Chapter Four

 

“Retreat! Retreat, Eorlingas!”

Éomer looked up at the sound of Théodred’s great voice. His kinsman was still on his tall stallion, Wingfoot, and trying to lead the Riders safely away. He had seen as well as Éomer had that they could not possibly hope to break through the masses of orcs that surrounded them.

Behind him on Goldenwind, Thenan stiffened. The young soldier always hated retreating from battle—but surely he saw this time that it was the only way that any of them could hope to escape alive.

Urging Goldenwind forward, the doughty horse fought his way through the orcs and Uruks, unmindful of his own injuries. They at last reached Théodred, who had managed to bring several surviving Riders together with him. Éorlan, Grimbold and Éothain were among them, but strong Haldred and wise Leóf were not to be seen.

“Come, Riders of the Mark,” Théodred called to those gathering around him. “We must retreat!”

Suddenly there was an unearthly howling around them, and even courageous Goldenwind reared and whinnied in fright. The fearsome wolfriders were among them—orcs riding on the backs of the wild Wargs of the north!

Théodred raised his sword, black with orc blood, and ordered them all to retreat swiftly—they could not longer wait for those fighting to return to them, now that the wolfriders were here and slaying all Riderless horses.

Éomer turned back to look at those they were forced to leave behind—and his heart stopped for a moment as he spied a small, slight figure on horseback, surrounded and valiently fighting the orcs.

“Teren!” he cried, and heard Thenan gasp. Without a second thought, he turned Goldenwind back and urged him towards the courageous but outnumbered youth. As they neared, they could see that Teren was bleeding from a gash in his forehead, and the hardened leather jerkin that he wore as his only armor had been split on his right side; it was covered in blood.

Even as they reached him, Teren swayed in the saddle, and fell forward onto his horse, Greatheart’s neck. His blood-stained sword slipped uselessly from his limp fingers.

Before the orcs could press in and tear the boy from the saddle, Thenan sprang from Goldenwind’s back and quickly swung up onto Greatheart, as agilely as if he were not injured at all. He wrapped his good arm partially around Teren’s waist, and grabbed the reins before they slipped down Greatheart’s neck.

“Ride back!” Éomer shouted at them, cleaving the helm of an orc that attempted to grab Thenan and Teren. “Get him safely to Théodred!”

Thenan urged Greatheart forward, and the powerful black stallion fought his way through the mass. But Thenan looked back in grief at Éomer, surrounded by the hordes of orcs, loathe to leave his friend behind in danger.

A small groan from Teren made him tighten his grip on the reins and urge Greatheart forward again, using all his discipline as a soldier to keep from turning back. He reached Théodred’s men with difficulty; they had cleared most of the orc mass, but several companies of Uruks and wolfriders were close behind them.

“My lord Théodred!” Thenan cried, riding up to him. “Teren is grievously wounded!”

Théodred slowed and looked down at the unconcsious boy in Thenan’s one-armed grip. “How came he here?” he asked sorrowfully. But without waiting for an answer, he motioned for Éothain to come beside them as he sped up again.

“Take Teren,” Théodred commanded quickly. “Thenan, you are wounded as well—you cannot hope to defend yourself and the boy with only one arm.”

Thenan obeyed and he managed to skillfully pass Teren to Éothain, who wrapped one strong arm around the boy and pulled him upright. Without waiting for orders from Théodred, Thenan turned and headed back toward the battle—praying that Éomer still lived.

Éorlan turned, too, seeing the sister-son of Théoden left behind, and caught up with Thenan as they galloped back toward battle. Several wolfriders, seeing them do so, split from their group and headed toward them.

They strove to outrun the wolfriders and make it back to Éomer, but the wargs were swift and not tired, as their horses were. Éorlan turned his horse, Brego, and acted as a shield for Thenan, whose sword had been broken and had nothing left but a dagger.

The wargs howled visciously and sprang upon Brego. The wiry bay horse twisted and managed to kick one of the wargs in the jaw, momentarily halting it. But there were two others, and they took positions both in front of the horse and behind, so that no matter which way Brego turned, there was no escape.

Then Thenan joined again, brandishing his long dagger of sharp bone, and Greatheart reared up above the warg positioned at Brego’s head. Before the wolf had time to react, the powerful horse’s sharp hooves were crashing down upon it, and the orc was thrown off as the warg was trampled.

The warg who had been kicked, seeing one its companions slain, backed away. But the other sprang up on Brego again, claws digging into the horse’s flanks while the orc rider raised its sword. The horse screamed, and tried to escape, but the warg held fast.

Thenan, using only his legs to direct his horse, raised his own dagger and met the orc’s sword as it came sweeping down. Then Éorlan succeeded in turning Brego so swiftly that the warg was dislodged, and he used his sword to slay the orc rider.

Thenan bent in the saddle to finish off the warg, but the beast lunged up, and seizing the Rider by the waist in its jaws, threw him down. Éorlan, without thinking, sprang from his saddle to aid his friend, and brought his sword down with such a powerful blow that the warg’s head was severed.

Éorlan, with a cry of anguish, fell down on his knees beside Thenan’s bleeding body. The young Rider’s face was ashen, and taut with pain. His useless arm lay limp by his side, and his chainmail had been rent by the warg’s jaws. Blood covered his torso, and Éorlan knew without looking that it was from a deep gash in his stomach.

Suddenly another cry of grief was heard, and he looked up to see Éomer, bloody and wounded himself, riding towards them. The sister-son of Théoden jumped from his saddle and knelt beside Thenan.

“He is gravely wounded,” he said tightly. “We must get him away from here.”

The two men lifted Thenan up and placed him on Goldenwind. Brego stood nearby, trembling and unsteady, his entire rump and flanks covered with blood. Éorlan examined his horse quickly, and sorrowfully looked up at Éomer. Brego was too grievously wounded to live, and it would be nothing but cruelty to try to prolong his life.

Éomer gazed sadly at his friend, knowing how anguishing it was to be forced to put a beloved horse out of its misery. He turned away as Éorlan swiftly ended Brego’s suffering, and then slowly climbed up onto Goldenwind’s back.

They rode quickly, finding that most of the army was now pursuing Théodred and striving to cut him off before he reached the Plains. Putting aside their grief for now, they only allowed themselves to concentrate on joining Théodred. Several more Riders who had been left behind caught up and rode alongside Éomer and Éorlan, all with the same purpose in mind. Some had their wounded companions in front of them in the saddle, as well; some were in worse condition even than Thenan.

As if new strength had been given them, the horses fairly flew over the remaining distance between them and the Théodred. But the black army of Isengard had succeeded in cutting off the éored from the open Plains, and the wolfriders were again in among the Rohirrim, ahead of the Uruks and orcs that moved in eagerly.

Suddenly filled with a rush of excitement, Éomer raised his bloody sword to the sky, looking up as the sinking sun’s light caught the sharp point of the blade, making it shine like a bright star. Heartened and encouraged by the sight, Éomer shouted, “Forth to battle, sons of Rohan! Up Eorlingas, for Théoden of the Riddermark! Forth, brave hearts, to battle!”

Joining in his cry, the straggling Riders joined the éored and entered the battle. Leaving Goldenwind and Thenan to Éorlan’s care, Éomer leapt off his horse, brandishing his sword, and rushed into the battle on foot. Most Riders had done the same, and those with wounded were the only ones still on horseback.

The wolfriders began to fall back, and the black Uruks moved in. Many of the Rohirrim were in back-to-back formations, creating small islands in the raging sea of Uruks. Éomer fought alone. He felt none of his injuries, but only a mad, overwhelming command to reach Théodred and aid him. Uruk after Uruk appeared to block his path, but as though given sudden strength, he overcame them with great blows of his sword, which he held with both hands.

In the next five minutes, several things happened that pulled Éomer out of his trance. First, he caught sight of Théodred and followed his cousin as he climbed up a knoll. Théodred’s great voice carried above the sounds of battle as he cried, “To me, Eorlingas! To me!”

Before Éomer could reach the top of the knoll and his kinsman’s side, three Uruks appeared in front of him, blocking his path. Now jerked out of his adrenaline reverie, Éomer was suddenly filled with cold terror as he saw more Uruks, with some orcs among them, swarming around the knoll like ants. He lost sight of his cousin at the top, and suddenly he knew the dark army’s plan as clearly as though they had told it to him: their sole purpose was to slay the son of Théoden.

“Théodred!” he fairly screamed, cleaving the helm of the first Uruk to block his path. Anguish and anger filled his heart and he again fought like a madman to get to his leader’s side—but this time without the feeling of excitement and invincibility.

Éomer was knocked to the ground but before the Uruk had time to so much as raise its sword, the Rider was up again and the Uruk beheaded. Almost as quickly, the next one was overcome, and the next, as he strained for a glance of Théodred.

The sun had set and light was fading, but Éomer knew the Rider who stepped beside him. “How do you fare, Éomer?” Grimbold shouted over the noise of battle.

“Never mind how I fare!” Éomer cried, running an orc through with his blade. “Hasten to Théodred’s aid—there at the top of the knoll!”

Without hesitation, Grimbold raised his sword in double-handed grip and began to cleave through the mass of orcs blocking the way to his lord’s aid with a new fury, and it was not long before Éomer lost sight of him in the darkening light. The younger Rider did not have the strength and brawn of Grimbold, and though he fought furiously, he could not reach the top of the knoll. But he had faith that Grimbold had, and kept his mind on the orcs and Uruks surrounding him.

Suddenly above the din of battle, a sound came that brought hope to the Riders’ hearts, and terror to the orcs’ and Uruks’: the thunder of many horses across the Plains coming towards them. Éomer kept his elation back, wary of rejoicing too soon.

But at Grimbold’s shouted words, he did give a wordless cry of joy and felt his heart lift: “’Tis Elfhelm with four companies behind! Our aid has come!”

More shouts and cries of ecstasy and relief came from the Rohirrim, and the orcs began to fall back as the defense was redoubled. Within a few minutes, Elfhelm’s host had reached them and the armies of Isengard began to flee. Éomer felt hope rekindled in his heart, and after overcoming the last Uruk that barred his way, he rushed as if he had wings to the top of the knoll—and then stopped short.

Grimbold fought with two axe-wielding Uruks over the still, bloody body of Théodred. Horror, anger, grief and even confusion flooded Éomer’s mind at the sight, and he was frozen in place for a moment. But then he saw Elfhelm race to Grimbold’s side and aid him against the Uruks, and he forced himself to move.

As the other two overcame the Uruks, Éomer knelt at his cousin’s side. Even in the dim light, he could see that Théodred’s face was pale and blood covered his body. The sounds of retreating orcs and Uruks, and the shouts of victorious Riders seemed distant as he dropped his sword and gently cradled Théodred’s head in his lap.

Feeling numb, Éomer could not speak as Grimbold and Elfhelm joined him beside their captain. “He still breathes,” exclaimed Elfhelm quietly, after a quick inspection. Éomer blinked; he had not even thought to check. All he could see was his cousin’s white face in his lap, but now he counted each shallow, ragged breath he heard.

“We must move him,” said Grimbold, looking up at Éomer sadly. “We cannot linger here, and no doubt a site is already being made for the wounded.”

Mutely, Éomer nodded, but as Grimbold and Elfhelm stood and bent to lift Théodred, their leader groaned. They stopped immediately and laid him gently back down, his head still cradled in Éomer’s lap.

As Éomer bent over his cousin’s face, Théodred’s eyes slowly opened and blinked several times to focus. When they did, the corners of Théodred’s mouth turned upwards in a slight smile and his grey lips parted. “Éomer,” he whispered, his voice cracked.

Choking back a sob of relief, Éomer bent lower and caressed Théodred’s pale cheek with one hand. “I am here,” he assured his cousin, wishing that there was enough light to see Théodred’s face more clearly. “Do not try to speak further. We will get you to the camp for the wounded and they will tend to you.” In the dark, Éomer could not even see Théodred’s wounds, but he could make out the dark, thick blood that covered his kinsman’s torso.

“My dream…was true,” murmured Théodred, ignoring Éomer’s orders not to speak more. “This was my last orc hunt…and hope came too late.” He fell silent for a moment as he struggled to get enough energy to continue. Éomer could not speak, but as he wiped away one of his tears that fell on Théodred’s cheek, he felt something trickling out of the corner of his cousin’s mouth and his fingers came away with something dark and sticky. He swallowed hard against the dizziness that assailed him and fought to control his tears for the sake of Théodred.

“My…doom…is here,” Théodred continued, his voice hardly above a cracked whisper, “but you…Éomer…will fight on…until Hope comes.”

“I cannot fight without you,” Éomer whispered, finally finding his voice.

Théodred smiled again and his eyes moved up to look into Éomer’s. “You must…You must continue…to fight…Go back to…Éowyn…and my father…Lead the Rohirrim…” He trailed off, closing his eyes as he found himself to weary to continue.

Éomer nodded slowly out of respect, and bending, he kissed Théodred’s forehead. “I will do as you say,” he murmured as he watched his cousin’s breaths become fainter, “out of my love and honor for you.”

Théodred gave a small sigh and his faint smile lingered as he slowly raised one arm to clasp Éomer’s hand. Éomer took his kinsman’s hand in both of his and kissed it. He felt Théodred press his hands weakly and then he saw the son of Théoden’s chest fall with one final breath, and become still. His hand in Éomer’s went limp.

A roaring sound filled Éomer’s ears and he only dimly heard Grimbold and Elfhelm’s weeping as he stared at Théodred’s still face, looking peaceful and at rest in his lap. He hardly heard the sound of his own sobs, or his loud, anguished cry of “Théodred!” 

To be continued...

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*sniffle* I changed Théodred’s last words from “Let me lie here—to keep the Fords til Éomer comes” for the obvious reason that in my story, Éomer is there already. I hope you’ll forgive me for that deviation… and for killing Théodred in the first place. *sigh* Blame Tolkien for that.