…".
"I think five hundred at least. Right here", Almer spoke for the first time and pointed at a place on the map.
"Soldiers?".
"There were horses and I think I spotted a smith. Looked like an army camp to me, your Grace".
"What else?".
"They were a rowdy lot. We spent a couple of hours observing them and I may know nothing of war, but I've dealt with my fair share of men and I know troubles when I see them. Some appeared to be drunk, two brawls erupted but were quickly sedated by the same men who had been at the brothel".
"They were their commanders".
"'Tis what I thought, your Grace".
"And you're sure this was their location?".
Almer nodded. "Aye. At the entrance of the valley, a mile north of a small lake that is not marked on this map".
"I know the place, your Grace", Eofor interjected, "The lake often dries up completely by the end of the summer".
Lothíriel approached him closer. Her back to Saehild and Almer, she spoke in a low voice, "Have Ides prepare two rooms for our guests. I want them comfortable but isolated, and they are not allowed to leave Meduseld under any circumstance. Call Haleth, Léored and my brother".
"Yes, my Lady".
Once the three men had joined her in the room, there was a short moment of chaos. Amrothos reacted to the news with a curse and flung a book against the wall. Haleth went on a rant against traitorous Rohirrim. Léored just didn't believe it. "How do we know we can trust this woman?".
It had been Wídca's greatest achievement so far, Lothíriel reckoned: to render them doubtful, paranoic, to the point they no longer knew what or whom to trust. "We don't".
Amrothos inhaled deeply in an attempt to sooth his fury, "I know Saehild, I've met her a few times over the years", then, as he found himself pierced by Haleth's deadly glare, he added angrily, "Not like that! I've never paid a woman for company – not before I married Ealith, and certainly not after!".
"And? What do you make of her?".
"She doesn't strike me like the kind of character who could be bought into betraying her country. Besides, wasn't this the point of spreading word of what is happening – beside ruining Wídca's reputation? To have eyes and ears across the land and hopefully get a whiff of what his next move could be? Would have it been easier to trust this information, had it been delivered by some stranger?".
"You'd gamble everything on the word of a prostitute?", Léored pressed him.
"Had the Council been filled with people who sold their bodies instead of their country, we wouldn't be in this predicament!", Amrothos shot right back and this time, the former councillor didn't have it in him to argue.
"I agree with my brother. I trust Saehild, I believe what she says is true".
Haleth shook his head. "Given the number of men we have available, meeting a five hundred strong contingent in battle would be suicide".
"And yet we must. Think about it. Wídca's plan had been to lure us out: once every last of our men had left Edoras to confront him in Wolford, within two days his mercenaries could have reached the city and captured it without much bloodshed. We did not take the bait but if we do not meet him in battle in either Wolford or Hadleigh…".
"Then we leave Wídca no choice but regrouping his men to take Edoras by force", Haleth concluded.
"Exactly. This army", she said pointing at the map, "is not expecting us. This army does not know we are coming. This army won't fight as cohesively as an Eored. This army does not fight for their country and families' survival. We will ambush and defeat them, and I want you to tell me how to do it".
The three men looked at each other, Haleth taking the word first. "I'm not exactly familiar with this area, but I know it well enough. The mercenaries chose the place for their camp well, it is well hidden and their sentinels will spot us easily as we approach".
"What if I could get them to move? Trick them into believing the time to take Edoras has come?", Lothíriel asked.
"How?".
"It doesn't matter".
"There are two ways to reach Edoras from where they are. The shortest one passes too close to both Hadleigh and Caerdydd. If I was counting on stealth, I'd avoid it at all costs. The other adds an extra half-day of travelling time and goes right through the mountains, from valley to valley. It would provide them cover until the very last moment and they would assault the city from the West".
"I know the way", Amrothos chimed in, "it is not too far from the manor, Ealith and I have taken it a few times when travelling to Edoras. About a day's distance from the city the path wedges its way through a steep, narrow valley. The slopes are often shrouded in mist, barren of trees but with plenty of rocks to take cover".
"A good place for an ambush?".
"As good as you can get. But we won't be able to use horses, for the terrain on the slopes is too steep, too frail".
"We can rain on those mercenaries all the arrows we want, we'll still be heavily outnumbered", Haleth reminded them.
Lothíriel closed her eyes and felt her heart growing a little heavier. She had hoped she'd never have to resort to it, but it may be their only chance. "What if we rain more than just arrows? What if we rain fire?".
Both Haleth and Léored stared at her. Amrothos let himself fall on a chair.
"Do you remember when Ealith, Míririen and my nephew Alphros were attacked in Dol Amroth? Well, after we were told about what had happened, I was stunned. I had never even known such horrifically efficient flammable blends existed. We discussed it with Éomer King and decided it would be wise to have some stored in Edoras - a last resort weapon, when all else has proven unsuccessful".
"I have seen the blend at work. And it's not pretty, I can tell you that".
"I know, Amrothos, but what other choice do we have?".
"How do you suggest we use it?", Haleth inquired.
Her brother thought about it for a moment. "We drench sections of the path and wait for the convoy to be stretched over it, then we use flaming arrows to ignite it from a distance. This way, the men won't be able to regroup and mount a counterattack. It will be chaos and, for them, the only way out will be to climb the slopes. They won't manage on their horses and once on foot, they'll be easy targets".
Léored looked totally unbothered. "If we have this weapon, then I don't see why we shouldn't use it. Is it a dirty move? Maybe – surely not as dirty as Wídca's cleanest act. And I'd rather see those mercenaries – Rohirrim or not, die than have anyone in this city butchered at their hands".
Just like that the former advisor laid out the hard truth and Lothíriel knew he was right, knew she couldn't afford to offer their enemy the luxury of an honourable, fair fight. It comforted her that the decision weighted on her so, that she had not yet turned into someone too cynical to care.
"Where is the blend stored?".
"In a hidden section of the cellars. Amrothos knows the way".
"Should we send word to the Hornburg?".
"Yes, but we are not going to wait for Erkenbrand", she decided, "It would take four days for him and his men to reach us, another three to execute the plan. We managed to stall Wídca until now, but I fear we are about to run out of time. I will instruct the Marshall to take as many men as he can to Edoras to bolster our defences, but I won't ask the same of Aldburg and Caerdydd for their walls aren't nearly as solid as the ones at Helm's Deep". Lothíriel paused and run the numbers in her head, "Can we pull the ambush with two hundred men?".
Amrothos' jaw was set tight, but he did not hesitate, "Yes".
Aldwyn strolled through the Markthalle, a smug grin plastered on her face. It was obvious something was brewing, the air was charged with a sense of anticipation.
She counted her steps after she had passed the inn.
At six, the door opened.
Seven through nine, footsteps.
Ten, her name.
"Lady Aldwyn!".
He was always there in the central hours of the day. So predictable. "Háca, good morning!".
Her father in law gently grasped her hand to kiss it, like a true gentleman would. "I was just heading out for lunch when I saw you dashing by".
"Isn't it a bit early for that?".
"Oh, well. You know us old people, we wake up with the roosters and go to bed with the chickens".
She laughed, amused. "Then I believe I have interfered with your body clock an awful lot these past weeks, for I seem to remember we often played cards well into the night".
"When the company is so exceptional, even this tired old body of mine can forget itself. Though, I must say, it never fails to present me the bill the next morning".
"Have you been unwell? If so, you should have told me!".
"Nay, it was nothing a few days in bed and a double dose of the healer's concoctions couldn't fix. But I thought perhaps, if the Lady does not object, we could meet for lunch instead of dinner?".
"Starting today?".
"If you have other commitments, I'll understand…".
Aldwyn stared in the distance, eyes squinting. "It's going to be hectic today, but I think I have enough time for a quick luncheon. Would that suit you?"
"It would suit me very much indeed. We can eat here at the inn, if you want. The food isn't nearly as good as that of your cook, but it is decent enough".
She placed her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled, "Lead the way".
The inn's dining room was completely deserted. As they entered, a waitress cast them an askance look, obviously peeved at having someone interrupting the brief moment of rest between breakfast and lunch. "What can I bring you?".
"Do you have soup?".
"Corn with herbs, milady".
"I'll take that. And a slice of toasted bread, please".
"Same for me", Háca decided and, as soon as the girl had left, he noted, "I'm glad to see you in such good mood today, Lady Aldwyn".
She grinned and looked around to make sure they were alone. "It's finally happening, Háca! What did I keep telling you? It was only a matter of time and I was right! The additional hundred-fifty riders the Queen had been waiting for are camped half-day East of the city. This afternoon, our men will join them and ride out to attack Widca's camp in Wolford. Three days to reach the place, one to annihilate the traitors, three to return home. Do you know what that means? That within a week – possibly less, this nightmare might be over!".
"This is good news!".
"Only good? It's exceptional news, Háca! I was concerned the Queen would choose to wait until an additional hundred riders could be made available from the outpost in Caerdydd, but instead she ordered them to stay put. Wídca won't know what hit him! I'm telling you, the only way this day could get any better, is if we received tidings from the East. But well, we can't have everything, can we?".
"One thing at a time, my Lady. I take it the war is still raging?".
"The enemy's been mostly defeated, but there are still ongoing scuffles and then of course we must wait for the negotiations. Optimistically speaking, the army might be back by end of July. Realistically, a month later at least. It matters not: by the time they return, things will be in order and we can all heal from the tragedies that have befallen our country these past months".
"I'll toast to that!", Háca cheered.
When their food came, he hardly touched his portion, which wasn't unusual - he had once told her his ailment had caused his guts to grow weak and indeed, he seemed to have lost even more weight since they had first met. What she found uncharacteristic though, was how mindful he was to remind her every now and then that he knew she was busy and didn't want to disrupt her plans. As proper lunch time approached, patrons started filling the tavern and it became obvious they needed to vacate their table.
Before exiting the room, Aldwyn turned to look at her father-in-law one last time.
So strikingly alike, and yet so extraordinarily different.
"I'll see you next Thursday for lunch, yes?".
"I'll be counting the hours, my Lady".
Not half hour later, Aldwyn stood by the parapet of the Eastern watch tower, her eyes fixed on the shape of a lonely rider galloping fast across the plains. "Was I naïve, Elfda? Was I naïve for still hoping that, against all the evidence, he'd prove himself a better man?".
"Perhaps. But that is hardly a flaw, I think".
"How do I tell Háca? How do I tell him that all these years, his father was very much alive and aware of his existence? How do I tell him he was a traitor, a spy in Wídca's service?".
"Must you tell him? Háca believes his father dead and by the time he returns to Edoras, he may very well be".
Aldwyn leaned onto her old friend, her head resting on his shoulder. Maybe Elfda was right, maybe she shouldn't break Háca's heart. What good would it do?
"It's going to be all right, lass".
"Will you have ever stop calling me that? Will you ever stop watching over me?".
"Nay, lass. Not as long as I draw breath".
She swallowed a sob because she really detested ladies who burst into tears over nothing.
"I know it may seem the best course, but I caution you, Lady Aldwyn", a voice she had not expected to hear spoke, startling her. "Secrets – even those kept with good intentions, have a life of their own and will inevitably come back haunting you when you least expect it. We three in this tower are the sole keepers of this secret and should you wish to keep it buried, I will oblige. But I believe you should tell Háca".
The Queen crossed the vestibule and looked out over the plains, lost in her own thoughts. Eventually, she took a deep breath, like one does right before facing something you've been dreading and preparing for, for far too long. "The next three days will be decisive for the future of Rohan".
"We will prevail. It cannot be otherwise, for we have the Lady of the East-mark leading us", she dared saying.
"Aren't you a Westfold lady?".
"Born and bred".
For a moment, there was a fleeting smile on the Queen's face. She removed the hood of her cloak and cupped her cheek in a gentle caress, "Hoping Háca's father wasn't a traitor does not make you naïve, Lady Aldwyn. Had you been naïve, you wouldn't have seen past Fastfa's act, nor shared your concerns with me. Yet you did, and not only that: you convinced him he had gained your trust; you bought us time by making him believe we were right on the verge of attacking Wídca in Wolford; and today, you sent him running to the mercenaries to signal we had taken the bait. Wídca thought you gullible but you're not".
"What I have asked of you, I know it wasn't easy. Having to spend time with that man knowing who he was, what he was, wasn't easy. Had there been another way, I'd have spared you. Thank you, Lady Aldwyn. For what you've done, for your loyalty, for your friendship".
"A-always, my Lady", she muttered, moved but also taken back by the Queen's openness.
Lately, she was always so guarded, so stern.
Aldwyn watched her walk away and not long afterwards, she returned home to make ready: she hadn't fought in the War of the Ring nor in the one in the East. But she was surely going to fight in this one.
Rhun, June the 05th, FO 4
That morning, Háca had awoken with one word and one word only in his mind.
Finally.
Finally they were loading the wounded on carts. Finally they were dismantling their tents. Finally they were saddling their horses. Finally they were riding back towards the border and, from there, home. A few of them would have to stay with the Gondorian contingent until the outposts were built, but the war was over. Peace had come at a steep price - six hundred men and even more horses, most of them lost not in battle but taken by the earth. Did it make their death more difficult to accept?
He thought it did.
"Lord Háca?".
Almost one year and he still hadn't gotten used to being called Lord. Didn't feel like one either. "I told you not to call me that, Fuldig. What do you need?".
The young man in the stretcher took a raspy breath. "Do you think I may get some poppy milk?".
"I'll see what I can do".
He hopped down from the cart and searched around for one of the healers. They were well equipped this time – much more so than after the battle at the Black Gate years before, but the wounded were so many they were being cautious with giving away their remedies. Fuldig had had his right arm amputated at the shoulder and his leg was broken: the journey in the rocking cart was going to be an ordeal for him and all others in similar conditions but, unfortunately, there was nothing they could do to ease his pain. "I'm sorry, Lord Háca. Our supplies are running low and we won't be replenished for another two days. He will receive his dose at nightfall. Forgive me, but I'm unable to do more".
Before taking the bad news back to Fuldig, Háca had a quick walk around the camp to see whether help was needed. It didn't take long for one of the aides to reach out and point him towards the only tent that was still standing. The more gravely wounded were hosted inside, many of whom were still fighting for their life. "Some of the men need to relieve themselves before we move them. I apologize for asking, but would you help us?".
"Of course", Háca answered with a shrug.
He didn't know why they made such a big fuss about it.
The man who had thought him how to read and write had been bedridden and unable to do anything on his own. He had cared for him for almost a year. Cooked for him. Bathed him. Taken him to the privy. Washed him afterwards. It hadn't been pleasant, of course, but where was the honour and dignity in leaving someone lying in his own bodily discharges? Besides, he had a fond memory of the man. He had been good to him - the first in many years to treat him decently.
"Rohan's greatest warrior wiping my arse. Not sure if it is you who have fallen low, or me risen high".
Háca laughed at Hátor's dry remark. He was one of the very few whose sense of humour had survived unscathed the wounds of the body. The day the old warrior died, he was sure he'd go with a sarcastic quip on his lips.
After he had helped loading the rest of the wounded in the waiting wagons and made sure Fuldig was as comfortable as possible, Háca mounted his horse and went looking for Éothain. He found him riding at the rear of the convoy, aloof from the rest of the men.
"You are good at caring for people", the Captain noted.
"I have cared for myself since I was five".
"As I've already told you before: if I think of the first time I met you, I would have never guessed".
"Back then I wasn't very… pleasant".
"Pleasant? You showed up one day, almost defeated the Marshall in training the next, beat a man half to death during the Midsummer tournament in plain view of the whole city, flirted with the wrong ladies…".
Háca had the decency to look contrite. "I'm especially not proud of that last one. I knew it was wrong, but it was my way of… I don't know, making a statement that if I was not afraid to do that in front of everybody, then I was afraid of nothing".
Éothain looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Who on earth are you talking of?".
"You know. Her", he lowered his voice and leaned closer, "the Queen".
"Oh", Éothain's mouth became a perfect circle, "I had forgotten about that one. Bema you tried to flirt her! What kind of a moron would do that?".
"Hold on, who did you think I was referring to?".
"Éoith".
"Never heard the name".
"That only makes me hate you even more".
"Really. I don't know any Éoith".
"She used to work at the Green Gate".
He almost blurted out that he'd have to be more specific about which of the tavern girls he was speaking of, but on second thought it didn't seem like a wise thing to say. "Were you two…".
"I was working on it before you entered the scene!".
Ah. That probably meant the girl had no idea about Éothain's existence, let alone that he was flirting her.
The rest of the ride was spent in silence and even though Háca knew his friend's spirit was far from healed from the loss of the King, it comforted him that he no longer looked like a spectre and could even handle some good old banter.
As they set camp that evening, he checked on Fuldig. The rider's face was a mask of pain and he tried his best to distract him: "Any of these days a messenger will be sent to Rohan. Would you like me to write a letter to your family?".
"I don't know what to tell them".
Háca pulled paper and quill from his bag. "How about we start with saying you miss them and will soon be back home?".
Fuldig exhaled - the way a man does before conceding to someone's pestering request, and spoke in broken sentences that he tried to merge as best as he could into a meaningful letter. Once done, he read it back to him.
"I don't think I said it that nicely", Fuldig wheezed.
"You'd have, had you had the strength to".
"My family doesn't live in Edoras".
"A small village in the Westfold, I know. I will ask my wife to ensure it is delivered".
"They cannot read".
"My wife's messenger will read it for them. And should they want to write you back, I'm sure he'll oblige their request".
Háca stayed with him until the poppy milk induced sleep had taken hold. Afterwards, he visited the main tent to see if he could help but, this time, the healers had the situation under control and shooed him away. In a quiet corner not far from Marshall Elfhelm's tent, he unrolled his cot and lied down. Sleep did not come easily those days and when thoughts of battle resurfaced, he shoved them away and tried conjuring Aldwyn's picture in his mind - like she had looked on their wedding day, barefoot, loose hair, a simple ivory dress.
The pang of guilt was immediate and sent him leaping to his feet, "Darned idiot!", he muttered angrily.
In the past weeks he had written dozen of letters for other people, but not one word to her! Whenever he hurt, it was as if his brain entered a self-preservation state in which, like a hedgehog, he'd curl on himself and show the hard spikes instead of the softness underneath. It was how he had survived his childhood in the orphanage, but not how he wanted to be with his wife!
He wrote her a long letter and held nothing back – not the anger, not the hurt, not the sense of failure that accompanied him every day. It would break Aldwyn's heart to read it, but it would shatter it worse if she discovered he hadn't been able to confide in her.
For once luck was on his side and the next morning, just as he was heading towards Elfhelm's tent to ask when the next messenger would depart, he saw one riding in.
"You come from Edoras?", he asked after the Marshall had received his correspondence.
"Yes, sir".
"Do you have any letter from Lady Aldwyn?".
"I'm afraid not".
Háca hid the disappointment well. "You probably have something for Captain Éothain from his wife, Runhild. I'll find him for you".
"I'm not carrying any correspondence, sir, except the one I gave the Marshall".
That gave Háca a pause. "Is everything well in Edoras?".
"Yes. I'm riding back tomorrow at dawn: in case you'd like me to take a letter to your family, you'll find me resting in that tent over there".
"I appreciate your offer and indeed, I have a letter for my wife, Lady Aldwyn. Would you mind taking it to her?".
"Of course, sir". The messenger stowed the envelope in his bag and walked briskly away, like he couldn't wait to put as much distance as possible between them.
Unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss, Háca sought the Marshall. He was assured everything was all right and yet, over the course of the following days, he noticed something had changed: he was asked to keep an eye on the Wolford men, a quicker pace was enforced and he heard Elfhelm making agreements with King Elessar involving the wounded's accommodation. He had known the most gravely injured would have to stay in Gondor for a longer period of time, but it seemed they were planning to leave behind also those who would only need a few weeks to recover enough to make the journey back home.
It was unusual.
He mentioned it to Éothain, but his friend simply saw it as an opportunity to be reunited with his wife sooner than he had anticipated and rejoiced at the news. In the end, Háca decided to put his doubts to rest and returned to dedicate most of his time to those in need.
Edoras, June the 05th, FO 4
Amrothos and his two hundred riders left Edoras in the mid-afternoon.
For the next three nights, Lothíriel couldn't sleep a wink. The fight in the mountains was going to be brutal and, until reinforcements came from the Hornburg, the capital would remain dangerously undermanned. She spent hours walking on the walls: looking south hoping to see her brother, looking west hoping to see Marshall Erkenbrand and dreading at the same time it would be Wídca the one to reach them first.
At noon of the third day, horns announced the return of the city guard.
Lothíriel hurried to the gate, the relief at seeing Amrothos and Aldwyn both unharmed soon devoured by the grim expressions on their faces. She watched her brother lean into Ealith's embrace, seeking the solace he so desperately needed before duty required him to report to her. Amrothos would ride to war any day if she asked it of him, but she knew deep in his heart he had hoped he'd never have to fight again and detested that she had had no choice but to put him in charge of this horrible mission.
He deserved better than that.
In the quietness of her study, he later briefed them, "Our plan worked until a group of mercenaries managed to get around the fire and regroup. Before we could send reinforcements, twenty of our men had been slayed and a portion of the enemy army fled west. They are likely planning to join Wídca in Wolford".
"How many?".
"We counted almost four hundred dead. I reckon a hundred-fifty escaped. Forgive me, I should have prevented it".
"We knew it was a risky plan, Amrothos. You've crippled Wídca's forces and that's the only thing that matters".
"What will his next move be?".
Léored cleared his voice and spoke gravely, "He's gone too far to back down. All his hopes of saving his reputation have been crushed and he knows at this point he either wins or he dies. As I see it, he has only two options. The first: he doesn't have enough men to take Edoras, but he may be able to capture Aldburg".
Lothíriel felt the sting of her nails breaking the skin of her palms. The old seat of the Kings of Rohan. The place where she had fallen in love with Éomer and this land and her people. To think of Aldburg's streets swarming with Wídca's traitors was as big of an affront as picturing them sitting in the Golden Hall!
"What's the second option?".
"Forcing us to surrender Edoras. We've led him to believe the army in the East won't return any time soon and after last year's harvest disaster, he's well aware our food supplies are in a fragile state".
"A siege", she growled, furious that she had not seen it coming. With their stocks all but depleted during the long winter, Edoras heavily relied on weekly deliveries to feed her people.
It was the worst possible time to face a siege and Wídca knew it.
Aware that she simply did not have enough men to defend both Aldburg and Edoras at the same time – not even with Erkenbrand's reinforcements, Lothíriel took one of the hardest decisions in her life and sent word to Gárwine that he had to face the possible incoming attack on his own, that Edoras could not help him.
That she could not help him.
Her stomach was in knots. The guilt was overwhelming.
She should have been able to do more!
At dusk the next day, after yet another night spent pacing inside the Royal Apartments, Marshall Erkenbrand finally arrived carrying news both good and bad: Wídca's army would reach Edoras by nightfall, leaving them with only a handful of hours to stock as much food as possible before the siege started. On a positive note, he had far less men than anticipated – roughly four hundred, and this accounting the mercenaries too.
Not enough to take Aldburg.
The reason for his diminished numbers lent Lothíriel some much needed confidence about the legitimacy and rightfulness of everything she had done so far: after news of Wídca's rebellion had spread, the farmers of the Westfold hadn't sat idle and, upon spotting his army crossing their lands, they had taken matter into their own hands. His journey had been tormented with a steady sequence of ambushes and traps. A pattern of lightning strikes and just as quick retreats which had chipped his forces of ten men here, fifteen there, until the number had become large enough to make a difference.
Rohan as a whole was rallying behind her and Éomer's legacy - Westfold to Eastfold, noble to rider to farmer to prostitute.
When Wídca finally arrived in Edoras, Lothíriel felt calm and determined. She put her armour on, climbed the walls and waited for the disgraced lord to come meet her.
"Lady Lothíriel".
"Wídca".
Edoras' entire population was squeezed at the foot of the walls, eagerly listening. The men outside – Rohirrim and not, were paying just as close attention.
"The rule of Rohan belongs to the blood of Eorl, not to a foreign Queen. I have lost men coming here, good men - Rohirrim killed by Rohirrim acting on your orders. If Éomer King were here, he'd be appalled and ashamed by your actions! Éomer King listened to his Council, Éomer King relied on his Council and for six years, Rohan benefitted from his wisdom. But in your mad quest for absolute power, within mere days from his passing you dissolved the Council and threatened its members. You are no Queen, you're a tyrant with no care for her subjects! No more of our blood should be spilled on account of your ambitions. Open the gates now, and we'll grant you safe passage to your homeland".
Lothíriel could hardly stifle a scream of anger at hearing his grand speech. "Fourteen days", she just said, loud enough for all to hear it, "We received news of the King's death on May the first. Fourteen days later, an army of mercenaries was already hiding in the mountains. The Council hadn't been dismissed yet and wouldn't be for another three days. Tell us, Wídca: how did you recruit five hundred men – most of whom foreigners and hailing from distant lands, and covertly took them deep into our mountains in less than fourteen days?".
She paused for effect. "You didn't, for it is obvious to everyone it would take months to do so - not to mention the gift of foresight to predict I'd come out of mourning to dissolve the Council. Truth is, Wídca, you have been making ready to take power in Rohan since long before I disbanded the Council. And that can only mean one thing".
She held his glare as she stated the ugly truth. "You knew the King would not return from the East".
"What you'd have our people believe is a lie!", he thundered, "The King died…".
"He died in a landslide that also claimed the life of your son, thus sparing you from getting your hands dirty. Luck and misfortune often mingle, don't they? This, however, does not change the malice of your intentions: you have been making preparations to usurp the throne since before our army journeyed East".
"Good people of Edoras, listen to her! The Queen is mad, accuses me of…".
Determined to not let him score a single point, Lothíriel cut him off, "This is my home, Lord Wídca. I suggest you take your own advice of safe passage and flee while you can, for I am going nowhere".
Calmly, she turned her back to him and headed for the Golden Hall, the crowd clearing a path as she walked by. Hands reached for her and she reached back, someone shouted in the distance, "Hail, Lothíriel Queen!".
She did not say a word, did not allow a single crack to spoil the determined look on her face.
Difficult weeks lied ahead. Nothing mattered but holding out until the army in the East had returned.
Rhûn, June the 10th, FO 4
The day started out like many others before - wake at dawn, ride till dusk. With the arrival of additional healers from Gondor, Háca's help with the wounded was no longer needed - or, as Hátor had put it: his arse cleaning days were over, though his touch would be sorely missed.
He was eating dinner by the fire when one of the herbalists, a young woman by the name Maliel, approached. She was pretty and batting her eyelashes an awful lot. "May I keep you company, Lord?".
He nodded and resumed eating at a quicker pace, which of course resulted in him burning his mouth and spewing hot soup all over his clothes. Deeming he had embarrassed himself quite enough, Háca leaped on his feet and walked away, all the while pondering whether spending too much time with Éothain had perhaps a downside he had failed to consider: he was becoming as much of a klutz as his friend was!
As he searched for a good spot for the night, he noticed a rider entering the camp in great haste. He didn't know his name, but he recognized him as one of the messengers based in Edoras. His senses were immediately on high alert: it had been less than a week since they had last received news from Rohan - too short a time for another messenger to be sent out unless there were urgent news.
And urgent rarely meant good.
Upon hearing the man asking for Elfhelm in an agitated voice, he decided to come forward, "I will take you to him".
The Marshall's reaction after reading the letter he had been delivered was one of great fury. His face was dark, his body tense. After Éothain had joined them, he explained, "Rohan is under attack. Three former members of the Council, led by Lord Wídca, have rebelled against the Queen and started a civil war. She's ordering us to ride back as swiftly as possible, for she fears Edoras may be targeted".
There was so much to unpack, Háca was stunned. Former members of the Council. Lord Wídca. It all made sense. "You asked me to keep an eye on the Wolford men! Why, Elfhelm? What do you know?", he yelled, all thoughts of hierarchy forgotten.
"About a month ago, the Queen discovered a plot against her and Prince Elfwine and disbanded the Council. In a letter I received last week, she ordered me to ride to Rohan once the campaign was over and the wounded had been escorted to Gondor, and not to trust any of Wídca's men. It's the reason why I've tried to expedite things. A four hundred strong contingent has now been discovered in the woods nearby Wolford and more might be hiding out, which means Wídca has decided to wage open war against the crown".
"How long ago did this happen?".
"I left Edoras sixteen days ago, Lord", the messenger answered.
Háca felt his body grow cold: a lot could have happened in that time, and they were still miles away from the border with Gondor! It would take them another three weeks to reach Rohan and, by then, Edoras could have already been attacked and savaged! He had experienced fear many times before in his life, but not like that. Never like that. It was an all-encompassing feeling that made it damn difficult to think straight. "We must ride at once", he heard himself saying.
"Yes. We have twelve hundred battle-ready men but cannot abandon the wounded in Rhûn. Two hundred will need to stay until King Elessar's men can relieve them, one thousand will ride immediately. The Wolford riders will be stripped of their rank and taken into custody. I will ready the Eastfold riders. Éothain, take the Edoras' ones, Háca the Westfold's".
No sooner than the words had left his mouth, he and Éothain were already darting out of the tent. The men's reaction to the news of what was happening at home was an ugly mirror of his own: shock, anger and fear. They had gone to war to protect their families, to keep them from becoming victims in the upcoming Easterling invasion. It was a shared assumption that while they fought and died at the front, their loved ones in Rohan would be safe. Instead, someone had brought the conflict at the heart of their country.
One of their own, a Rohir.
Precious time was lost to sedate an attempted lynching of the Wolford men. Marshall Elfhelm struggled to keep things under control. He was a good man, but he was no King and now more than ever, Háca felt the acute lack of firm leadership. For the past six years both Éomer King and Lothíriel Queen had been, each in their own kind of way, imposing presences. They rarely needed to raise their voice but when they did, all listened. It was painfully different with Elfhelm and when, in the midst of a brawl they had no time for, Háca spotted a rider advancing on one of Wídca's men with a dagger in his hand, he decided he had had enough of it. He grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, disarmed him with ease, dealt him a blow in the face that broke his nose and one in the guts that sent him to his knees. While the idiot coughed blood and gasped for air, he found a rope, secured his wrists and tossed him with the Wolford folks.
"Is there anyone else who wishes to stay here with the traitors instead of riding to our families' aid?", he hissed, breathing hard.
Without saying a word, Éothain moved to stand beside him, daring anyone to challenge them. No one moved, until the first person chose to abandon all desire for vengeance and self-justice, and walked away. After that, the mob quickly dispersed.
"We didn't know!", one of the prisoners pleaded.
"Perhaps you speak the truth, perhaps you don't. The Queen will decide your fate and the fate of your families. Until then, I suggest you behave. Are we clear?".
All nodded, none dared meeting his stare.
Author's notes: so, I felt particularly inspired plus I found myself with some unexpected free time and unexpectedly managed to finish this chapter before flying to Australia for holidays! Hope it makes up for the next one, which will surely take some time to be released!
Random thoughts about this chapter (and the previous ones).
Éomer gave signs of not feeling well during the battle, Éothain spoke about it with Háca. He's starting to get an idea why.
It was clear Aldwyn didn't trust her father-in-law. When she told Elfda she had a farfetched idea about his intentions, she was actually already planning to speak to Lothíriel about the possibility of him being a spy for Wídca. What Elfda discovered about his past only confirmed her suspicions, as the mysterious distant relative thanks to whose very timely death Fastfa was able to pay his debts was likely no relative at all, but rather Wídca buying him. And the reason why Aldwyn invited Fastfa to her home despite obviously disliking him, was so that the Queen could safely observe who he was and what he had to say, and form her own opinion - Lothíriel was indeed the second figure lurking in the shadows in the previous chapter. Once convinced he was a spy, they used him to steer and control the intel received by Wídca to their own advantage: they stalled him for long enough to discover his true plan; they convinced Fastfa they were riding to Wolford so he'd signal the mercenaries to start marching towards Edoras; they subtly hinted about a phantom hundred warriors based in Caerdydd so he'd make sure they took the path through the mountains.
By splitting consensus within the council, spreading word of his rebellion and annihilating part of his forces, Lothíriel has effectively jeopardized Wídca's original plan. He has nothing to lose now: he isn't one to surrender or flee, which means he has no more restraints and is now capable of everything, reason why Lothíriel cannot even exclude he may try to take Aldburg.
As per Elfhelm, he had said it himself. He's a fish out of the water and despite his honest efforts, he's having a hard time leading the Rohirrim in the King's stead.
Last note because I ranted enough already: while writing the past chapters I obviously overestimated my ability to map and maintain an appropriate timeline without writing it down first. I realized shortly after posting the last chapter that I should have left some longer interval of times between some of the key events to account for travelling times, etc. So, I went back and slightly modified some dates – no change to the story whatsoever. I know it was probably unnecessary, but I couldn't stand to leave it like that and thought I should let you know!
As usual, don't forget to leave a review!
Catspector: always makes my day to read reviews as thoughtful as yours, thank you! You are absolutely right about Lothíriel. Her spreading the word had also another unforeseen and much appreciated consequence: the farmers rebelling against the rebel and doing their part in ensuring Wídca didn't have enough men to attempt something even worse than laying siege to the capital. As for the exchange of prisoners, as predicted by Distal and as hinted by the timeline, Éomer and the others unfortunately landed in the hands of someone so blinded by his desire for revenge, that he's capable of doing even the most depraved thing.
Lisa Jones: thank you for the encouragement! Not sure I'll ever write my own novel (partially because English is not my mother tongue and my Italian is getting worse and worse after over a decade abroad), but I'm positive I'll post more stories here. I'm glad I managed to create suspense - it had been my intent and the reason why I had been keeping my notes very short! While I've struggled in the past, I must admit I'm feeling quite inspired lately - the challenge is, as usual, finding enough time in between a full time job, a husband and two cats to sit down and write :) I'm sure youl'll find your muse and finish your work – is it posted here, if I may ask?
tgo62: I'll be brutally honest: I don't know if a monarch could easily dismiss a Council, but I assume he/she could, provided he/she was able to curb the repercussions and deal with the various aspects of ruling a country on his/her own. While I can't exclude a new Council will eventually be appointed, I think Lothíriel had reached a point where she simply needed to make scorched earth around the old institution. She obviously needs advisors – especially when it comes to everything war related, and indeed she's not ruling on her own nor assuming she knows it all. She relies on Léored, Haleth, Amrothos and Erkenbrand to understand things she's no expert of and consulted them after each turn of events and before taking any important decision. She did not always follow their advice, but in this context it was the mark of a good Queen! I share your uneasiness though, and I'm surely glad I live in a democracy! :)
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: good to have you back!