Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing.
A/N: Sorry about the delays. This is what happens when you let bunnies eat your brain.
"Should we not head for Helms Deep, Éomer King?"
"No. I will not give them free reign to wander round the Riddermark as they please." As usual, the only mark of rank Éomer had bothered with was his armour, Gamling noted. And he appeared to be in one of those moods, which meant that arguing with him was almost as good of an idea as standing your ground in front of a panicked stallion; and probably more dangerous. The boy was going to be the death of him, Gamling was sure of it. "Reinforcements will come from Gondor."
"But they are not here yet." pointed out Erkenbrand gently. "And we are outnumbered near three to one…"
"Then there will be plenty for all of us." the King snarled. "And the day that a rider of the Riddermark is not worth three foul orcs or squabbling Easterlings, is the day I lay down my sword."
"The Lord of the Glittering Caves!" called a herald outside. "The dwarves have come!" Éomer smirked at Erkenbrand and Gamling and stalked outside to greet his old friend, while the two of them just shook their heads.
"I might have told you." said Elfhelm, grinning from his chair; he had not bothered to engage himself in the conversation. "Besides, with the addition of our squat axe-swinging friends, it's probably only, what, two and a half to one?"
"You're as bad as he is." muttered Gamling, glaring. "How do you propose to count the halves?"
"Depends on how we split them. Straight down the middle, or side to side." He punctuated this statement with wild swings of his hands, mimicking the appropriate sword-strokes. "Come on, my friends. Better go make nice with the dwarves."
-----
"Seeing as that Elf is not here, my friend, we will have to make do with competing among ourselves. Although with a thousand of my kinsfolk here, I'm afraid there might not be enough to go round!"
Éomer looked out to where the enemy lines could be seen, halted for now, fires in the shadows of early evening showing how far they stretched out. They were held in a stalemate – every moment of delay was another moment in which aid might arrive from Gondor. Yet their position was precarious; they could not afford to give the enemy the chance to flank them. "There will be enough to go round." was all he said, although he couldn't help but grin at Gimli's posturing.
"This is the only place they can cross?" Gimli asked, grinning back.
"Unless orcs can learn to swim in armour, yes. The Entwade is their only path; and they will not find it an easy path to tread, with the Riders waiting for them on the other side. And the Dwarves, of course." he added hurriedly, lest Gimli be offended. "But this is the dry season; day by day the 'wash subsides and the 'wade widens. Every day their position strengthens. They will attack soon."
As if on cue, Elfhelm bolted into the tent. "They're on the move."
-----
There were not as many the patrols had suggested, but the force the Rohirrim and the Dwarves faced was still far greater than them in numbers, and had the advantage of the night. Still, the terrain might yet prove the deciding factor; as long as Éomer's warriors stayed on the western bank of the Entwash, they could deal with the enemy one part at a time, picking them off while the rest remained stuck on the eastern banks, helpless.
That was the theory, at least. But theories did not provide much comfort when you waited in the dark for the battle to begin. Horses shifted, picking up on their rider's nerves and the smell of orc on the wind. "Are they fools?" Gamling hissed. "They have no advantage but numbers."
"Perhaps they think that is enough." murmured Erkenbrand. "Pass the word among the men; hold back, or the horses will charge right through their lines, and they'll find themselves an island in a sea of orcs."
"This feels wrong." muttered Éomer. "There's no sense to their actions; but I don't think they're fools. Hold firm, and patience. There'll be enough blood shed before sunrise without anyone offering the Bema-cursed orcs an opening." He said it as much for himself as for anyone else; Firefoot snorted and stamped, impatient as his rider.
There was suddenly a cry from those on the north flank – Erkenbrand hurried to see, for it was his Eored, and like the men around him, swore under his breath as a Rider came crashing into the camp from the north, one of those who had been sent out to patrol.
It was surprising that he'd managed to stay on his horse. A black arrow protruded from his side – he'd snapped off half of the shaft but his clothing was soaked with dark blood. Sending the exhausted horse off to be fed and taken care of, Erkenbrand leant over the man, while frantic healers busied themselves around him, and listened carefully to message he choked out.
"Riders of the Westmark!" he called. "Turn and form ranks to the north!" Even as they moved to obey he was wheeling to return to Éomer and the other Marshalls. "Some of the Easterlings circled round. They're coming from the north. Some two thousand strong, maybe more. They've been killing as they go – they crossed the river to the north and they're not but an hour's ride away from us."
"We can't retreat, and they know it." Gamling growled. "We'd have Orcs nipping at our heels all the way back to Edoras."
"All we have to do is hold them back until Aragorn arrives." Eomer glared in the general direction of the Orcs who were still milling about on the other side of the river; waiting for a signal. "The Entwash will run black with orc-blood before we are done here."
-----
The cold-drakes were screeching again, arching their long necks into the air and looking for food – or unwary members of Pallando's army – moving around in the night.
It was giving Morglin a headache. No-one dared complain about the beasts who accompanied them – Pallando usually fed them on horses, but wasn't above turning an Orc or Easterling or two into drake-food. If they were very lucky, he'd have their throats slit first.
"Why are we heading towards the Elf-wood?" he asked, ill-tempered. "Is our purpose there?"
"No." Pallando sipped at a goblet of wine he had somehow acquired. "Our destination is beyond. We pass through the northern reaches of the wood and cross the mountains into Ettenmoor, staying well north of Imladris to avoid detection. After that – west."
"Yes," grumbled Morglin, "because three screeching cold-drakes and a small army of Orcs and Men will go perfectly unnoticed."
"When we cross the mountains, my dear boy, we will be doing so ialone/i. My drakes, along with the rest of the army, will be staying behind to keep the Elves… suitably occupied." Pallando reached over to pour himself some more wine. "After all, my poor beasts can't be expected to spend all their time eating just Orcs and filthy Men and their horses. They deserve much sweeter meat."