Chapter 7: Departure


It was as Wormtongue had said. A ghostly pale sun had barely begun its ascent in the sky and started to melt away the thick blankets of fog that still lay over the narrow valley, when they finally came for him.

Cautiously leaned back with his good shoulder against the rock wall, Éomer had been watching the Uruks' preparations for the breaking of their camp for a while, his thoughts circling around the fate of the good people which had been rounded up in the pig pen like animals. There were many children among them. As much as he hated Gríma, the king refused to believe that his adversary would send his ghoulish army against them. Or would he? After all, no scruples whatsoever had stopped Gálmód's son from planning genocide at Helm's Deep!

'Aye, but only because he would not have to watch them die there,' he concluded, taking Wormtongue for a man who would rather try to avoid witnessing the carnage his actions implied. But what kind of 'lesson' was he speaking of? One could not teach lessons to dead people. An indication that the herdsmen would be allowed to live? If only he could believe it. Musing over Gríma's motive in his mind, Éomer watched his enemy's army getting ready to move. Against his own will, he was impressed by the straight-forwardness of the Uruk-hai. Once told their tasks, they appeared to get to them single-mindedly and did not stray from them until they were done, very efficient, and highly convenient for whoever would be leading them.

Still, one question remained unanswered: What was Gríma's hold over them? Why did they obey a scrawny, not at all intimidating weakling of a man? Granted, Wormtongue was - in his own, twisted ways - fearsomely cunning and intelligent, but as far as Éomer knew the different orc-species, they did not care much for intelligence. To impose one's self upon them as their leader, one would have to inspire their fear. It was hard to see how Gríma had accomplished that, and how he had managed to get a hold of them first. To Éomer's knowledge, all of Saruman's Uruk-hai had vanished in the sudden rout after their defeat at Helm's Deep. The Huorns of Fangorn had taken their revenge on them, a sight he had found hard to believe even though it had happened right in front of his eyes. Nowhere in the Riddermark had a single Uruk been seen after that incident, so it had been taken for a fact that they had all found death. Obviously, like Gríma's assumed death, this also had been but a rumour, born out of hope. Out of hope, his ever- vigilant kinsmen had let down their guard. It appeared that hope came with a very high price these days.

Shifting his position, Éomer gritted his teeth as another bolt of agony travelled through his nerve-endings from his pierced shoulder - he knew it had been pierced for he could feel the iron tip of the bolt scrape over the rock behind him whenever he moved his back, and the back of his tunic felt sticky and slick with blood. Gríma's potion had brought part of his strength back, but it had also increased the amount of pain he felt from a dull throbbing to a thunderstorm of hurt which made it increasingly hard for him to focus. Despite the morning chill, his brow was already beaded with sweat.

The fleeting reflection of something bright at the rock wall opposite his position brought Éomer back from his inner musings. What - the merest notion of a movement. The king narrowed his eyes in an attempt to make out what exactly it was that had caught his attention: something grey and furry. Something that did not want to be seen. Straining even more, he concentrated on the spot behind the empty branches of a dried-up bush, and there it was again, just for a heartbeat - the notion of the first light of the day reflecting on golden hair. Éomer shifted his view at once away from it, choosing to let his eyes rest on a pair of horses some wild-looking humans who appeared to be Dunlendings were loading with supplies, and his heart missed a beat. It had only been a brief glimpse, but since he had not seen Elana among her rounded-up family, he had already been worrying for the girl. Now he knew where she was, and her position was even better than he could have hoped for!

Taking a care not to let the direction of his gaze betray the girl's position to his enemies, Éomer's eyes strayed up and over the outcropping he had seen her on again, this time accompanied by an urgent prayer.

'For Eorl's sake, Elana, take your horse and ride to Edoras! Raise the alarm! Call help!'

His lips formed a grim line as he imagined how it would be to have Edoras' Royal Guard and the majority of the remaining éoreds come to their aid and once and for all kill this orc-scum that soiled the ground of the Mark through their sheer presence, but he would not let them kill Gríma. Gríma... after all that writhing, stinking, poisonous snake had done to his kin and country, Éomer would claim the privilege of bringing Rohan's bane to justice entirely for himself - and this time, the stinking rat's death would be very real, and certainly not a merciful and quick beheading...

Revelling in his thoughts of vengeance for a while longer, Éomer finally noticed the object of his violent reflections walking towards him with the two Uruk-hai captains that always seemed to accompany him. Not knowing what was to come, he tensed. The dark counsellor came to a halt in front of him and stared down taxingly while his hands played with a heavy-looking chain.

"It is time, my lord...I hope you rested as I told you to, as this is going to be a very long, hard day, and it looks like you are not in the best of conditions, if I may say so." A brief sparkle of malevolent pleasure accompanied Wormtongue's words as he passed the chain to the creature to his right. "Put this around his neck."

For a moment, Éomer thought of resistance as he watched the Uruk squat down beside him with wary eyes. Pride forbade for him to suffer any slight through the hands of an enemy willingly. Giving in would be the first step towards giving himself up.

'No! No use.'

It took a fierce effort to push the thought aside. There was nothing he could do, and fighting an impossible fight would only worsen his condition. There was no way of telling whether Gríma would grant him the opportunity for an escape attempt, but if it came, it would be foolish having to let it pass because he had no strength left to make use of it. The metal band was closed around his neck with an audible sound which pierced his heart with its finality, yet Éomer refused to let his despair show. He looked up, jaw set, at the one who was holding the other end of the chain.

"What is your plan, filth? Where are we going?"

Pale blue eyes met his unflinchingly. Oh yes, Gríma enjoyed looking down on him for a change! What a triumph for him to finally have the one who had opposed him even during the days of his secret reign over Rohan on his knees, and at his mercy!

"You shall see soon enough, my liege. Now get up and remember: any kind of disobedience will result in the death of one of your kinsmen."

The long hours on the cold ground had done their work to a point where the king found it almost impossible to follow Wormtongue's order: after being chained to the rock for the entire night, his arms were numb, his legs stiff, and as soon he began to move his battered body, the real extent of his injuries could no longer be denied by his stubborn mind When Éomer finally made it to his feet, he was drenched in sweat and his middle and upper body were throbbing like a rotting tooth. In addition, it felt as if all of Rohan's blacksmiths were busy in the limited space between his ears, pounding their hammers into the delicate, soft matter inside his head in a steady rhythm to get out. It was a major achievement to have made it to his feet on his own, an accomplishment of his still iron will, but then he would sooner die than let Gálmód's son triumph over him.

"Bind his hands behind his back!"

The Uruk-hai grunted their affirmation and went to work; one seizing the king in a grip which would snap his neck if he put up resistance while the other one opened the chains around his wrists, only to draw back his arms and lock them again even tighter on his back. The pull on his bad arm drained the colour from Éomer's face.

"You must be very afraid of me, snake," he spat, not able to bite back his contempt any longer. "Your prisoner is injured and in chains, and still you choose to hide behind the broad backs of your Uruk-hai. They may be loathsome, vile creatures, but at least they possess courage, which is more than can be said of you!"

"You would be well counselled to keep that heated tongue of yours behind your teeth, my lord," his adversary sneered in a low, dangerous voice. "Or shall I rather say, it would be in your kinsmen's best interest? The Gods know I am in a charitable mood today, which is why I will not punish you for your words, but be warned that this may be subject to change if you continue in this fashion. I may not feel like burning the rest of this clan's belongings, yet, but I dare not say how I might feel about it an hour from now. If you insist, I shall leave nothing but the black ashes of their tents behind." Gríma countered Éomer's glare with a meaningful side-glance at the watching herdsmen.

Again it was Fréod's face that brought the king to his senses. Slowly tilting his head to the right against the Uruk-hai's firm grip, Éomer found the eyes of Elana's clan directed at himself, their faces full of fright and worry. Their destiny seemed to lie solely in his hands. They had already lost their winter supplies and their horses. If help did not arrive soon, they would have to starve. Éomer would not have them suffer even more, like the loss of their shelter and their few possessions, only because their king persisted on keeping his pride intact.

The surge of fury abated. He needed to keep a cool head; he could not afford to let others bleed for his rage. All his adult life he had been roaming the Mark in protection of his people; he would not burden his conscience now by becoming responsible for their misery, particularly now since the faces he was staring at appeared to be more concerned for him than for themselvesSobering at the discovery, he exchanged a meaningful look with the clan's leader.

'Do not fear for me,' his expression said. 'I can hold my own.' At least he hoped so. Gríma obviously did not want to kill him, at least not yet. This was a knowledge Éomer hoped he would be able to use to his advantage, even though he could not begin to think of a way just yet.

"The hour is getting late, my lord," Gríma spoke into his thoughts, his courteous tone in stark contrast to the implied meaning of his words. "We must move, as your presence is highly anticipated in other parts of your kingdom. We must not let your people wait."

A broad hand pressed against Éomer's back and pushed him toward a bay horse the two Dunlendings he had observed earlier were holding ready for him. The king's heart sank as he took in the appearance of his new mount: being of under-average height, the poor creature was severely underfed to the point where its ribs were clearly visible through its dull hide, and the thin legs seemed barely fit to support its own weight. This was no steed to stage his escape with. Firefoot... he needed Firefoot, more now than ever. Even with his hands tied on his back and thus unable to shift his weight to not hinder his steed's speed , Éomer was sure that the grey stallion would have been able to carry him to safety and even outrun the two wargs he spotted now for the first time at the head of Wormtongue's army. But such musings were useless. By the look of things, his trusted horse was lying dead among the rest of its kin further behind in the valley. He would have to find another way.

Not wanting to give away either his disappointment nor his true condition through his posture, Éomer straightened as he walked down the cordon between the patiently waiting Uruk-hai, his bruised and battered body crying out in pain. Roaring laughter rose as he briefly stumbled in the mud and almost fell to his knees. Insults were shouted at him, but he blocked them out, instead focussing on the horse they led him to. But then something shiny tumbled into his path, and he could not help himself, he had to see what it was. The sight of a blood-spattered, pierced cuirass froze his blood. He recognised it instantly, and a different kind of pain assaulted his senses. Éothain, his trusted marshal and brother-in-arms of many years... Léod, the nineteen year-old, keen-eyed scout he had moved into his personal éored only shortly after his return from Gondor... all the others... all were dead. nineteen men had been gruesomely slain last night, nineteen of Rohan's best warriors. The last man standing - was he. The question was for how much longer.

Something hit him in the chest and fell to the ground to the rising roar of the surrounding creatures: Éothain's helmet. And another one. A third one. Éomer closed his eyes, not wanting to see the devastating hail of his dead soldiers' belongings. Another helmet hit his thigh, then, suddenly, a sharp voice rang out.

"Enough! We have much ground to cover today, and we need to move! I know you are impatient to pay him back for the massacre which has been committed against your kind! There will be a time for your vengeance, but it is not now. Seat him on the horse, and then we shall be on our way. Rohan is waiting for us!"

They lifted him onto the unsaddled horse, an action which alone was an insult to any self-respecting Rohir, and fastened a second chain to the iron collar around his neck, the end of which was fastened to the saddle of the guard to his right, another blow to the king's feeble last remainders of hope. Now he was secured from two sides by chains, his weak horse bound to a third guard in front of him, and his hands tied behind his back. Gríma Wormtongue was too cunning to take any chances with his valuable prisoner. If Éomer was to escape from his foe's grasp, something unexpected would have to happen. His eyes again sought out the outcropping where he had seen the girl earlier, but there was nothing left to see for him. The king hoped that she was already on her way to Edoras.

A rising roar woke him with a jolt as the Uruk-hai screamed their affirmation to their master's command, so powerfully, it shook the surrounding mountains. The guard in front of him spurred his horse, and Éomer's own steed broke into a well-paced trot, followed by a host of running orcs. The last thing the captured king saw before the winding path blocked his view was the image of the frightened herdsmen in front of their burnt-down barn.