Author's recommended listening: Schubert, Symphony No. 8 in B minor
CHAPTER XXI: THE DRÚEDAIN
The bustle beyond her tent woke Truva the next day. She could not discern the light that typically roused her; though her body declared it was morning, the sky did not seem to agree when she peered through the flaps of her tent. To the east, clouds still roiled black as night, fading to a deep, ruddy brown overhead. Only the furthermost reaches of the western sky still bore any semblance of daylight, though even that sliver of blue along the horizon shrank as Truva looked on.
She rushed to wake the Hidlanders before seeing to Bron's needs. He grew antsy, sensing the rush of activity that swirled about him, and stood still only just long enough for Truva to tack up. A horn sounded, its resonant tones throbbing in her heart as it was echoed by many others down below in Harrowdale. Truva hastily led Bron from the stables, mounting up on the Firienfield and riding at a brisk trot down the Stair of the Hold one final time, to where the army mustered beside the Snowbourn.
There, at the head of the vast array of warriors that stretched across the lower field – crammed row by row and horse by horse between the rocky fingers of the mountain, gradually mingling amidst the trees of the vale – sat Théoden King upon Snowmane. Proud and commanding was the Eorlingas King, cutting a figure undaunted, with white hair flowing beneath his gleaming helm; the very sight could do naught but lift the spirits of even the most disheartened soldier. Admiration surged in Truva's heart, content in the knowledge that such a fearless man led the Hidlanders into battle.
When a hush settled over the warriors, Théoden King addressed them.
"So we come to it in the end," his voice called out, muffled by the heavy clouds that deadened all sound. Even so, its clarity gave courage to those before him. "The great battle of our time, in which many things shall pass away. But at least there is no longer need for hiding. We will ride the straight way and the open road and with all our speed.
"Before me is gathered the finest force of all our lands, from far-flung corners of the Mark and its various people. Now is the time when we come together under one banner, to fight for a single goal: peace upon Middle Earth. Be not afraid of an impending sense of finality; rather, embrace it and take heart, for there is no more noble way to serve this world than by protecting all that is good from the despicable evil that threatens to extinguish it. Ride now, Eorlingas, into the darkness so we might effect a new dawn!"
A cheer went up in response to the King's words, yet it sounded dampened and hollow, devoid of the spirit the Eorlingas prided themselves on. It was thus to an audience of grave, solemn faces that the Riders and their allies rode out – for those they left behind too felt an inescapable sense of conclusiveness. Nothing save the stamping of innumerable horses' hooves could be heard as the companies made their way eastward along the path beside the roaring Snowbourn, in the direction of Edoras.
Far ahead of Truva rode the King and his procession, which included Elfhelm Marshal, Riders of renown, and the tiny, unmistakable figure of the Holbytla Meriadoc. Though she typically would have been expected to ride with Éomer just behind, Truva lingered and nodded to each leader in turn as they passed, confirming with a quick glimpse that Éomód rode safely amidst her Marshal's éored.
In much the same way the Westfold chieftains led at the forefront of their own clans, however, so too had Truva insisted upon remaining with the Hidland fighters. Their position was far toward the rear, under command of Éofa's third éored, and were nearly the last company to fall out; a mere two clans and a rear guard came after.
As the Hidlanders rode past those last few soldiers waiting their turn to join the procession, Truva spied a face she was not entirely unsurprised to see. She gave Éowyn – disguised conspicuously in the Eorlingas helm and mounted beside the other warriors of the rear guard – a wry smile, which was returned with a wink.
At last the force travelled in its entirety along the road, and it was only a few hours before noon that they arrived in Edoras. All the air rushed from Truva's lungs to see the way in which the once vibrant, bustling city had fallen lifeless, its dull colours muted further by darkening skies. Some threescore riders stationed at the capital joined their company, leaving only the most essential guards behind.
As the army rested briefly, Truva drew the Hidlanders together.
"My friends," she said, addressing the gathering. "This may very well be your last opportunity to evade the destruction that is sure to come, for we ride now to war, and there is no certainty in our return. If you should choose to remain, you will be as safe as current circumstances allow here in Edoras. There is no need to feel ashamed, for those who have so recently gained their freedom cannot be grudged their reluctance to squander it."
"Ach, come off it," came one response.
"We've come this far, might as well go to the end," called another.
"And who's to say we'd be safe should you fail?" a different voice quipped.
"Best to die honourably, doing our part."
"Very well, then," said Truva, attempting to keep her voice neutral, yet the warmth of pride blossomed in her heart nevertheless. "You need not make any declaration if you do not wish, merely remain behind or accompany the army when it departs, as your will advises you."
Her words were met with incredulous chuckles, which illustrated the difficulty in denying the Hidlanders' loyalty; they had sprung from origins of individualistic survivalism, only to transform into warriors whose hearts harboured racing horses.
As the Eorlingas forces prepared to depart again, however, a small commotion near the gates sprang up. Théoden King found himself engaged in a rather emotional debate with the Holbytla Meriadoc, who had been bidden to ride with the company only as far as the capital.
"I received you for your safe-keeping," the King said as Truva came within earshot. "And also to do as I might bid. None of my riders can bear you as a burden, and it is a hundred leagues and two to Mundburg. I will say no more."
The glum look that fell upon the wee companion's typically cheerful countenance dismayed Truva. To be deemed a burden! Regardless of the truth in such a statement, it would surely be crushing to hear.
"Master Meriadoc!" Truva called quietly as the Holbytla moped past, making for Meduseld. "What seems to be the matter?"
"I do not understand why my lord received me as a swordthain, if not to stay by his side!"
"You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes," Truva hazarded.
"I do," said the Hobbit, near tears. "I will not have it said of me in song only that I was always left behind!"
Truva surreptitiously indicated the area in which the rear guard was preparing to depart; where one figure amongst them – rather slighter than the rest – was examining their horse. "Where will wants not, a way opens, or so it is said."
She watched the tiny figure dart between trampling Riders' mounts and approach the disguised Éowyn, in the hopes that she might take him into her keeping, after having already outfitted him with arms of the Eorlingas. Truva was regretful only in that she herself might not be of service, yet as she turned to the cluster of Hidland fighters, she was acutely aware that taking on an additional charge would only jeopardise her ability to protect those already in her care.
Soon after, Théoden King and his procession filed back out through the gates of Edoras, veering southeastward along the Great Road and driving a hard pace. Long days that wearied even the most experienced among them passed, followed by four morns, each darker and drearier than the last. When they believed the blackness spilling from the east could at last grow no more oppressive, its intensity redoubled.
The mood of the Riders followed in kind, and what few bursts of melancholy song that had fluttered on the air at the outset of their journey dwindled into sullen silence, broken only by the steady clank of armour and thud of hoofbeat. In those four days they had travelled beyond the length of the Eastfold, passing the fort of Aldburg, seat of the East-mark, and swiftly crossing the Mering Stream into the realm of Gondor – far further east than Truva had ever imagined exploring. All landmarks passed in a blur: Firienholt and the beacons of Calenhad, Min-Rimmon, Erelas, and Nardol.
On the fourth night, the army camped within the Drúadan Forest, beneath the tall, sharp peak that bore the Eilenach beacon. As they settled in to their cold suppers, unwilling to risk fires, Truva felt an unsettling sensation of being watched. A quick glance about concluded that it was not any of the weary fighters, for they were all too preoccupied with their meagre meal. She stood and began a perimeter sweep to reassure her disquietude, only to stumble immediately upon Éomer, who bore a half-shaded lantern.
"Truva," he said quietly, as not to be overheard. "The captains have been summoned."
"Is there something amiss?" asked Truva as she followed Éomer through the woods and up the slope of Eilenach.
"Our enemy is on the Road. Scouts discovered the body of Denethor's errand-rider Hirgon, the red arrow still clasped in his hand but his head sundered from his body, and a blockade constructed by Orcs some distance beyond."
"Then Mundburg knows not of our coming," said Truva, aghast.
"It is safe to assume they have no hope of relief," Éomer affirmed. They continued to climb, the way growing increasingly steep until they gained a small clearing, upon which a small pavilion had been pitched. A solitary, shrouded lamp illuminated the area; dust motes from the ancient trees filtered through its light, wafting on sluggish air currents and lending the scene a dreamy, tranquil quality.
The King and his captains huddled there, murmuring in the quietude. Their frantic, hushed tones stood in stark contrast to the peaceful surroundings, and Truva was loath to shatter the peculiar atmosphere that loomed, yet she followed Éomer as Éofa beckoned for them to draw nearer.
When Théoden King noticed their approach, he called the meeting to order. "We find ourselves facing an unexpected predicament. The forces of our enemies have dug trenches and set stakes across the great road and far into the plains. They have manned this barrier heavily, and I fear Minas Tirith will long be aflame ere we might ever hope to overcome the forces that lie between us and that city."
"What are their numbers?" asked Éofa, yet no sooner had he spoken than a rustling at the edge of the clearing caused all present to turn abruptly and draw their weapons. In a rush, the unsettled feeling Truva had experienced earlier resurfaced.
Each warrior peered into the darkness from whence the sound had come, yet for some time they could see nothing among the thick, intertwined branches of pine trees. Even as they stared, however, the dust shifted and – as if from the forest itself – a short, stout creature became visible. Its appearance was so like the mottled bark of the trees that even in full sight it could scarcely be distinguished from its surroundings.
One of the leaders from the Westfold clans raised his blade as if to strike, rushing forward a few steps and followed hard upon by several others, but Truva instinctually cried out, "Wait!"
The entire gathering turned to her in shock, including the strange new being. "Truva!" exclaimed Théoden King, "What cause have you to halt us in the defence of our camp?"
"My lord," said Truva, weaponless arms outstretched, never once taking her eyes off their new guest, "First, it is clearly not an Orc; we would be under full attack if it were."
"That is a logical conclusion, yet not one that precludes danger. Perhaps this creature is but a mere diversion," said Éomer.
Truva slowly turned to the Marshal and the King. "The Drúadan Forest," she said, "Do you recall the legends? Long ago, long before our people were gifted with the lands of the Riddermark, perhaps even before the Númenóreans came from the seas, the Wild Men of the Woods settled here in these mountains."
"The Drúedain themselves!" the King marvelled, realisation dawning upon him. "Never have they been seen in my time, nor that of my father, or his father."
"Likewise, never had a Halfling been witnessed in our lands, and yet one rides wit— has ridden with us until just recently," replied Truva, scarcely managing to catch herself before she revealed the Holbytla's stowaway status. "Ents, and Elves and Dwarves, too; if ever there was a time for all of Middle Earth to reveal itself and unite in defence against encroaching evil, it would be now."
Théoden King's gaze swept from Truva to the being, the depths of his thoughts apparent from his expression. In the silence, the being cautiously drew nearer to the King, causing the entire company to lean in tensely, weapons still drawn.
"Strange Horse-woman is right," the creature spoke at last with a low, croaking voice. Considering the Drúedain's prolonged isolation, he spoke quite comprehensibly in the Common Tongue, though surely he had encountered no opportunity or need of its use in quite some time. "Wild Men we are. Live here before Tall Men."
"Who are you? What brings you here now?" asked Théoden King.
"Ghân-buri-Ghân am I, big chief of Wild Men. Black sky comes with gorgûn. We hate gorgûn, kill them in the wood. You hate orc-folk, too."
"Even now we are on our way to battle the forces of Mordor," said Éomer.
"Yes, yes, but you must be quick. Stone-city is shut. Fire burns there outside; now inside too. But gorgûn sit on horse-road." Then Ghân-buri-Ghân raised a single gnarled finger and pointed to Éomer. "Very many gorgûn, more than Horse-men."
"Then we shall join forces to overcome their defences!" said Théoden King. "Even if they outnumber us, we must not abandon Denethor and his people. We must give our all to reach Mundburg or pass from this Earth before darkness envelops it."
"No, father of Horse-men," said Ghân-buri-Ghân, "Wild Men fight not. Hunt only. But we help as we can. Many paths were made when Stonehouse-folk were stronger. Now, road is forgotten, but not by Wild Men. Over hill and behind hill it lies, and back at the end to Horse-men's road."
The King eyed the Drúadan leader suspiciously. "What do you desire in return for this information?" he asked.
"Kill gorgûn and drive away bad dark with bright iron, and Wild Men can go back to sleep in the wild woods."
"Our people have cruelly killed yours in the past – hunted you down and driven you from our woods," Elfhelm Marshal interjected. "How might we be certain this is not an attempt to exact revenge?"
A peculiar gurgling sound emanated from Ghân-buri-Ghân's throat, and Truva realised that he was laughing. "We kill far away and in secret. You are not dead now, because we do not wish to kill you. But Ghân-buri-Ghân will not lead you into trap. He will go himself with father of Horse-men, and if he leads you wrong, you will kill him."
The three Marshals approached the King to hold whispered counsel. Truva inched closer in an attempt to overhear what was said between them.
"Is it wise to leave such a large force of Orcs unchallenged?" said Elfhelm Marshal.
"What does it matter?" countered Éomer. "Should we all perish, there would be no stopping the consequential atrocities, as it is. If we are to emerge victorious, however, we shall confront them when their dark forces are in a weakened state, and possibly unable to supply reinforcements.
"Even if the Wild Man exaggerates these adversaries' numbers," he continued, "Any conflict, no matter how small, shall surely delay us – a delay which could in turn prove disastrous for the White City. I do not doubt the Wild Man on his report of its burning; the desperation of Hirgon spoke clear enough on that account."
The King pondered the advice of his Marshals for a moment before he finally spoke. "As I see it, we have no choice. To engage with the outer blockade would mean either death or irrecoverable delay. We must trust that this Ghân-buri-Ghân speaks true.
"How long will it take to pass by the enemy and come back to the road?" Théoden King asked when he turned once more to the Drúedain chieftain, who had fixed his curious gaze upon each of the Eorlingas captains in turn as he awaited the King's response, causing the entire assemblage in the clearing to shift uncomfortably.
A wide smile cracked across the Drúadan's face. "Wild Man could walk from here to Dîn between sunrise and noon. Wild Men go quick on feet. Way is wide for four horses in Stonewain Valley, but narrow at beginning and at end."
"Then we must allow at least ten hours to pass through the Valley," said Éomer, "Though even once we have done so, Mundburg will still be some distance off. What time is it now?"
"Already the sun climbs over the East-mountains," said Chief Ghân-buri-Ghân, and Truva wondered at how he knew this, for the sky seemed as dark to her as ever. "It is the opening of day in the sky-fields."
"Then we must set out as soon as may be," said Théoden King, "Even so, we cannot hope to come to Gondor's aid today. Go now to your companies, and prepare to break camp," he ordered the captains.
The Eorlingas leaders trudged back down the mountainside to where their soldiers had rested fitfully during their absence. It was with reluctant heart that Truva woke Chaya, only to see the fighter's exhausted eyes blink open in response.
"It is nearly day. The way along the Great Road is blocked by our enemy, and we must take a different path. We leave now," said Truva. Chaya sat up without complaint, dusted off the cloak she had been using as a blanket, and began to assist in rousing the others.
The entire army amassed with incredible alacrity at the rear of camp, nearest the mountains. More Wild Men had appeared, and one fell in with each company as they departed up along the thickly wooded ridges. Truva bowed in greeting to her guide, who touched his brow in wordless response.
At first their progress was slow, for the warriors had to traverse the terrain on foot, leading their horses up the steep hills and through the pathless, thorny underbrush. Once over the ridges and down into Stonewain Valley, however, they made much better time and moved with ease upon the old road. It had clearly been long-forgotten, for it was overgrown with thickets and more than the occasional tree erupted from its split stones, yet Truva was also glad for the cover.
"Wild Men hunt," said Truva's guide, indicating the surrounding hills. "No gorgûn. Horse-men safe."
"Thank you," said Truva, unsure how to express her sincerity, but the Drúadan did not seem inclined to speak further.
Truva was terribly disappointed, for the Drúedain were so unlike any of the other peoples she had encountered, even in her recent adventures. Yet they were secretive, and she longed to know where they came from, how they lived, what they ate, how they built their society, and all other manner of things she could only imagine. Even so, she respected his reticence; they travelled the rest of the distance in silence, only the rustling of the horses' harnesses to be heard.
They came at last to a narrow gap in the hills, and each company filed out into the Grey Wood, emerging at last from the Stonewain Valley. When all Eorlingas had arrived, the Drúedain disappeared suddenly, melting back into the woods as if borne away on a waft of breeze. Truva lamented their departure, vowing to herself that she would learn more about the elusive Drúedain should she survive the coming ordeal.
Théoden King indicated that the soldiers should make camp and that his captains once again converge. There was no tent, no gentle lantern light – only a cluster of Riders, each absorbed in their own ruminations. The King allowed the silence to linger a while, then turned to Éofa.
"You have journeyed to Mundburg before, have you not, Éofa?"
"More than once, My Lord," said Éofa.
"Is it a great distance that lies between us now and our destination?"
"I should say not," Éofa replied. "When we reach the road and veer south, I reckon we will be not seven leagues from the outer wall of the city, all screened from view by high grasses. We might travel at all speed and yet be undetected."
"Excellent," said the King. "Ghân-buri-Ghân informs me that the outer wall of Minas Tirith has fallen at the hands of the Orcs."
"That is good news indeed!" declared Éomer, although Truva could not comprehend how the destruction of their allies' wall could possibly be interpreted as positive.
"Indeed, I feared that wall could have long been held against us," said the King.
"I suspect the enemy assumes their rear is safe, protected by that barricade," said Éofa. "They will not look to our coming."
"Very well," Théoden King concluded. "Let us rest now here, where we are least likely to be disturbed, and set out in the darkest of night so that we might reach the fields of battle freshest, when tomorrow is as light as it will be."
The captains departed to convey such plans to their charges, and a hush descended over the camp as they settled in repose. Truva tossed and turned, yetwhen it became clear to her that sleep would not come, she stood and paced about the camp, observing the wide variety of soldiers gathered there: dark-skinned farmers and their sons, come from the furthest reaches of the Mark, curled up beside frail minstrels, barterers, farriers, bakers, cobblers. How many would be left when all was said and done?
Truva caught sight of Éomód and the heaping form of Blackbramble, though both were fast asleep, and so she continued on her aimless path. Some Hidlanders sat up still, rebraiding their hair, for even on the long journey southward most had maintained the familiar hairstyle, and the anxiety that the threat of battle sowed in their minds caused them to revert to old habits.
After some minutes of wandering, Truva found herself amongst the rear guard. She cast about for Éowyn, though it took her longer than expected to locate the warrior's long golden hair, for it was tucked under a hood, and she wore also the armour of men. She was not asleep, however, and so Truva approached quietly.
"Hello, soldier," she said, causing Éowyn to jump.
"Oh, it is only you, Truva," she exclaimed with a sigh of relief. "If I were to be caught by Éomer, I am certain he would send me directly back to Dunharrow with all haste."
"I doubt it not," replied Truva, taking a seat beside her friend. In doing so, she peered into the fitfully slumbering face of the Holbytla, who lay close by. "Is it not too strenuous to bear the Halfling as well?"
"It is no burden; Windfola bears us as if we were nothing," Éowyn reassured her.
"I suppose there are birds that would be envious of your light frames," said Truva. "What am I to call you, then, if I were to do so in front of the others?"
"I am calling myself Dernhelm," said Éowyn.
"Dernhelm; a stern, noble name. It suits you well."
"I ought to be able to go into battle under my own mantle, nevertheless."
"I do not disagree," said Truva, allowing the conversation to lapse briefly as she pondered the shieldmaiden's ill-fortuned circumstances. Then another thought struck her mind, and she asked, "But what of our loved ones back at Dunharrow? What is to become of them in your absence?"
"I left word that Erkenbrand Marshal is to ensure their protection," Éowyn reassured her. "He will in turn send a trusted captain with the small guard to Hornburg."
"We are fortunate to have such dependable warriors in our midst, retired as they may be."
"Indeed; horses run through the hearts of Eorlingas, even as we draw our last breath," said Éowyn.
"I fear a great many shall be drawing such a breath all too soon," Truva whispered to her companion. "Our final charge to Mundburg is imminent; indeed, we are scarcely seven leagues from the battle even now."
Éowyn sat motionless for some time, a distant look filling her eyes. "There is no greater desire I have than to protect my King," she said resolutely.
"I know you do not speak lightly, and so I fear such proclamations all the more; yet while yours is a noble aim, it is in small deeds that our duty to our people is served, not through grand acts that beg glory or renown," said Truva, sincere in her words of caution, though Éowyn's expression implied that she heeded them not.
"I would die upon this battlefield, Truva," she said, enraptured. "Naught remains for me elsewhere, even should we emerge victorious. I cannot live a life as a caged bird, for people to look upon me blithely, ultimately serving a purposeless existence."
"What of the Mark, and of your people? To serve them is surely not purposeless. Would you abandon the Eorlingas to their fate, be what it may at the conclusion of impending events?"
"There will always be one to lead the Mark, despite the macabre divinations of my uncle. Even were every member of the House that rides among us to die in battle on the morrow, Héodis' little boy could lay claim to the throne – direct descendant of Éofor as he is, and grandchild to Éadmód, Éomund's brother. The House of Eorl is not some autumn leaf, fallen withered to the frostbitten ground only to be swept away by a chill wind – no, not even the Long Winter could sunder our line," said Éowyn, her voice quiet but forceful.
Truva fell silent a moment. "And what of Lord Aragorn? What of your love for him?" she murmured at great last, careful to keep her voice devoid of any hint of trepidation. She knew not what it was that made her so hesitant to broach the subject, only that it was with a great deal of unease that she found the Ranger's name escaping her lips.
A fire burnt in Éowyn's eyes before it faltered and grew dim, and tears replaced the flames. "As for Aragorn— he spurns me, Truva," she choked. "I spoke with him at great length when we were yet in Dunharrow, and he showed me nothing save cold, kind respect, as he does all others; and his words were all the more cruel for their kindness. I fear I have no hope in that regard."
"It has not been long since he has learnt of the Lady Arwen's intention to make sail for Valinor," Truva reassured her. "Perhaps it is too soon for him to cast off that tie; not so easily is the bond of ages sundered."
"No, that is not the reason," said Éowyn. "It is not his lost love that holds him back."
"I suppose it is futile to ponder such questions, gone as he is from the company now," said Truva, regret for having caused Éowyn pain searing deep into her heart. "He has turned to a path even more certain in death than ours."
"Perhaps," said Éowyn. Truva did not pursue the conversation any further, and instead allowed Éowyn to muse on her own thoughts.
"I think I had best return now," said Truva, standing after some minutes had lapsed.
"A call to arms is ever too soon at hand," said Éowyn, rising also and embracing Truva. "Farewell, my friend. May the morrow guide us well upon our paths."
"Though it may be so dark we cannot see so much as our own feet."
"It will most likely be so," said Éowyn, releasing Truva.
"Give my greeting to the Holbytla when he wakes," Truva said as she slipped back into the gloom.
Still failing to feel even the slightest brush of sleepiness, she sought out a soldier on watch and, ordering him to rest, took his place. Ever vigilant, she allowed her mind to wander. First, she cast her mind upon the thought of what Mundburg might look like, for while drawings of it had appeared in the texts Gríma showed her during their studies, Truva longed to see its towering white walls with her own eyes. She wondered, too, how Héodis might be faring, alone with Fulmod back at Dunharrow.
After a great struggle, Truva could not restrain her mind anymore, and her thoughts strayed to the fate of Aragorn and the Grey Company. Where might they be? Were they the South, having successfully traversed the Paths of the Dead? Were they unharmed?
Each time the Dúnedain captain himself surfaced in her mind, Truva strove to divert her attention to other matters, always unsuccessfully. Was Éowyn right in her assessment of his feelings toward the Eorlingas princess? If he were alive, when might they see him again? Questions whirled in Truva's mind and she shoved her hand in her pocket, once again seeking the comfort of the metal clasp that remained warm from the heat of her body.