The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part Three: Terms
Book Two
By: WhiteLadyOfTroy
Summary:
The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.
About the Trilogy:
I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. The Fellowship of the Ring had two books within the text, as did The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. That was divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where The Fellowship of the Ring started. Terms will be divided into two books.
About Chapter Fifteen:
As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Most of the scenes in this chapter are going to be based on the book, though there are obviously things I had to make up because we do not know much about this stage of the journey. My apologies for the horrendously boring fourteenth chapter; unfortunately, those things must be explained, no matter how tedious. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.
Chapter Fifteen
Gúthwyn ducked to avoid a low branch above her head, and as she did so she became aware of a growing light. Looking up, she saw that the trees had broken their lines and opened up to a stony valley. She breathed a sigh of relief: For the entire day, Ghân-buri-Ghân had led the Rohirrim through the thick, dark Druadan Forest, accompanied by a guard of Wild Men. She had not seen them, because they were scouting far ahead for signs of the Enemy, but they were still there.
Now, all of the Riders were emerging into what was known as the Stonewain Valley. Before them was a smaller wood, not part of the forest that they had just left. This would be their last protection; afterwards, they would leave the cover of the trees, abandon all thoughts of secrecy, and ride hard to the aid of Minas Tirith. Tomorrow, as the dawn rose over the lands, the White City would be in their sights.
But for now, all was dark. It had been so for the entire day, or perhaps it was merely the forest that blocked the sun's light. Yet she had wrapped both Borogor and Chalibeth's cloaks around her against the unseemly darkness, shivering in it as she guided Heorot through the trees. Several times, she had even wondered if the disappearance of the sun was some contrivance of the Enemy.
Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn noticed Éowyn surreptitiously guiding Windfola closer to the king, hoping to hear what he was saying to Ghân-buri-Ghân. Merry remained unnoticed: Éowyn took care to keep out of her uncle's sight. As of now, the leader of the Wild Men was squatting low to the ground, reporting the tidings of his folk to Théoden.
The two sisters came within hearing range as Ghân-buri-Ghân said, "Walls stand up no longer: gorgûn knock them down with earth-thunder and with clubs of black iron."
Gúthwyn's mouth thinned. Boromir, in a time that seemed years long past, had told her that Minas Tirith was guarded by more than just the walls of its city. There was an outer wall, known as the Rammas Echor, which was in the northwest ten miles from the gates. With Gondor's declining people, it was no surprise that the Orcs had overwhelmed the guard at this defense.
"They are unwary," Ghân-buri-Ghân continued, his face contorting as he spoke of Sauron's forces, "and do not look about them. They think their friends watch all roads!" Then he made a curious noise with his throat; it took Gúthwyn several seconds to figure out that he was laughing.
There was a light in Éomer's eyes as he exclaimed, "Good tidings! Even in this gloom hope gleams again. Our Enemy's devices oft serve us in his despite."
Unexpectedly, Gúthwyn remembered the flight of the Fellowship from Moria. The Orcs had laid there a fire that was meant to cut off their escape before they reached the bridge, yet Gandalf had navigated them to the other side. Instead, it was the creatures, foiled by their own trap, who had been unable to pursue them out of the Mines.
The sound of Éomer speaking again withdrew her from her musings. "The accursed darkness itself has been a cloak to us. And now, lusting to destroy Gondor and throw it down stone from stone, his Orcs have taken away my greatest fear. The out-wall could have been held long against us."
He had a fair point. Gondor may not have been able to defend itself, but the Enemy was certainly able to do a far better job. Gúthwyn honestly had no idea how many Orcs Sauron had bred, as she had only once ventured beyond the bounds of the human encampment, though she could only imagine the numbers. Aragorn had estimated a hundred thousand, maybe even more.
For a brief moment, she thought of the Ranger. What had driven him to the madness of seeking out the Paths of the Dead, she did not know. Éowyn had not been able to turn him away from this folly, nor had Gúthwyn—admittedly, however, she had been more intent on berating him for what he had done to her sister. Yet he was not the only one who had partaken in this insanity. Legolas and Gimli had gone with him.
Once again, she repressed a shudder at the thought of the Elf. In this current darkness, he seemed more akin to Haldor than ever. Legolas had always been polite to her, moreso than she likely deserved, but every time their eyes met she remembered Haldor's far crueler ones.
"Kill gorgûn!" The cry startled her out of her thoughts, and Gúthwyn glanced over to see Ghân-buri-Ghân pounding his fist against the ground. As he did, Éomer's gaze traveled beyond the Wose and landed on her. Her brother did not recognize her, and soon returned his attention to the leader of the Wild Men, but her heart nearly failed her in that moment, so that she did not hear much of what was said after.
Soon, Ghân-buri-Ghân touched the ground between his feet, in some sort of farewell. He straightened, and was about to depart when he halted suddenly. His nose twitched as if he were smelling something; then, he cried, "Wind is changing!"
Gúthwyn barely had time to blink before he and the Wild Men had all vanished into the trees. To her, it seemed like the forest had devoured them whole, and she cringed to think of it. Swallowing hard, she looked at Éowyn.
Her sister's face was impassive and cold in that dark moment. The Rohirrim were now on their own, and whatever was to happen would be entirely of their own making.
Dawn had come. Pale rays of light shone onto the skeletal city of Gondor, once mighty in its glory and now ablaze with fire and ruin. Inside, the defenders were low on weaponry; they fought now using only their courage, and no hope had they left. In that hour, the Rohirrim arrived, cresting the broad hill to look upon the Pelennor Fields and the White City. Horns unnumbered heralded their approach, and their banners streamed in the early morning wind.
Gúthwyn felt the sun all around her as she caught her first glimpse of Minas Tirith, the place Boromir had spoken so highly of. Yet smoke shrouded much of it, and dark clouds hung about the walls. Her heart froze as a familiar winged shape passed over the city walls, a horrible faint wailing coming from its mouth. The Nazgûl had come to fulfill their master's orders, and by no means were they the lesser force.
Then her gaze, already quailed by the shrieking of the Black Riders and their steeds, fell upon the army that assailed Minas Tirith. What she had first assumed to be ash covering the ground she now realized were the Orcs. Nothing of the Pelennor Fields could she see, so many were there. It was easily over a hundred thousand. They stretched for over a mile wide and surrounded the entire city. The Rohirrim, with seven thousand cavalry, could not expect to save Gondor. She was lost, as were they. As were the children.
Éomund's youngest daughter felt a cold numbing sensation sweep through her, at the same time as the other Riders gazed upon the city and felt fear of the utmost kind freeze their hearts. Gúthwyn, her horse beside Éowyn's on the front line of this hopeless assault, saw her sister wrap a comforting arm around the terrified Hobbit before her.
"Courage, Merry," she heard her whisper. "Courage for our friends."
Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed. So it seemed that she had come to the one hitch in her plan that she could not get around. In that case, she decided, it was better to follow Éowyn's advice: She would go down fighting. Enough honor had she cast away in Haldor's bed. Now was the time for brave deeds with no reward, for a dark ending without a light to see it by.
So she watched, mustering all her strength, as the Orcs attempted to form ranks. A thin smile curled up her face. They were too hesitant. Those in the front would be swept away with as much ease as if a gigantic sea had emptied its waters onto them. She was beginning to feel adrenaline pulsing through her veins; before much time had passed, she would be slaying these creatures, their blood spattering onto her hands.
Théoden, Éomer, Gamling, Elfhelm, Grimbold, and other officers of high ranking stepped out from the lines. Her uncle's posture was firm and determined. He had seen the same daunting numbers as Gúthwyn, but like her he would not let them deter his attack.
"Éomer!" he called as he passed her brother. "Take your éored down the left flank!"
Gúthwyn barely had time to pray for Éomer's safety before he turned Firefoot around. "Flank ready!" he exclaimed.
"Gamling, follow the king's banner down the center!" Théoden ordered next. With a twinge of nervousness, she saw that Snowmane was drawing nearer to her and Éowyn. If their disguise was unveiled now, it did not much matter, for they would see combat no matter what, but she did not want to go into battle with their uncle's disappointment hanging over her head.
Théoden checked his horse then, and rode close to Grimbold. "Grimbold! Take your company right after you pass the wall."
Grimbold did not say a word, but wheeled his horse around to do the king's bidding. After his officers, Théoden declared, "Forth! And fear no darkness!"
"Fear no darkness," Gúthwyn repeated to herself in the lowest voice possible. Even as she murmured those words, her hands shook violently. Yet it was not from terror of death: It was from excitement, even greater than it had been at Helm's Deep. Compared to this, that had been child's play.
"Arise!" Théoden urged, and Snowmane brought the king directly in front of her and Éowyn. "Arise, Riders of Théoden!"
Discreetly, Gúthwyn looked down, lest he should meet her gaze and know that it was her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Éowyn doing the same. Mercifully, their worries came to naught, and Théoden passed them by without a sign of recognition.
"Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered!" Théoden yelled, racing down the front lines of his people. Gúthwyn could feel the old battle lust within her reawakening, never truly dimmed but at this moment blazing keener than ever. Overhead, the sun streamed onto her uncle, making his armor burn gold and him seem like a god of war. None of the other leaders, not even her own brother, could hold a candle to his glory.
She watched with growing anticipation as Théoden continued. "A sword day, a red day, ere the sun rises!"
At his words, the Riders all held their spears before them. Gúthwyn followed suit; she did not know how to wield it, but soon she would abandon it in favor of the sword. For now, it was enough to be part of her people, to feel this thrill coursing through her blood and making her tremble with a strange glee.
A sudden clanging noise caught her attention, and glancing down the lines she saw her uncle riding back towards them. Herugrim shone in the morning light, gleaming coldly as it met the spears of the Riders. Ever Théoden drew closer to her. "Ride now!" he shouted as he went. "Ride now! Ride! Ride for ruin, and the world's ending!"
Nothing short of wild abandonment and exhilaration swept over Gúthwyn then, utterly destroying all other senses. As Théoden turned to face the Orcs, she realized that it was pride, the Rohan pride, that covered her in its joyous blanket. Hope may have been useless, but now it did not matter.
"Death!" Théoden yelled, raising his sword high above his head. The Riders echoed it after him, waving their spears in a frenzy for battle, ready to perish so valiantly that songs were made of their end. "Death!"
A grin of exaltation spread across her face, and on the third time that Théoden cried out she screamed "Death!" along with her people. She thought her heart would burst as the roars surrounded her, so loud that she could not even hear the clanking of armor. It would not be long now.
"Forth Eorlingas!" Théoden shouted, and in answer a hundred horns signaled for a charge. With his sword pointed at his foes, the king of Rohan began moving forward. Tumultuous cries resounded in the air as his people went after him, heeding not the danger that lay before them. Gúthwyn urged Heorot on, her face glowing with eagerness.
Glorious was the Ride of the Rohirrim to the defense of Gondor. Like an unstoppable tide they stormed upon the forces of Mordor in what was the greatest cavalry charge since the coming of Eorl the Young to the Field of Celebrant. Forth rode the king, and none could surpass him in his hour of bold deeds. Like a beacon of light Snowmane led them all, shining even amidst the darkness.
Never before had Gúthwyn experienced anything such as this, and she delighted in every second of it. They were closing in on the Orcs with ferocious intensity, and though some Riders were felled by the Enemy's archers, the effect was that of removing just a few blades of grass in a meadow. She gave a loud battle cry, raising her spear and preparing to throw it. So many were the Orcs that she could not possibly miss.
And then, the armies clashed. Gúthwyn released her spear, and it slammed into one of the Orcs. She hastily withdrew her sword, but for a moment she did not even need it: at first, the Enemy was mainly trampled by their horses. If an Orc did not perish under the feet of one, there were hundreds more behind it. They were already retreating when the blades of the Eorlingas began their deadly dance; as soon as the glittering swords were unveiled, it became a full rout.
Even over the carnage, Gúthwyn heard someone—Éomer?—crying, "Drive them to the river!"
Purpose enflamed her, and she wheeled Heorot around to obey the orders. All around her, the Rohirrim were doing the same. She had barely used her sword; more than eager was Framwine to sate his thirst.
"Make safe the city!" Théoden called. Gúthwyn roared along with the other men as they went to pursue the Orcs. But something was wrong. The Orcs were not, in fact, fleeing to the river.
A new sound came drifting towards her: Foreign chanting, unlike anything she had heard before. More than this, however, was what the Orcs were scrambling towards. Halting Heorot, Gúthwyn stared in amazement and shock. Through the smoke that engulfed the far end of the battlefield, gigantic shapes were emerging. In all her life, nothing had seemed so strange as that which she now beheld.
These were the Oliphaunts of legend, bred in the far reaches of Harad. Haldor had once taunted her, claiming that she was as slow to get dressed as a dying one was to move. At the time she had not known what they were, though she had later learned of them from Borogor. The creatures themselves were as big as hills, never mind the silk towers that had been constructed upon them. They were grey, with sharp rows of horns dangling from their noses. Only twenty or so were there, but, as Gúthwyn realized with a sinking heart, they would cause more than enough damage to the Rohirrim.
A long, piercing horn echoed over the Pelennor Fields, and it came to her that she recognized it from her days in Mordor. Haradrim troops had arrived by the hundreds each month, always sounding this call to signal their approach. The Easterlings used a different one. Gaping at them, Gúthwyn saw that the men rode on top of the Oliphaunts. She wondered if any of their faces would be familiar to her.
"Reform the line!" someone yelled, and she saw Théoden turning Snowmane around to command his men. "Reform the line!"
They hastened to obey his orders. Gúthwyn found herself towards the front of the ranks, though not as far forward as she would have liked. She chanced a glance around her, praying to see Éowyn. To her relief, she thought she saw her sister's hair spilling out from beneath a helmet. Éomer was beside the king, she knew, but what of Tun and Lebryn?
No matter now, she told herself sternly, and faced the Oliphaunts. Her adrenaline soared to the skies.
"Sound the charge!" Théoden ordered. "Take them head on!"
Next to her uncle, Gamling lifted a horn to his mouth and blew one loud, long note. The Rohirrim roared, preparing to meet this new challenge.
"Charge!" Théoden yelled, and Gúthwyn's horse reared up before racing towards the Haradrim. She vowed to slay one of the Oliphaunts, whom as a child she might have delighted in watching.
But as they drew nearer to her, she began to understand that this was not as simple a task as it might have seemed. Between the Oliphaunts' horns there were taut spiked chains, made especially for the purpose of catching any opposing cavalry. Their feet were enormous, and must have weighed a ton. In addition, the Haradrim all carried bows, ready to take advantage of their enemies when they were weakened by the animals.
Indeed, the Rohirrim had barely begun to attack when the Oliphaunts were upon them, sweeping dozens away with their horns. Gúthwyn steered Heorot away from the sharp ivory, breathing in the overwhelming scent of the creatures and hoping that none of them crushed her beneath their feet. All around her, she saw her people being killed. Most were unlucky to be trampled by the Oliphaunts, though the Haradrim were no poor marksmen.
Gúthwyn had not thought to bring a bow, and now cursed herself for her stupidity, but the majority of the Riders had remembered. Soon the Oliphaunts' legs were as stuck with arrows as a pincushion with needles, but for all the good it did, the darts might as well have been mosquito bites: Harmless, yet vastly irritating.
Somehow managing to survive the first rush through, Gúthwyn pulled out on the other side of the Haradrim. Although sides did not matter anymore—many of the Oliphaunts had turned around to face the Rohirrim again, and vice versa. In the entire charge, she had landed her sword only once on the thick hide, though it had not done much to affect it. Looking around, trying to find a commander who might know what to do, she saw Éomer backing up and facing one of the enormous beasts.
Ducking a misguided arrow, she watched her brother heft up his spear. "Follow me!" he yelled, and with that he threw it. Such was his expertise that the spear flew directly into the chest of the man steering the Oliphaunt. The Southron's triumphant expression was cut short as he fell from the creature, dangling from its ear by a long chain. With a howl of agony, the Oliphaunt veered to its left, crashing into another one of the animals and impaling it with its horns. Gúthwyn stared in awe as the two of them collapsed on each other, rendered helpless by a simple device.
Inspired by this, she decided to find her own way to reduce the numbers of the Haradrim. She sighted an Oliphaunt near her, shying away from its fallen comrades. "Framwine, now is your moment!" she murmured, and with that she urged Heorot forward, heading directly underneath its legs. She swallowed hard when she saw a guard trampled by that same beast, yet refused to back down.
Dodging its horns, at the same time she lifted her sword and drove it into the Oliphaunt's leg. Without a breath in between the two strikes, she repeated the motion a second time; now, on the opposite leg. Just a second later, Framwine's steel found purchase on the third limb, and then the fourth. As Gúthwyn rode out from underneath the animal, she heard it howl in pain. When she glanced back, it had sunk to its knees, the grey legs buckling underneath it.
A wild grin spread across her face. All about her, the Rohirrim had recovered from the initial shock of seeing such massive creatures assaulting them. Now the cry went up to aim for the Oliphaunts' heads. Gúthwyn was unable to, but she was content enough to hack at the animals' legs. Never again did she ride under one, as they began crumpling regularly enough for such an action to become a hazard, though she managed to navigate Heorot sufficiently close to inflict vast damage.
More and more of the Oliphaunts fell. There were only about ten left; now the Orcs reentered the fray, along with the unseated Haradrim. Gúthwyn decided to avoid the rampaging animals for the time being, and concentrated her attention on the enemy below her. This was a far easier task, as she had the advantage of height. With astonishing ease she cut through men and Orc alike, hardly pausing to savor in each victory before moving on to the next one.
How long the battle had been going, she remained unaware, but all of a sudden she heard Théoden's voice. A wave of relief washed over her to know that he was still alive. "Rally to me!" he yelled. "To me!"
Gúthwyn wheeled Heorot about, searching for her uncle or his standard, yet it was then that a shadow obscured the battlefield. An unbearable shriek rose through the air, raising bumps along her skin and nearly causing her to clamp her hands over her ears. Heorot whinnied in terror; for a frightening moment, she could hardly control him.
Indeed, she herself now stared in horror at the Nazgûl swooping down towards them. Friend and foe both scattered, she not the least among them. What happened next, she could not say, as she steered Heorot as far away from the Black Rider as possible. So she did not see when the Witch-king of Angmar cast Snowmane to the ground, nor when the white horse pinned her uncle helplessly beneath him. She did not watch as Éowyn revealed herself and came to the aid of Théoden, slaying the Nazgûl's steed and at last the Rider. Nor did she learn that day of how the king of Rohan perished, looking last upon the face of his niece. She thought they had both escaped.
Turning Heorot around so that he now faced the city, she was about to find another Oliphaunt when something green emerged in the corner of her eye. Raising a gloved hand over her gaze to see better, at first she thought that she was seeing things. Then she gasped as what appeared to be a host of shadow men came pouring from the river, mowing down countless Orcs with hardly a swing of their transparent swords.
What on Middle-earth is this? she wondered in amazement, tearing her eyes away for the briefest second in order to slay one of the Haradrim. When she next glanced up, the unexpected help had drawn closer. A familiar figure was leading them…
She gasped again as Aragorn drove his sword through an Orc not thirty yards away from her. A staggering realization came over her: These were the Dead that had haunted the Dwimorberg, whom the Ranger had sought in apparent madness! Gúthwyn could scarcely believe her eyes, but these were undoubtedly them. Their armor and clothing were torn and ragged, their eyes empty sockets in their skeletal frames. Rusted swords and hatchets they wielded, though a mere touch of their bodies was enough to kill.
Do not just stand there like a fool! a voice in her head ordered her. Do something!
Coming back to herself, she looked around just in time to see an Orc charging at her, seeking to take her at unawares. With a cry, Gúthwyn clove his head in two, delighting in the sight as his body crumpled to the ground. Then Heorot swerved dangerously: An Oliphaunt had narrowly missed them.
Gúthwyn was about to attempt her tried-and-true method of cutting the animals down when someone yelled, "Legolas!"
Momentarily dumbstruck, she checked her horse as a slender figure ran towards the Oliphaunt, carrying nothing but his bow. Under her astonished eye, Legolas leaped at the animal, landing effortlessly on one of the tusks. Avoiding the arrows sent towards him from the Haradrim, he scrambled up the horns. The Oliphaunt swatted at him with its long nose, but he managed to leap onto the creature's legs, using the countless arrows as handholds.
At that moment, she was attacked by a few Orcs, and her attention was diverted as she dispatched of them. When Framwine was sticky with black blood, she looked back up and saw that Legolas had climbed atop the Oliphaunt. How he had managed to do so, she could not even begin to imagine. The Haradrim were attempting to shoot him down, but the bow of the Galadhrim proved the mightier. She watched them tumble helplessly off of the Oliphaunt, and had to grudgingly admit that Legolas was an extraordinary warrior.
She turned away from him then, pursuing a small group of Orcs to their deaths. There were not much left now—where had they all gone? There had been hundreds, thousands, not moments ago…
There was a great crashing noise, one that caused the ground to shake beneath Heorot. Gúthwyn glanced over and saw the Oliphaunt collapsing, his trunk rolling out onto the dirt. As it did, Legolas slid down it, leaping off lightly and sighing as if it had been no matter. Words could not express Gúthwyn's shock; she did not even try. Looking past him, she saw an even more awe-inspiring sight.
The army of the Dead had swept away all of the Orcs. Those few Haradrim left over were fleeing along with their Oliphaunts, but as she followed them with her eyes a cluster of the Dead leaped onto one of the animals. With several squealing noises, they devoured the thing like a pack of rodents. She shuddered, and moved her gaze past them towards the city. Waves of green were flowing into it, like a cleansing bath after a long hard journey.
She could barely believe it. The battle of the Pelennor Fields was over. Her people were safe, regrouping not too far from her. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were back against all odds. The sun was shining brilliantly, casting a pure white light onto the countless Orc bodies. The Rohirrim had won, and Gondor was saved.
Excellent, she thought in astounded delight, hardly daring to think that all of this was true. Now for the hard part.