CHAPTER 8: NEVER VANQUISH'D BE
Night departed. The grey stone of the fortress of Helm's Deep blushed pink at the touch of dawn. A wind stirred the air, lifting the smoke and stench of death that hung heavily over the battlefield and upon hearts of the Rohirrim. The new day brought unexpected promise. Even as the gates fell and they despaired, in their darkest hour there came hope.
As the first rays of light sprang into the sky, the Orcs ceased their attack. A murmur arose from behind them, off in the distance, and the rumour rippled through their ranks, magnifying as it spread. A nameless terror filled them and they were dismayed and faltered, looking back over their shoulders with fearful glances.
And then the sound of a great horn rang out, blast upon blast from beyond the Deep, as if upon every cliff and hill a mighty herald stood. The Orcs cast themselves to the ground, and upon the walls the men lifted their faces to the heights and marvelled at the echoes of the horn blasts through the hills. "Helm! Helm!" the men took up the cry. "Helm for Théoden King!"
Théoden rode forth, thundering from the gates upon his white steed, his spear catching the sun's light and gleaming as pure gold. At his side were Aragorn son of Arathorn, and all the lords of the House of Éorl. The men of the Riddermark cheered at the sight and new strength drove their assault upon the forces of Isengard, and the Orcs wavered and fell back. Down from the Hornburg Théoden and his riders swept, driving through the enemy as a wind among grass.
Upon the parapet of the Deeping-wall two figures stood silhouetted by the sunrise. One was shading his eyes to look out upon the onslaught, standing tall and fair, his back straight and his hair flowing from beneath his helm in the glorious breeze. The second was as stolid as the rock beneath him; he kept both hands resting upon the hilt of the glittering axe that was planted at his feet. Though they spoke not, they knew one another's thoughts, and rejoiced that they were alive and there to see the dawning of a new day.
The horn blew fierce and free, and they watched the Riders cut through the black host, Orcs falling or fleeing before their shining spears. The keen sight of Legolas Greenleaf caught the glint of the king's armor and the white flash of Snowmane before the charge, and also, to his great delight, Aragorn upon Hasufel with his sword brandished high. Legolas motioned to the Dwarf and Gimli hefted his axe into the air and gave a shout. He threw one arm about Legolas's waist and embraced him, laughing triumphantly.
Their revelry was cut short, however, by the sudden clamour of metal-shod feet and howling voices. The Orcs caught behind the wall poured like rats from their positions outside the caves and the Rock in an effort to find a way to escape the wrath of the men of the Mark. Legolas turned and directed his gaze outwards across the Deeping-coomb, and his expression became one of wonderment. Even as the Orcs inside fought to get out, the host of Isengard who were gathered beyond the wall was pressed against the outside to get within. The Elf furrowed his brow and cast his gaze further out to see the cause of their fear. His eyes widened. He hissed sharply and tapped the Dwarf's shoulder.
"Gimli! Look there! Do you see?"
The Dwarf peered down upon the green dale which was... no longer there. Where the plain of grass had been, there was now a forest. He stared in awe. "Legolas!" he gasped, "The woods have moved!"
Indeed, the trees and tangled boughs were now rooted rank upon rank just beyond the Dike, looming dark and mysterious. He looked to the Elf for an answer, but Legolas had none to offer him. They watched in amazement as the Orcs on either side of them cowered in terror of the king and in terror of the shadowy trees.
Bewildering as it was, Gimli and Legolas were not given long to ponder the strange sight. Gimli tugged at Legolas's belt to drag his attention away from the queer forest in the valley to more pressing matters. They found themselves above a scrambling mass fighting to clamber over the wall or claw their way through the culvert beneath; the enemy seemed more intent upon escape than confrontation as its courage failed.
A large Orc tore up the stairway and came to a startled halt at the sight of a Dwarf standing before it, axe resting casually upon his shoulder and a look of cold amusement upon his face. The Orc yelled and threw its arms over its head. Gimli's axe bit deep and black blood sprayed over the stones. The Dwarf kicked the thing's body back down the stairs, toppling two more that had followed. Ere they could regain their feet there was a sharp whistle and an arrow took one Orc in the eye; the other fell with a shaft through its temple.
"This is futile, Gimli!" shouted Legolas above the din as more charged the stairs. "Let them flee!"
Gimli sidestepped an Orc that barreled past him and watched it plunge blindly from the parapet. "Come! Let us go below where we might be of some service!"
They pushed their way through the teeming horde, yet the effort was not great. The Orcs were in a panic and paid them little heed, though Gimli's short stature might have proved his downfall as their foes crushed in on all sides. They would have borne him along had Legolas not stayed close by his side. The two carved a deadly circle about them as they made for safer ground.
Legolas swept his knife across the throat of an Orc that hurled itself wildly at him, and Gimli drove his axe into the soft flesh of another's belly, ripping the blade back out and thrusting the body away from him. Legolas gestured to the Dwarf to cut back to the side and away from the rush, and then he whirled to plunge his blade into the chest of a large hillman who had gotten too close. He wrenched his knife from his foe. The silver of his weapon was no longer visible; his blade and forearm were drenched with dark ichor. He stepped over the steaming corpse and pushed Gimli to a recess in the rock wall to rest there for a moment.
The heat and noise were stifling and Legolas yearned for freer air. He looked at his companion. Gimli was panting from the exertion, and sweat and blood covered his face. The cut upon his forehead had reopened during their flight where his helm had chafed it. Gimli glanced up and met the Elf's worried eyes.
"It is nothing! I am well," he shouted. "An irritation it is, nothing more. We must get away from this throng!"
Legolas nodded and cast about, judging the flow of the Orcs passing them by. He gripped Gimli by the arm and pulled him forward, moving along the wall as he kept the stumbling Dwarf from danger.
They found their way at last to the gates and heard once more the horn of Helm ring through the mountains. They came upon a clash of men and Orcs that was hot and brutal. There fought Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, and Gamling the Old, and a gathering of men who had come forth from the caves and the Rock in the wake of the king's charge, and who now strove mightily to roust the remaining Orcs from the Deep. There were not many left to challenge Éomer and those who stood with him, but the few Orcs that remained were desperate and fighting hard.
Éomer slashed valiantly at the shield of a red-tongued Uruk that sought to skewer him with a glistening curved blade. He cursed and parried the Orc's blows; blinking the stinging sweat from his eyes; every clash of metal upon metal jarred his teeth. The path from the caves had been a long one and he was weary. Even as he shattered his enemy's shield with a well-aimed thrust, his foot slipped and he hit the ground hard. He rolled to avoid the Orc's counter-strike, but moved too late and he felt steel pierce his shoulder. He screamed, his sword falling from his nerveless hand.
The Uruk howled with lust and moved to attack, lifting its bloody sword into the air to drive it deeply into the wounded man. It stiffened suddenly and slumped to its knees, a dark stain spreading across the front of its chest where an arrow had punched through leather and flesh. It toppled and collapsed motionless at Éomer's side, vicious eyes glazed and locked in an eternal stare.
Éomer looked up from where he lay, squinting in the sunlight, and found himself reunited once more with Gimli the Dwarf and Legolas the Elf.
The Dwarf stumped forward and offered him a strong arm, pulling the man to his feet. "Well met, Éomer son of Éomund," he rumbled cheerfully. "I hope you were not plotting to avoid further discussion with me regarding the Lady of the Wood by throwing yourself beneath a sword on a battlefield."
Éomer stared at Gimli in dazed amazement, hardly recognizing the Dwarf beneath the grime and blood that covered his face. The man's laughter rang out and he made to speak, but the pain of his wound assailed him and he swooned. Gimli gripped him on one side and Legolas upon the other, and the two of them bore him away and past the gates.
