UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER
Chapter 44: The Heirloom of a Great Man
OUTSIDE EDORAS
It was late when the fifty heavily armed men left their quarters and made for the back of the hill upon which the Hall of Kings loomed - now the fastness of the enemy within the very heart of their kingdom. They carried no torches as they cautiously made their way to the entrance of the tunnel, not taking any chances that they might be seen from above even when the uneven path was hard to walk in the dark.
Éothain felt both excited and tense as they approached the hole in the rock. After days of forced apathy and the aggravating feeling of utter helplessness, he was finally allowed to act, and if the Gods were at last willing to look at them with a benevolent eye for a change, they would perhaps succeed in freeing the prisoners before the break of dawn. Would he be in time to save his father? Was Cèorl even still alive?
With great effort, Éothain suppressed his rising anxiety as they reached their destination. Scanning the ground to find out whether the enemy had left his hideout since the afternoon and perhaps found their tracks, Éothain saw with satisfaction that the snow had thawed completely in the course of the last hours and left nothing but dry bushes and bare rock behind. The blanket which the lads had carefully put back in place over the hole looked still untouched and shielding the secret passage from unwelcome eyes.
Unceremoniously, Éothain squatted and picked it up to the surprised gasps from those men who had not accompanied him during his first foray, and thus had not already witnessed the wonder of the magical blanket. He turned around to face them, aware of Aedwulf's dark expression as he spoke in a low but insistent voice. It was obvious that the other man was not content with his plan, but to Éothain, it was the only option they had left to help the hostages.
"You will wait here for my return. Under no circumstances will you follow me, even if I take longer than you may expect. We cannot risk that you are seen or heard, for our advantage of surprise would be ruined and the captives greatly endangered; you know how well noise travels in caves. I have no doubt that the Worm would hide behind his hostages as soon as he found himself under attack, and we must under all circumstances prevent that he reaches them before us. He will have no problems killing them when he finds himself cornered. If he can't win, he will be content with causing even more suffering before he dies. Thus, we must first find out where he keeps his prisoners and, if we cannot secretly free them, at least dispose of those who pose a threat to them. Once we decide to act, everything must go very quickly, and there will be no time for doubt. I will first go alone under cover of the magic blanket and find out more about the tunnel and how things are in Meduseld."
"But what if you are killed in there?" Aedwulf voiced his doubts. "What if they sense your presence and capture you, too? We cannot afford that they take you from us, we need our leader! You must allow us to come to your aid if we hear a disturbance in that tunnel!"
"But then the Worm will kill the prisoners, Aedwulf, don't you understand? He will use them to force us into retreat… or worse, into surrendering ourselves, too."
A vision of Wormtongue holding a knife to Éowyn's throat and shouting at him to lay down his weapons suddenly assaulted Éothain, and a chill raced down his spine.
"If they capture you, Gríma will know that his secret passage has been compromised and close it against us, so if we ever want to have a chance of freeing the hostages, we must attack tonight. Éothain, you know that it is so! All secrets only hold for a limited time, it is an ancient wisdom."
In a silent battle of wills, the older man bent his keen eyes upon his Captain, and at last Éothain nodded, however reluctantly.
"Very well. If I am seized, you will do your best to free the prisoners and kill as many enemies as you can. But I will be careful, and it will not become necessary."
And with these words, Éothain laid a hand upon Aedwulf's shoulder, and his encouraging glance travelled over the doubtful faces before him. At last, he turned on his heels and lowered himself into the hole.
Blackness swallowed him like a great beast, so thick that he could not see the hand before his eyes as he sensed his way over to the left wall. In such complete blackness, he would not even need the blanket. Yet it would make moving silently on the uneven ground difficult, Éothain figured quickly while recounting what he knew about the hillfolk who aided the usurper. They were well-adjusted to life in mountains and caves and great builders of tunnels themselves, but as far as he knew, they were still ordinary men with ordinary senses. They would not be able to see him in the total absence of light, and neither would they feel his presence through any other extraordinary sense for as long as he avoided all noise. They were men, not trolls. And still, would it hurt to wear the blanket? Throwing the feather-light garment over his head, Éothain looked back.
A narrow beam of starlight filtered into the narrows from the entrance, comforting him in this oppressive darkness. Éothain took a deep breath and silently proceeded further into the heart of the hill.
OOO
WESTFOLD
"May I make the suggestion to postpone the rest of our discussion to tomorrow? There is nothing we can do until the éoreds have arrived, anyway, and it is getting late. The way I see it, we can make no detailed plans until we know how many riders we will have at our disposal anyway."
Erkenbrand narrowed his eyes as his gaze travelled over the faces of the others to finally come to a rest on Éomer's drawn features. He lowered his voice in concern.
"You look unwell, Marshal. Would you wish for someone to see after you when you retire? After all, it was only four days ago that those orcs found you in that cave. I could send for our healer."
At the sound of his voice, life slowly returned to the young marshal's eyes, as if Éomer were waking from a deep sunkenness, and at last, he averted his gaze from the fire into which he had stared silently for a long time. With a deep breath, he ran a hair through his tangled hair and shook his head. Aye, he felt tired. If he looked half as exhausted as he felt, it was no wonder that the Lord of Westfold had voiced his concern, but there was nothing that he needed except for a night of rest.
"That will not be necessary, Marshal, thank you. I am only fatigued after the long ride, and a few hours of sleep will suffice to restore my strength. But I agree that we should end this council now. Or is there anything else that needs to be discussed, which cannot wait until tomorrow?"
His gaze travelled over the features of his brothers-in-arms, finding nothing there but affirmation, and upon an unspoken signal, all rose to their feet. As he forced his weary body out of the chair, Éomer cast a sidelong glance at Aragorn and saw approval in the grey eyes before he turned back to the Lord of Westfold.
"I trust it that my men were appointed rooms in your guest house?"
"Aye." Erkenbrand nodded, a wry grin spreading unexpectatly over his bold face. "What kind of host would I be to let them sleep in the barn? Although I fear that there will not be enough space to give every rider a roof above his head once the éoreds start pouring in tomorrow… or perhaps I should rather hope for it to be so?"
"They will be content with sleeping on the floor, and I don't think the men will object to sharing their rooms with their brothers-in-arms."
And yet Erkenbrand's doubt caused a brief flutter of anxiety in Éomer's stomach. What if the éoreds did not come? What if their captains' disposition was the same he had found here upon his arrival: that he was indeed presumed guilty and a traitor, and that the word of their King was still the one the greater part of the Éorlingas followed? His lips thinning at the discomforting thought, Éomer turned toward the door. Nothing he could do about it now. He would have to wait and see.
The Lord of Westfold was already on his way to open the door for his guests, when a sudden thought caused him to stop.
"Wait, I forgot something." He turned around, and his gaze once again found Éomer. "There is something I want you to have, Marshal. I planned to give it to the King on my next visit to Edoras, but after everything I heard tonight, I feel that it is something that ought to belong to you."
For another moment, he scrutinised the younger man as if he were not completely certain about his initial impulse, but then Erkenbrand turned toward to a massive wooden chest and opened its heavy lid, ignoring his guests' inquisitive glances as he reached inside. When he straightened and turned back again, Éomer froze as he beheld the thing in the Marshal's hand, and his mouth went dry.
"Oh…" was the only thing that came over his lips as he accepted his cousin's sword from Erkenbrand's hand. Cautiously, his gaze held captive by the sparkle of the bronze decoration of the elaborately worked scabbard, he closed his fingers around the heft and unsheathed the blade, for a moment mesmerized by the cold gleam of steel in the flickering firelight. Except for a few slight dents, the weapon looked unspoiled.
"I know what you want to say, Marshal," Erkenbrand admitted quietly. "The weapons of our fallen belong with them. We usually do honour that tradition, but since Théodred was buried so close to enemy territory, it would have been only a question of hours until some stinking orc disturbed his resting place to take his sword away, and I do not think that the Prince would have wanted the blood of our people shed with his weapon."
He cleared his throat, aware of the sudden storm of emotions that raged through Éomer's soul while the Marshal of Eastfold turned the blade in his hand, too powerful to allow the younger man to utter a reply.
"I cleansed it of the orc-blood myself, and it is in good condition. Your cousin made the filth pay a high price for their assault, but in the end, there were too many of them to overcome. He was the sole target of Saruman's endeavour, of that can be no question. There was nothing anybody could have done. Not even you, had you been here. Rather, you would have died with him. I understand that now, and I am grateful that you are still with us."
With a questioning glance and a deep breath, Erkenbrand wordlessly asked the man before him whether he was ready to see the other items he had saved, and received a curt nod in response.
When Éomers gaze fell upon the deeply dented cuirass Erkenbrand now revealed from the chest, his complexion grew even paler, and his breath escaped him in an anguished burst. Slowly, as if afraid to touch it, he reached out and ran his fingertips over the ragged hole in the beautifully decorated breast plate in the shape of a rearing horse of red leather, interlaced with green and gold. There were many other dents and scratch marks on it, but this one had brought Théodred's death. A direct hit to the lungs, just like in his dream. The sharp pain of loss assaulted him anew without warning.
And yet he could not afford to show weakness before the others. He was their leader. It would not do.
With a mighty effort, Éomer blinked away the tears. How often had he stood before his cousin as a young rider and felt awe at the sight of the fully-clad Second Marshal of Riddermark, the man their warriors would follow until the end of the world? The man who had been like a brother to him? He did not know whether Erkenbrand was waiting for a reaction from him, but his head was empty and he could not speak just yet.
"I also have your cousin's helmet and coat of mail here," the older man spoke into his thoughts, his tone comforting. Éomer had never heard such gentleness from the fierce Lord of Westfold. "We took them off to reach his wounds, but there was nothing we could do for him. The mail is also damaged, of course, but I suppose that I could have both it and the cuirass repaired for you until we ride… if you want to wear it. You will need a set of armour anyway, and I think that your cousin would be proud to know that you will take it back into battle for him."
"…to avenge him," Éomer said slowly, the lump in his throat gradually vanishing. He was still overwhelmed by emotion, but already he felt a sense of purpose and determination so strong flooding his veins, he had never experienced anything like it before. Théodred's sword fit his hands perfectly, as if it, too, was eager to become his ally and spill the blood of those who had violently separated it from its owner. When Éomer looked up at last, a light shone in his dark eyes that caught the other men by surprise.
"Aye, Marshal, you have known my cousin well. He would have wanted that indeed."
"Not to mention that it might seriously trouble Saruman's brood to see their worst enemy, the man they thought killed, return at the head of our éohere to avenge himself," Aragorn added from behind. "Your sight alone might provide us with the advantage we need to defeat them."
He liked the determined look on the Rohír's face, and it seemed to him as if the sight of his cousin's armour had woken something in Éomer that had not been there before; a sudden fierceness and unyielding will to succeed and to fight until the last drop of his blood had been spilt. Gone was the weary acceptance of his duty to sacrifice his men in a battle he could barely hope to win. The Éomer standing before him now was determined to emerge victorious against all odds, and all thoughts of defeat had just ceased to exist for this young warrior.
While Aragorn stood and marvelled over his transformation, Éomer once again ran his fingers over the breastplate's weathered leather.
'You saved me, Théodred. Death could not hinder you from coming to my aid when I needed you in that cave, and it could not hinder you from showing me the path I needed to take. It proves to me you are still with me, and if you can feel my presence as much as I can feel yours, then hear me now when I swear to you to avenge your death. I swear it on my life.'
His heart pounding from sudden excitement, Éomer faced the other warriors who still awaited his decision.
"Aye, I will be glad to take it into battle for him. Thank you, Marshal. It means much to me."
With an approving smile, Erkenbrand laid the cuirass back into the chest, but left the sword to its new owner.
"Then I will have everything brought to our weapons master in the morning."
It took all of Éomer's will to avert his eyes from the damaged piece of armour, as he turned to leave at last, and found the Lord of Westfold looking at him and Aragorn.
"I would be honoured if you joined me for the morning meal tomorrow, gentlemen. And I would also gladly make the acquaintance of your friends, Lord Aragorn. Please, tell them that I did not mean to be rude by not inviting them to our talks this time, but-"
"—the safety of the Mark can only be entrusted to those you know," Aragorn ended the sentence for him. "I understand, and I am sure they do not feel insulted by your decision. Had your council member not confirmed my identity, I know I would not have been here, too, and I would also have accepted that. Trust does not come easy in these evil times. Nobody understands that better than I."
Erkenbrand nodded thankfully.
"I thank you, my Lord. But please, when you see your friends now, tell them that the Mark feels honoured to greet them among our forces."
"I will. Until tomorrow, I bid you a good night, Marshal."
OOO
Grimbold walked with them to their quarters at the far end of the corridor. The door handle in his hand, Aragorn turned around to Éomer, whose chamber was on the opposite side.
"This was a difficult day," he said, and a quick glance found Grimbold, too fast for the Lord of Grimslade to register. "You did well, son of Éomund. You managed to convince your brothers-in-arms, although they were ready to see you as a traitor, and my feeling tells me that many more will follow their example. When you go to sleep now, you should do so with a sense of pride. You achieved something extraordinary today."
Too weary to think of a response to the high praise, Éomer could only nod.
"I assume I will think of nothing anymore once I lay my head down. I will fall asleep on the spot."
The ranger laughed and clapped his shoulder.
"Then that will do, too. I see you in the morning."
And he disappeared into his room.
For a moment, Éomer's tired gaze lingered on the door before he gave himself the mental push to make for his own quarters. With a meaningful twitch of his eyebrows, he shuffled over to the door and extended his hand for the handle, when the Lord of Grimslade, who had obviously chewed on something to say while he had wordlessly accompanied them, called to him.
"Lord Éomer…Marshal?"
His tone gave the younger man pause, and as Grimbold looked up with an expression of shame upon his weathered face, Éomer knew that the words which would follow were not easy to utter for the proud Westfold warrior. At last, the other man's ice-blue eyes looked straight at him in absolute openness.
"I was wrong about you. I do not know if you can forgive my harsh, unjustified words about yourself and your father, although I would greatly hope for it. My anger led me to saying things I neither meant nor wanted to say. Your father was greatly respected here in the Westfold as well. You should know that."
"I know that he was a mighty warrior... and a hotspur, and I had rightly inherited his reputation in my youth," Éomer countered. "But while it is true that I did not always consider my actions back then, I believe I have outgrown this weakness... for a while now. I will not lie that your accusation hurt me greatly, although I knew that the source of your anger was your grief for Théodred. I probably would have reacted similarly had our positions been exchanged."
Éomer inhaled sharply... and then lifted his chin while his eyes quickly found the cut on the warrior's brow.
"You insulted me, and I dented your head for it. I would say that settles things between us."
He extended his hand in an offer for peace.
At first, his action was met with an incredulous look, but quickly, a relieved grin spread over Grimbold's face, and he clutched the proffered hand with an affirming nod.
"Aye, Éomer. I deserved it. From now on, let's concern ourselves with punishing the enemy instead of each other, what do you say?"