Prologue: Meduseld Library

"Fist met skull, and fist won out. The Dunlanding died on his feet. Head misshapen, blade not drawn. He could not match our greatest King. Helm Hammerhand withdrew in haste, he vanished in the snow. White cloak hid him, cold wind howled. The blizzard roared and raged. Foemen charged, the King to seek, but tracks filled as they formed. Like a wraith, Helm stalked the night, the foe pursued in vain. At last they fled, burdened with dead. Yet wind blew on, snow ever swirled. The night closed in. And lo: a horn. Its brazen call their hearts did freeze."

"Does Helm win?" little Widmud blurted, unable to help himself.

"He's Helm!" Deor said, offended. "Nobody could beat–"

"Shush!" Fastred hissed. "Let Leobane read."

The scholar's apprentice smiled, clearly pleased with the engagement of his audience.

"The Dunlend warband dropped their dead, turning toward the sound. They readied arms, their fear they fought, but in their hearts they knew their doom. The wind still howled, the air still bit, and from the dark his horn still blew. They huddled then, for strength and warmth, with hope and dread their watch did keep. A shift, a cry! As one they turned. Their strongest lay there, stark and still. His skull did split, his flesh soon froze. No glimpse they caught of vengeful Helm."

"See!" Deor shouted, triumphant. "Nobody could beat Hammerhand!"

"Sorry," Widmud whispered. "I didn't mean to doubt–"

"I said shush!" Fastred insisted. "If even one bad guy's still alive, this story's not over."

Haleth chuckled. "You're right about that. Our ninth King never even needed a weapon."

Leobane raised an eyebrow, and the candlelight gave him an air of mystique that he never could have carried off in the light of day. A skinny youth who spent long hours with books and scrolls, he was easily ignored by most of the children of Edoras. But in this room, among these friends, he was master. And all five of them loved a good story. The other boys in Edoras had for a time dismissed their group as "the Readers." But the five of them had proudly owned that title, and the other boys had long since grown past such taunts. "May I continue?"

Deor, Leobane, Fastred, and even Haleth nodded in unison. Haleth might be son of the Guard Captain, but Leobane was their lord of words. Smiling, he resumed.

"The night dragged on, the snows grew fierce. One by one Dunlandings fell. They could not see, they could not hear, but Helm was never far. His fist would strike, a life would end, eventually they all would die. He crept and struck and hid again. Like a snow troll hunting prey. Until at last, there stood but three, their dead lay scattered far behind."

"Does he really need to kill all of them?" Widmud whispered, sounding scared on behalf of the Dunland survivors.

"They slew his sons," Deor insisted. "He will avenge them!"

"Haleth and Hama," Fastred whispered, sounding sad. "His sons were named Haleth and Hama…"

For a moment, all turned to Haleth. But the oldest of the Readers just smiled and shrugged. "I was named after a different Haleth. Not the son of Helm, but the daughter of Haldad. She commanded women and children during a seven day siege. Their valor impressed a son of Feanor." But they already knew this, and Fastred still looked worried. So Haleth added: "And my father… well… He'd be proud to meet his end with the courage of Hama Helmson."

For a moment, the five boys fell silent. Just a week ago, such words would not have caused pain. But now? With Saruman waging war, with Prince Theodred's army destroyed…

Widmud looked more despondent than the story warranted. "Keep going, Leobane. I'm sorry I made a scene." As much as they wished to lose themselves in the past, the outside world weighed heavily upon them. Gandalf Greyhame was in the city, the traitorous counselor Grima was banished, and there was talk of escalating conflict. A boy had arrived with his sister, bearing tidings of woe. The Westfold burned. Hundreds were slain, maybe thousands.

Though they all wanted peace, war might soon hunt them down.

"I'll continue," Leobane said. He turned the page, but as he did so it was clear there was a loose leaf. Far newer, and a different shade, this page didn't belong. But no one said anything. Many times before, Leobane had "enhanced" a book he knew they'd ask him to read. The other boys had an unspoken rule that they'd never call him out. Though his style was easy to detect, they always pretended they didn't notice the difference.

"A white figure slashed in from the night, silent and swift. The closest Dunlanding barely turned in time to swing his axe, but not in time to aim! Without uttering a sound, Helm's right fist smashed the man's elbow, and bone split. The axe flew past Helm's face, shaving a few grey hairs from his beard. Then the axeman died. Helm's left hand smashed his foe's forehead, hurling him into the others!"

All four of the listeners leaned in. While they knew Leobane's additions were less accurate, and hardly poetic, they loved the extra detail.

"One man fell under the weight of the corpse, while the other managed to sidestep and keep his footing. He drew an arrow, taking aim, but a bitter terror gripped him. Helm came on, eyes cold and dead, a bereaved father and King of a besieged, starving people. The archer's hand shook from terror and cold, and his target twisted and lunged. The arrow went wild, vanishing into the night, and no man could nock another in the time that remained. Helm reached his panicked foe, and his left fist struck. The bowman collapsed with his chest stoved in! Only one remained..."

Widmud looked frightened, Fastred was awestruck, and Deor ate up every word. Haleth smiled hugely, eager for more, and Leobane couldn't hide his satisfaction. He clearly loved it when they enjoyed his writing, though he too played their game and never owned up to it. The Readers were fully engaged, and for a short while, the wider world was forgotten.

"The last of the foemen struggled to his feet, having shoved aside his fallen ally. He snatched up his greatsword, raising it high, and the weapon was longer than Helm was tall. Undaunted, the King ducked and rolled, scattering snow, and snatching a fallen foe. The man he'd slain with a punch to the chest, he now lifted and threw! The last of the enemy panicked and swung, his great blade biting into the corpse, but never could he have cloven all the way through. The body struck him, and he toppled to the snow. He couldn't free his sword in time, and the fist of Helm Hammerhand descended in wrath!"

"Whoa…" Widmud whispered.

"Soooooo gooooood…" Fastred said.

"Nobody could ever match Helm," Deor declared.

"I wish we still had him to defend us," Haleth added.

For a moment, the five boys again fell silent, for those words brought the current crisis back to their minds. But then Haleth shook his head and whispered, "Sorry, Leobane. Please keep going."

With a clumsy attempt at sleight of hand, Leobane slid aside the loose page of his own writing. Everyone pretended they didn't notice, and he finished the chapter.

"Night after night, week after week, Helm crept and stalked and slew. The winds still howled, the snow still fell, and ever more the corpses froze. Until at last, his strength was spent. His grief too great, the famine stark. His aging body breathed its last, his duty done and sons avenged. Helm Hammerhand, wraith of night, succumbed, and slew no more. A thousand men lay dead and cold. The Dunland armies weak and spare. When Helm's people sortied forth, and sought their lord to find, the King stood tall, his hands in fists, frozen as a statue proud. And whenever now his horn we sound, the enemies of Rohan quail. His fortress stands, his people thrive, his songs we sing down to this day."

"So… epic…" Fastred whispered, barely able to breathe.

"No one could ever match him," Haleth said.

"And his fortress is still the mightiest in Rohan," Deor said with a smile.

Widmud's voice was very small, and quiet. "I'm still sad he died."

"All men die," Leobane said sagely, trying to sound just a bit regal. "Each of us, we five, will die. What matters is how and why… and what we lived for. Who we lived for."

Haleth and Deor nodded at that. But Widmud and Fastred were far younger, and they weren't the trained sons of soldiers. Such words often left them quiet, morose, and thoughtful.

After a moment, Leobane tried to lighten the mood. "Our King is a great man, and so is Haleth's father. Rohan has suffered losses, but we will win in the end. Gandalf Greyhame is here, and his companions are mighty warriors. All will be well." He turned back to the book. "And since our duties were canceled today, we could start the next chapter. The Second Line of Kings began with Helm's nephew, Frealaf–"

His words were cut off by a shout from outside. Hama, Haleth's father and Captain of the Guard, bellowed out his announcement for all to hear: "By order of the King, the city must empty! We make for the refuge of Helm's Deep!"

Chapter 1: Recruits

Helm's Deep - Four Days Later

"I want every man and strong lad, able to bear arms, to be ready for battle by nightfall."

Widmud spun toward the alarming words. Sure enough, that had come from King Theoden himself. The King made his way toward the main gate, followed by the hero Aragorn. His companions, the elf and the dwarf, followed close behind. But Widmud kept his eyes on Gamling, the King's attendant, who had taken the place of the fallen Hama. The grim bodyguard began quietly spreading the word among the other soldiers.

Battle by nightfall? So it still isn't over? Little Widmud's legs ached from days of marching. The entire population of Edoras had been forced to abandon their homes, seeking the protection of Helm's Deep. Shortly before arriving, the citizens had been ordered to hurry on ahead, while their King and soldiers fought off an army.

So many had died. Haleth and Leobane had both lost their fathers in that battle, and Fastred lost his uncle. With so much struggle, death, and pain, Widmud had hoped they were finally out of danger. Helm's Deep meant protection and safety.

He'd been wrong.

There's going to be another battle… It sounds like even some of the boys will have to fight this time.

Widmud was only seven, though he looked a bit older. He certainly couldn't be called strong. He doubted he'd be asked to fight. Still, many others might have to. Some of the older boys he looked up to actually were strong. And for the first time, Widmud wished they weren't, because now, some of them might have to die.

Fastred was almost as young as him, so he should be safe. But the other Readers…

Deor trained his body fiercely, and his father taught him to fight. Leobane was tall for fourteen, and more importantly he understood tactics. And Haleth? He'll surely have to fight. Though fair of face and of voice, Haleth was far stronger than most knew. He'd also handled weapons since he could walk.

And there were other boys Widmud didn't know as well. Some were old enough to fight, and Widmud feared for them. He especially thought of Eothain, the boy from the Westfold, which now lay in ruins. That brave young farmer had escaped a bloody raid, getting his sister to safety and bringing vital tidings to Edoras. Eothain had even spoken with the King and Lady Eowyn. All the children of Edoras now looked up to him as something of a war hero. But now he might have to fight in a battle. He'd lost his home, and his friends. He and his sister had just been reunited with their mother, whom they'd feared dead. It felt so unfair that he might immediately be asked to risk his life. He clearly wasn't the sort to refuse.

How did everything get so bad so fast?

Saruman the White had been friendly to Rohan for centuries. Many of Leobane's books spoke highly of him. He'd even attended the coronation of Hammerhand's nephew, bringing gifts and swearing support. And now he served Sauron. Thousands were already dead, and he still wasn't done with them.

Just a week ago, Widmud and the other Readers hadn't a care in the world. True, they had their duties and chores. Widmud's job as a stableboy was filthy. Fastred's woodcutting was hard. Deor and Haleth trained daily for combat. But all five of them were proud to do their part. And they'd been free to spend most of their evenings together.

Oh how Widmud longed for that. With darkness closing in, with the threat of battle looming, he would have given anything for one more session of quiet reading. It would have been his turn to choose the book. He liked scary stories about orcs, wolves, and trolls, because listening to them made him feel brave. Fastred loved tales of simple farmers, woodsmen, or craftsmen, who still did great deeds when chance came. Deor always wanted to hear stories of Helm's Deep, the great fortress where they now sheltered. Haleth enjoyed tales of his ancient namesake, and the brave children who fought under her command.

And Leobane? He loved stories of elves. He knew more about them than anyone except his master, Aldor. Every time it was Leobane's turn to choose the story, he made sure elves were part of it.

And here, in this fortress, a Prince of the elves followed the mighty hero Aragorn.

For a little while, Widmud forgot the frightening news of the battle they might face at nightfall. He wandered the fortress, looking for the elf, Legolas. He would ask him to speak with Leobane. If he agreed, it might just be the best day of his friend's life. As he searched, Widmud passed his older brother, Brytta. Only twelve years old, and not very strong, Widmud hoped he wouldn't be asked to fight. His brother wanted so very much to be brave.

Then he heard a voice from the walltop nearby. It was the Lord Aragorn, heir of Gondor, and his words froze Widmud's heart.

"They do not come to destroy Rohan's crops or villages, they come to destroy its people, down to the last child!"

Widmud leaned against the wall, shocked. Not just another battle… Saruman wanted to kill everyone?

Quiet and close by, the boy could just make out his King's whispered words. "What would you have me do? Look at my men. Their courage hangs by a thread. If this is to be our end, then I would have them make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance!"

No… that can't be right. This can't really be our end… In this mighty fortress, with our King, our warriors, and Heroes from distant lands… surely we can win, even if some of us die.

Aragorn didn't give up. "Send out riders, my Lord! You must call for aid."

"And who will come?" the King whispered, so quiet Widmud could barely hear. "Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead."

The King sounded so hopeless. So certain of their defeat. He really means it…. He thinks we'll die.. Widmud felt so cold, so empty. None of Leobane's stories had ever made him feel a tenth so scared and lost.

"Gondor will answer," Aragorn said. But he didn't sound convinced, and the suggestion only made Theoden angry.

"Gondor? Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gon–" The King cut himself off. When he whispered again, his anger had been replaced with quiet certainty. "No, my Lord Aragorn. We are alone."

Numb, Widmud began to feel dizzy. This could be the end... Maybe I should want the older boys to fight. Maybe I should fight too. If it's as bad as the King fears, we'll need every sword, no matter how weak the hands that hold them…

Determined and proud, the King strode toward the door to the Great Hall. Gamling approached and followed. "Get the women and children into the caves," Theoden commanded.

Gamling hurried to keep up. "We need more time to lay provisions for a siege–"

"There is no time! War is upon us!"

Crows circled and cawed high above, while thoughts and fears swirled within Widmud. On shaky legs, he sought out Fastred, so they could volunteer together.

Sad and afraid, Leobane marched through the caves in something like a trance. The glittering caverns were beautiful, but he couldn't appreciate it right now. Hundreds of men, women, boys, and girls now moved through the caves, carrying possessions and supplies. Leobane looked with longing at families that still had the father. So many no longer did. Leobane's own father, an archer of the Edoras garrison, had died during the warg attack. Along with so many others, including the beloved Hama, who hadn't even been given a chance to fight. Leobane had sat, huddled with his grandmother and little brother, grieving in silence…

Right up until the order was given to relocate to the caves.

Battle was mere hours away. The enemy wasn't done with them. All of their losses thus far might mean little compared to what was to come.

Though not at all strong, Leobane carried most of his family's possessions, making things easier for little Leowell and his dear grandmother. Heruhild had already lost her husband and her daughter-in-law in the last two years. Now she was without her son.

Leobane suspected she might soon lose a grandson as well.

But not both. Not. Both.

Trying to keep a brave face, Leobane helped his family find a place amidst the crowded refugees. Every man he saw, including the very old, had a grim, resigned look about them. Soon, they would all make ready for battle.

As he'd expected, Leobane saw a soldier approaching with a look of profound regret. The man leaned close, and whispered into his ear. "Say farewell to your family, lad. We'll be heading to the armory soon, and this could be your only chance." The soldier moved on to cousin Herubane, likely with the same advice.

So little time left… Leobane thought, as he knelt down and tried to cheer up his little brother. Fourteen years of learning, growing, and experiencing the world. Hopes, dreams, loss, and friendship. This night could easily be his last.

And it would certainly be very hard and painful either way.

Little Leowell managed to smile briefly, as Leobane pointed out some of the more beautiful rock formations and crystals. He hugged his brother close, trying not to show his fear. He then turned to his grandmother, thanking her for her love and support. For helping to raise them after his mother died. As he spoke, he saw the growing fear in her eyes. She knew what he meant. What he wasn't saying.

Then a gentle hand came to rest on Leobane's shoulder.

That's it… Time's up…. "Take care of Leowell."

With that, Leobane allowed himself to be led away, noticing that Herubane wasn't far behind.

The soldier was kind, reassuring, and respectful. He thanked Leobane for his courage. For his willingness.

They fell in line with a steady stream of men and boys, heading back the way they had come. Marching toward the Hornburg. Marching toward battle.

So many of these men were old. They had lived their life in service of Rohan. They had worked so hard for so long. And now they were ready to give everything they had left. He saw Aldor among them. Leobane had apprenticed to the old scholar since he was three. Tonight, the thoughtful, educated man would join the fight. There was a wiry strength in those old arms, and he'd been a wall guard in his youth.

And among those brave old men, and the fathers who'd never held a weapon, there were some smaller figures. As expected, Leobane saw that the well-trained Haleth and the heroic Eothain had been chosen. His cousin Herubane tried and failed to hide his fear. All three of them were older and stronger than Leobane. But some of the others…

No… All five of the Readers are here? There they were. Thirteen-year-old Deor, eight-year-old Fastred, even seven-year-old Widmud. His entire circle of friends, to whom he'd read countless stories, had been chosen to fight. Leobane's initial fear for them quickly blossomed and grew. Everyone might be in the worst danger. Children as young as Fastred and Widmud would never be allowed to fight unless the odds were beyond extreme.

The boy took one last look over his shoulder. Grandma Heruhild had never looked so old as she did right then. She hugged little Leowell so close, the boy more precious than ever. He burned that image into his mind. For them, he would do anything.

If he, and his dear, brave friends, perished this night, it would be worth it, if all of their families survived.

He turned his eyes forward.

He may not be strong. He may not be brave. But he had answered the call, and he must not back down.

The long line of soldiers, fathers, old men, and boys made their way into the Hornburg armory. All but one looked scared, sad, or resigned. Only his friend Deor looked excited and eager. Perhaps for him, the prospect of defending this legendary fortress was a dream come true. He might genuinely not be afraid.

Leobane wished he could think the same way. But his thoughts went back to Widmud and Fastred. The men of Rohan deeply believed in valor and honor. They would gladly lay down their lives to protect boys so young. So if they were instead arming those boys…

The King knows it's better for us to fight than to hide. He's a good man, a compassionate ruler. He would absolutely keep us away from the fighting if there were any chance he could do so and still win. But he thought back to Widmud's words, whispered to him just before the order to move the families to the caves. This could be our end. If so, we must make an end worthy of remembrance… The Readers knew many tales of brave souls making such an end, fighting to their last breath when they knew victory was impossible. By the end of the night, Leobane and his friends might be part of such a story, if any lived to tell the tale.

Soldiers and attendants had done their best to prepare the armory, organizing equipment and taking inventory. Leobane's eyes passed over armor, helmets, shields, bows, swords, spears, and axes. He'd read countless stories of famous battles. He'd studied treatises on the use of such gear. But he'd never held a weapon, let alone trained with one.

If I fought a single orc, I doubt I'd survive. And by all accounts, Saruman's Uruk-hai are far more dangerous. If it comes down to it, I may not be able to do anything more than take an arrow for a real soldier.

As weapons and armor began to be issued to the new conscripts, Leobane turned his attention to the boys among the group, forcing himself to feel proud rather than sad. We're not soldiers. We can't match the strength of real men. But we're here anyway. If we'd begged to stay behind, the King would have allowed it. We didn't.

Leobane reached deep within himself, and fought to turn his fear into pride.

We are sons of Rohan. We will not cower.

This is the best day of my life! I get to defend Helm's Deep, the mightiest fortress of Rohan! I'll get to see our warriors in action, while the forces of Saruman break on our walls!

Deor, son of the veteran soldier Fendor, had eagerly volunteered to fight. The first of the new recruits to reach the armory, he knew what gear he'd look for.

He could sense the melancholy of the others, so he tried to hide his excitement as he put on his steel cap and hooded chainmail. In all of his books about this place, Leobane proved that this fortress can't fall. If everyone else just remembered that, they wouldn't have to be so scared. Tonight's total victory is really gonna surprise 'em all, and things can start going back to normal.

"I'll take that shield," he said to the soldier sorting through them. "It's for a left-handed fighter, right?"

The man looked Deor up and down. "You're thirteen. Are you sure you can hold up a full-sized shield for as long as–"

"I can!" Deor held out his arm and flexed, but with his oversized armor you couldn't actually see any results. "My father taught me to train every day!" When wrestling back in Edoras, no boy his age could challenge him.

"Very well, lad. I'm glad both your heart and arm are prepared for battle."

Nodding, Deor hefted the shield, proud that its weight gave him no trouble. He looked around the increasingly crowded room. He'd find an arming sword, as he had the most experience with those.

He saw Haleth, putting on armor with a blank expression. Deor's excitement was immediately shaken, remembering how many of his friends had lost family in the warg attack, or even earlier at the Fords of Isen. He was now one of very few who still had both of his parents. That must be what has even the soldiers so disheartened. It's not fear, it's grief, and they're all trying to hide it.

Across the room, Leobane struggled into a coat of scale armor. Though a year older than Deor, the scholar's apprentice was all height and no breadth. He certainly wasn't strong for fourteen. But he'd also read how it's done. Sure enough, Leobane soon had it all sorted out. He removed his black woolen hat to accept a helmet. For the first time ever, the boy looked almost a man.

Smiling again, Deor continued to explore the armory, and he caught sight of Eothain. The boy from the Westfold was famous among the other children, having saved his sister and warned Edoras of the danger. A hardy farmer, Eothain accepted a shield and a spear without a word.

Then Deor saw Widmud and Fastred.

For a moment, Deor's confidence wavered. The two youngest Readers never could be considered soldier material. Just seven and eight years old, Deor genuinely couldn't believe they had been allowed to take up arms…

No, it can't be what it looks like. With everyone so upset, maybe the King just wants us all to take this seriously. If boys as young as those two are with us, the soldiers will fight like madmen to keep them safe. Yes, that must be it. Balgar's here too, and he's only nine. The King meant it when he asked for every boy who can hold a weapon. He doesn't expect them to fight, he just wants them on hand to keep the men at their best.

Just as he reached the area with most of the swords, Deor noticed three champions enter the room. Lord Aragorn observed everyone arming, as did his non-human companions. Deor's smile broadened when he noticed Leobane staring at the elf in awe. The dwarf was no taller than Deor, but the stocky fellow wore thicker armor, and carried heavier weapons, than any man of Rohan could bear.

Though they tried to keep their voices down, those three travelers still held Deor's attention. "Farmers, ferriers, stableboys," Aragorn said quietly. "These are no soldiers."

"Most have seen too many winters," Gimli said.

"Or too few," Legolas added.

Their words were true, but they still pained Deor. Young or old, trained or not, they all deserved respect.

The eyes of the elf seemed to penetrate everyone he looked upon, as if he could see into their hearts. When he spoke again, his words hurt. "Look at them. They're frightened. I can see it in their eyes."

Everyone knew the insight of elvenkind exceeded that of men, and for a moment the entire room fell silent and still. Seeing the attention given him, Legolas switched to his own language as he continued to speak. "Boe a hûn… neled herain… dan caer menig!" Not even Leobane or Aldor could speak Elvish, but everyone could recognize fervor in the elf's voice.

Aragorn looked conciliatory as he replied. "Si beriathar hýn. Amar nâ ned Edoras."

As he spoke, Legolas grew more passionate, even angry. "Aragorn, men i ndagor. Hýn ú ortheri. Natha daged aen!"

"Then I shall die as one of them!"

Aragorn's words, spoken with such intensity and conviction, took the elf aback. Clearly, neither of them had expected Aragorn to slip back into the common tongue. With a mixture of shame and anger, Aragorn left the room.

Legolas moved to follow him, but Gimli held the elf back. "Let'im go lad. Let'im be."

Slowly, everyone resumed arming. The outburst hadn't changed the expressions of the men and boys, and Deor began to worry. Is it true then? Is everyone genuinely afraid? Does even Aragorn expect us to lose?

Across the room, a soldier placed a helmet on little Widmud's head. It was way too big for him. Fastred fearfully accepted an axe. It was a good choice for a woodsman's son, especially since he'd taken over that role when his father died two years before. But he'd certainly never swung an axe in anger. Leobane and Haleth each accepted bow and sword, though Haleth's bow was much more powerful. Everyone looked afraid, lost, sad, or some mix of all three.

Even if they're all wrong to be scared, even if they've forgotten how strong this fortress is… their feelings are still real. They're showing true courage, even if it shouldn't be needed. He resolved in his heart that he would not belittle any of them. Their fear was misplaced, but they still deserved his respect. I suppose it'll be my job to cheer them up. Tonight, they'll get to be part of a glorious victory. I'll help them get in the mood to enjoy it.

Deor accepted a sword with a belt designed for a left-handed fighter. While no one else seemed to realize it, tonight would be their finest hour.

Balancing the weight of his two-handed axe, Fastred marched from the armory into the cold night air. By all accounts, it wouldn't be long before the enemy arrived, and they needed to make ready.

Part of Fastred felt utterly lost and overwhelmed. He was only eight, and grownups said he looked even younger. But the soldiers knew he was much stronger than he looked, hardened by long hours chopping and hauling logs. So Fastred chose to let the other part of his mind win out. Rather than give in to fear, or be dragged down by the sadness of the men, he would choose to be proud. Soldiers believed he was worthy to help. Of all the boys given that honor, only Widmud was younger. So tonight, he would view himself as a soldier of Rohan. Whatever happened, he must… not… fear…

Up ahead, his cousin Gleowine listened to Aldor the scholar. Gleowine's father had died in the warg attack, and Fastred could see the ten-year-old struggle to stay focussed on the old man's words.

Grimleth stood nearby. The boy was chubby, but he was also strong. He held his spear with casual ease, and his calm reassured Fastred. Grimleth's father had been an elite rider under Prince Theodred, but that entire army had been destroyed at the Fords of Isen. Since then, Grimleth had pulled himself back up from his grief. Now, he looked less afraid than most. Maybe he's made the same choice as me. Being proud to help feels way better than being scared.

A short distance away, Fastred saw that Haleth was speaking with Lord Aragorn. The mighty warrior flourished Haleth's sword. By rights, the boy should have inherited his father's fine blade, but that had been left behind after the chaos of the warg attack. Aragorn eyed Haleth's chipped and rusted weapon, looking past its age and focusing on its design and balance. Then his expression lightened, and he handed it back. Placing his hand on the orphan's shoulder, Aragorn spoke words that Fastred was finally close enough to hear. "This is a good sword, Haleth son of Hama. There is always hope."

With that, the heir of Gondor confidently strode back toward the armory. Haleth watched the great man go, only turning when Fastred greeted him. Haleth was the oldest of the Readers, and Hama had trained him well. Fastred had always looked up to him. Wanted to be him. Looking down into Fastred's eyes, Haleth managed a small smile.

Fastred whispered, "This'll be the most important night of our lives. Won't it."

"Yes," Haleth answered softly. "And with men like Aragorn fighting alongside us, maybe there is hope." Side by side, they walked back toward the nearest fire. "I'm proud of you Fastred. You could've refused to—"

"Actually, Widmud convinced me to volunteer," Fastred said quietly. "You should be more proud of him."

The last of the conscripts were now armed, and commands began circulating. They started assembling into three companies, sorted by age. The King addressed the largest group, composed of the oldest youths and the men who weren't too far past their prime. The fifty oldest men stood together in another group. They were receiving orders from Erkendor, the highborn Elite Rider serving as the King's new advisor.

Soon, Fastred stood among the youngest of those deemed able to fight. Besides the Readers, the Westfolder Eothain, and Grimleth, there were five others in the smallest group. Balgar and Ceorl, stableboys that worked with Widmud, both looked more than a little afraid. Deor was trying to cheer them up with stories of valor and glory. Widmud's older brother, Brytta, helped the younger boy to properly adjust the scabbard of his longsword. Widmud couldn't manage anything heavier, and its two-handed grip meant he could wield it more easily. Herubane asked his cousin Leobane for advice on best using a bow. The scholar's apprentice had never fired one, but at least he'd read up about it. He freely gave advice to any who asked.

Fastred though, focussed on his own cousin for the moment. Gleowine fought back tears, as the fear and pressure made it very hard for him to contain his grief. Before the warg attack, his father had been all that remained of his family. Fastred did his best to help his cousin cope, but he'd never been good with words.

It all suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. Simply choosing not to be scared didn't make it easy. Not at all.

Gamling, the King's attendant, addressed the small group. "You twelve are the youngest to answer the call. Some of you even came to us. Thank you.

He paused, but only briefly. "Earlier, I told our King that his men would follow him no matter what. I included you in that. You may be boys, who deserve peace and safety. But here you are, armed, ready, and willing to fight. You will defend your mothers, sisters, and little brothers. Young you may be, but tonight… you are also men."

These words filled Fastred with a warm glow, beating back the chill of the night. Looking around, he saw that most of the other boys stood taller than before, and they held their weapons with more confidence. Despite their youth, Fastred could see it. For just tonight, they were soldiers. It felt good to be one of them.

"You are sons of Rohan," Gamling continued. "Right now, you stand. But if we break, if we run, the enemy will reach the caves. In that event, Lady Eowyn is prepared to lead your mothers and sisters in battle. They will fight with all the courage, valor, and honor of Rohan. They will give it everything they have."

Gamling paused, longer this time, allowing the agonizing weight of that thought to sink in. To tear at them, exposing their very core, so they could look upon their deepest selves. Fastred could tell that each of them liked what they found there.

Gamling then built them back up even stronger. "I know you will not let that happen. Whatever comes, whatever the enemy throws at us, you will not break! Fight for our people! Fight for each other! We may yet see dawn."

The weight of dread prevented the boys from actually cheering, but they all held their heads high.

Deor took that chance to speak up. "Helm's Deep has never fallen while men defended it! Now we are counted among such men! All of Rohan will sing of this night!"

"Well spoken," Gamling said softly, managing a smile. Then he grew stern. "Soon, you'll all be assigned to your posts. Many of you will be split up, dispersed among squads with more experienced men. Most of you are untrained, but follow their lead. Within this fortress, we'll have a great advantage over our foes. Their strength matters far less when measured against these stones. If you are ordered to–"

A horn sounded in the distance. A bold, beautiful call, the like of which Fastred had never heard.

"Fendor, watch over these men," Gamling said, hurrying toward the King. Theoden had been addressing the largest group of new recruits, but now he turned toward the sound of that horn.

A call from the walltop reached their ears, with news that lightened the gloom. "Open the gate! Help has arrived! Warriors of Lorien have come to our aid!"

From the Author:

The Story Description is a quote from the old BBC Radio Play, which is certainly worth a listen if you can get access to it.

I put together a file of the relevant character images from the film. If you want to see it, use the Private Message feature. I can send you a link to view.

Be aware: Actually seeing the characters may make the events of the story more painful.

And that might just be good for you.