Chapter 10.

Éomer woke suddenly, startled by the sound of a child's scream. For a moment he lay on the makeshift bed and thought it only a dream but then he smelled the burning hay. He tumbled out of the bed nearly tripping over Dengal and Sceotan who were sleeping on the floor. He shook them awake and quickly flung open the door to the main part of the cottage. Hyrde burst in the door that led outside and rushed to Éomer.

"Dunlendings…" he said, out of breath falling into the young captain's arms.

Éomer struggled to lay the heavy man on his cot and was horrified to feel the man's slick blood staining his own bare chest. Sceotan, who had some skill with healing, felt the unconscious man's arm carefully.

"The wound is not fatal, but he has lost much blood…" he was interrupted by Hyrde's wife's sudden entrance. She carried a lit candle and cast a grim look upon her husband.

"Go, I will care for my husband. You are needed, help the village." she said pushing Sceotan with a strong arm and gesturing for them to leave quickly.

Éomer's stomach was tied in knots, "Sceotan, go see what men may be gathered after you are armed. Dengal stay with me." he said feeling uneasy as he took command. The young man nodded and put on his armor quickly, grabbed his spear and hurried out the door, through which sounds of battle could be heard.

Éomer quickly pulled his shirt over his head and struggled with nervous fingers at the lacings of his armor. Dengal's hands steadied his own and helped him strap on the breastplate. The inexperienced commander nodded his thanks and smiled slightly. Dengal tossed Éomer his sword and they hurried into the night.

The heat struck them in the face, smoke blinding their eyes and senses. The wind changed directions suddenly and they both quickly readied their horses and mounted. There were no other Rohirrim in sight and the smoke blocked Éomer's vision from looking farther ahead for them.

"Eorlings! All Eorlings to me, to me!" Éomer shouted hoping that his soldiers would hear his cry and join him.

Dengal glanced at him, hopelessness filling his face. The young soldier peered into the smoke around him, his own horse moving uneasily beneath him. An idea came suddenly and he grabbed for the battle horn at his side. Quickly he brought it to his lips and blew with all his might. Éomer looked at him startled and then invigorated by the man's initiative. Swiftly five men joined them, and then another three until they had seventeen men with them, including Sceotan and five men of the village armed with rusted blades and old spears.

Éomer quickly shouted out orders, "You seven go to the east of the village where the huts are burning, make sure that all the people are out of the inferno. The rest of you follow me, archers aim for the torch-bearers, we must stop the fires from spreading!" he yelled urging his horse forward waving his sword, caught up once again in the immeasurable harsh emotions of battle.

The smoke was still blowing into their enemies eyes when they attacked; he was striking down blind foes, hoping that the wind would not change a third time. The archers shot at the glimmers of torches, unable to clearly distinguish the torch-bearers from the rest of the opponents.

"Spread around them! Surround them! Archers spread on all sides of them!" Éomer yelled suddenly inspired by their enemies' confusion. Dengal looked at him perplexed; there were nearly fifty Dunlendings and only seventeen men to fight them all, was he going mad with the intense heat of the fire? No he looked serious enough and even grinned at Dengal with a wide smile and quickly told him of the plan, knowing that the wild men could not discern the tongue of the Eorlings.

"With smoke in their eyes how do they know there are only a handful of us? We are a mighty army if we can make them believe it." He answered with a grin, striking down another wild man who had struggled to break through the line to the other huts.

"Archers, shoot!" he cried and four arrows well aimed knocked down four men in different parts of the mass. Their comrades cried in terror and hearing more shouts of terror believed they were indeed surrounded. The slaughter of the edges of the group of wild men started. The Eorlings hastened, afraid to trust their luck, and more importantly the wind.

Éomer cut through the wall, hewing down men in front of him with decisive strokes and suddenly he was flying through the air, over his fallen horse's head, warm blood drenching his legs. The Dunlendings had begun to use their sharp weapons against the Rohirrim and their one known strength, their horses. Kneeling with their spears held upwards they had caught Dæcer square in his mighty chest. He lay on the grass, his blood pouring out onto charred grass. Éomer felt a strong hand on his arm and was pulled up quickly.

Dengal whispered in his ear fearfully, "My lord? What now?" he asked.

Éomer glanced up and tried to blink, tried to rid his eyes of the burning sensation that overcame them. Smoke filled his nostrils and made the whole world an indiscernible whirlwind. He coughed, his head sagged and his shoulders drooped. Dengal's battle horn could not regroup them now; it would only point out their location to the enemy. They were scattered, divided, and leaderless. His eyes burned and the taste of charred substance was upon his lips.

The wind had changed.

Éomer knelt by Dæcer's side for a moment, "Peace, dear friend." he said laying a hand on the creature's proud neck. He rose halfheartedly and unsheathed his sword. A strong hand on his shoulder startled him, but he turned to face one of the village men armed with a dull blade.

"My lord, what are we to do? There are only a handful of us left, nine at last count and we are all wandering, lost in this smoke." the man stated looking to him hopefully, Éomer saw in the man's eyes a trust in Éomer's leadership and was comforted.

He paused for a moment, glancing into the smoke ahead of them seeing vague flickers of light that showed how great the number of the Dunlendings still was. "Good sir, where have the women and children been sent?" he asked an idea growing in his mind.

"Why, to the end of the town, they are all huddled together waiting for the outcome, there are not enough horses in the village for all to flee."

"Good, we will go to them," Éomer replied quickly striding towards the far cottages where the villagers sat huddled, and frightened. Dengal cast a strange look at his captain, in his mind he wondered if this man could be running for safety. He had thought Éomer a busybody when he interfered in his own relationship with Éowyn but a coward; Never!

Éomer turned to him abruptly, "Dengal I shall need your help, and your help also good sir. Both of you search the nearby stables and cowherds for anything that will break or make a fair amount of noise: pots, dishes, spoons… Whatever you can find and bring it here." he commanded quickly and stopped in front of the cowering villagers.

"Proud people aid us, do not let the wild men burn your homes or steal your horses. Do not let your sons die upon the grass where they were born any longer. The Dunlendings will soon realize that we are not as many as we first made them believe, but perhaps we can trick them again! Will you aid us? Come stand in line those who are willing…"

Dengal rummaged through the dark house, which he recognized as the one they had slept in. He gathered all the crockery he could find and hurried out of the house laying it in a pile near Éomer's feet, there were many woman and children waiting to receive the items. He did not understand why his captain was doing this, but he obeyed nonetheless.

Éomer's mind raced as he handed pots and spoons, dishes and washing basins, to the women and children of the village. He told each in turn where to go, dividing them into three groups which Dengal, the village man (of whom he realized had still not given his name) and he could oversee. He whispered in the man's ear and the man nodded, leading his band of ragtag soldiers carrying all numbers of things as silently as possible to their position.

Before long he found himself joined by a few more riders to whom he told his plan and gave into their charge more villagers, soon they had surrounded the main group of Dunlendings. Éomer raised his hand, already shaking with anxiety, and then dropped it yelling with all his might and banging his sword upon his breastplate.

His voice was indiscernible among the loud noises that ensued. Crockery broke upon the ground, spoons beat upon pots and Dengal's battle horn could be heard sounding with deafening fervor. They yelled and shouted and screamed, the children shriek and high, the men low and fervent, the women's tones mixed, but oft resembling the sound of wild cats when their litters are threatened.

He was able to strike down the few that had tried to break the circle near him, but within the trap screams of terror were heard and many of the wild men were falling upon their own swords and killing each other in the confusion. The enemy had been utterly vanquished. The few that had escaped had done so with mortal wounds.

Dawn had almost arrived; it seemed delayed, waiting until they had finished the confrontation to come. Golden rays stretching over the horizon meekly, as if to make sure that the battle was over.

Éomer sat quietly, examining himself with a smile. He had wondered what made the villagers cringe in fear as he had spoken to them. He was quite a grisly site, stained with blood, especially Dæcer's, and his exposed skin covered in the soot from the fires which were now dwindling under the watchful gaze of the villagers.

Dengal took a seat near him, removing his helmet with a sigh. "This will indeed be a story to tell to the court. Though perhaps I should tell it, the cleverness of your plan will surely be blown out of proportion if you are the storyteller," he said with a quiet laugh, wincing, the action irritating his bruised rib cage.

Éomer nodded as he finished wrapping his cut arm, a result of his tumble off his horse. So many had died, and yet there would be more if his plan had not worked. Among the dead was the brave villager man who had turned out to be Hyrde's own son and Sceotan, who had been only a year older than Éomer, and had left behind a wife, heavy with child.

He looked up and stood quickly as a group of the villagers approached, Hyrde leading them his arm bandaged. "My lord, on behalf of the people of this village, we wish to thank you. Your courage saved our village."

Éomer shook his head quickly, "I would have to disagree sir, and it was all of you who saved your own village. I only led you, the thanks indeed you owe to your own lungs," he answered with a slight laugh.

"That may be so, but you and your men sacrificed much to save us. And I wish to give you this horse, as payment for your help in our time of need. It is the finest among my herd and will serve you well. His name is Brynefot for he is swift of foot." Hyrde explained holding forth the reins of a horse.

Brynefot was fifteen hands, and an unusual dark, dappled grey over most of his body except for his head where the spots became mere specks and the white of his coat shone forth. His mane was silvery grey and his eyes keen, and true. Éomer could indeed believe that he was the finest among the village's horses.

He pondered for a moment, unwilling to except so great a gift, but sure that refusal would seem an insult to the herder's dignity, he stepped forward and bowed to Hyrde, "I will accept your gift with thanks Hyrde. For it will remind me of the great valor of this small horse-fold which can boast of the courage of its people among the finest cities of the land."

Éomer answered with great reverence and took the reins of the horse softly rubbing his nose. The horse nudged his shoulder lightly, as if in response.

Éomer nodded again to the villagers while mounted on Brynefot when they took their leave the next morning, after helping to sort through the damage that had been done. Families whose houses had been destroyed were welcomed in other homes and soon all would be set to right once more. They would come to Edoras near nightfall, and Éomer now felt his heart turned toward the great hall, with the hope that no great treachery had occurred while he was gone and the snake had been out from under his gaze.

Note:

Hey all, thanks for all your reviews! I know the age jump last time confused a couple of you, but I'm in the midst of an editing process so hopefully that transition will be more understandable after I do that, thank you all for reading! I'll try to respond next time to any questions.

Only one more thing "Brynefot" means Fire foot in old English the language Tolkien used for the Rohirrim, if you look in Two Towers it's the name of his horse, so I decided to put him in here, though Dæcer didn't die just for that reason, it was a hard decision I'd grown quite fond of the little guy, in old English æcer means fields so I just added a d and it looked cool. If you want to know the meaning of any other names just ask! If you didn't know eoh means horse and mer means renown so Éomer basically means one renowned in horses. (info on his name from the TT extended version special features)

If anyone is a real Old English expert, I'm sorry if I've totally ruined the language I have been using an online dictionary, if there are any suggestions feel free to suggest!