Chapter 43: War Council

EDORAS

Gríma was learning quickly, Éowyn had to admit as she concentrated on the taste of the measured sip of wine running down her throat. It had a slightly wooden aspect and went quickly to her head which was no wonder given her strained condition and how little she had eaten over the last days. She would have to drink it slowly, lest it would seriously impediment her ability to think, which grew ever more important these days. Right now, her adversary was studying her from the opposite side of the heavily laden table with the undivided attention of a predator stalking its prey. So far Wormtongue had learned that his efforts of keeping up a conversation were not appreciated and only resulted in his guest blocking him out and withdrawing even more into herself, so when he spoke now, he talked of things that needed no response, sometimes even humorous little anecdotes of his travels. He tried hard to make her feel more comfortable in his presence, and the truth was that Éowyn did feel less uneasy than the evening before, when she had sat on her chair rigid like a marble statue and just waited for the Worm to assault her. Since then, they had shared the morning and the midday meal and nothing else had happened than Gríma filling her plate and cup and behaving like the perfect host. He had not even tried to touch her hair again, apparently having sensed the anxiety caused by his closeness one evening earlier. Like so many times before, Éowyn wondered why he had not used one of his potions to break her will, and the obvious answer had surprised her: yes, his craving was as strong as ever, but after all that had happened, Gríma Wormtongue apparently still hoped that eventually, she would consent out of her own, free will. What a fool he was.

Avoiding his gaze as she felt an insane bout of laughter well up, Éowyn sat down her cup. She had been demonstrated the blackness of Gríma Wormtongue’s soul too many times to forget in this lifetime or the next; she had lost her brother and her cousin to his greed, and her uncle was as good as dead. When she had asked her captor to be allowed a brief visit, the Worm had denied her wish and yet had hinted that it was still a possibility if her behaviour toward him remained flawless for at least another day. She had fallen silent again and pressed her lips together, hating the degradation of having to beg and to swallow all signs of her contempt while the filth talked about a future they would not have together. Sooner would she die, but for now, Éowyn felt that she was using Gríma as much as he was using her. She would have to take it from here.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him cutting the piece of meat on his plate and then laying down the knife next to his right hand, and for a few heartbeats, she could not avert her eyes. It was a sharp knife, she noted, the first object in the room which would make a suitable weapon once she decided to act. But it was still out of the reach of her hands which were tied to the armrests of the chair with just enough length of rope to allow her to move her spoon between plate and mouth. She would have to be patient. With a soundless sigh, Éowyn took another mouthful of bread with which she had wiped the sauce from her plate, thankful for the silence. Yet no sooner had the thought crossed her mind when Wormtongue interrupted it.

“I am glad that you finally seem to feel a little more secure around me, my Lady,” he said in a low, confidential voice which made her shudder. The last time he had used it on her, she had almost fallen into a trance, unable to withdraw when her tormentor had put his face close to hers while he had whispered truths into her ear he could impossibly have known. “I meant what I said: we don’t have to be enemies. Things could be very different between us if you only gave up your stubborn resistance.”

“You mean we can be friends?” she forced herself to say before he would get angry at her again for remaining silent. Of course she knew what he really meant, and he knew that she knew. And still Gríma chuckled as if her desperate jest amused him greatly.

“Oh, I am sure that we will be very good friends once you have realised that I am not the evil man you picture me to be. I have emotions, too, my Lady. Compassion… and friendship… even love are no strangers to me, whether you believe it or not.” He paused to let the words sink into her mind. She felt slightly sickened by them. “They were buried underneath a mountain of bitterness imposed upon me by the way your kinsmen treated me, but each day now, I feel them grow stronger, and I honestly believe that I am ready to love again. All I ever wanted was to be useful to my people, and to be respected among them for my knowledge and loyalty. Yet all I was granted from the noble descendants of Éorl was disdain for no other reason than the colour of my hair. True, my father was a Dunlending, but there are many people of mixed ancestry in the Westfold, and their parents live among them like anyone else, never hurting anyone. And they are treated like dirt by your kind. They are the eternal target of your golden-haired children’s cruel jokes, and when they grow up, it is them who take the blame for everything that goes wrong. Mistrust and contempt follows them wherever they go, until they finally have no other path left to take then over the Isen, where they are welcomed with the same kind of disdain but this time for the Rohirric blood in their veins. You breed your enemies yourself, my Lady, and you can hardly complain about the hatred with which other peoples regard you. It is well-deserved. You were cruel to me, too, but as you see, I am willing to give you a chance.”

This time, Éowyn could not help herself; she looked up and her expression hardened.

“A chance? I don’t want to be granted a chance by you, Gríma Wormtongue. I hear a lot of self-pity in your words, but no responsibility. You were greeted with open arms by my uncle when you first took up your position. He trusted you – and you betrayed that trust by poisoning him and playing your evil games with us because you could not contain your greed!”

“I had no dealings with Saruman when I came here,” Wormtongue replied icily, and his pale eyes shot daggers at Éowyn. “It was you and your family who chased me into his arms with your open mistrust and your secret glances behind my back which you thought I would not see! May I remind you of the way your cousin and your brother treated me when all I wanted was to serve our people?”

Her wine cup fell and spilled its red contents onto the table cloth as Éowyn forcefully brought down her fist upon the table. For a moment, she was mesmerized by the redness, but when she looked up again, her eyes narrowed and their blue turned so cold that they looked like a frozen pond.

“Serve our people? You served them fine indeed! The moment that you set foot into Meduseld, you began to weave your nets and to play people against each other for your own advantage! You would not accept that I was not interested in your attention, so you forced me to concern myself with you through your intrigues and evil scheming! For years you tried to drive a spike between Éomer and Théodred, and between Éomer and the King, hoping my uncle would expel him so that you could get to me more easily! My brother saw into your heart the first time he looked at you, and he saw a greedy, selfish man who would pass over the corpses of those he had disposed of to satisfy his own craving. And yet here you sit in front of me, daring to wail in self-pity and say that it is all our fault? You only got what you deserved!” She was ruining it. Béma knew she had tried, but all restraints were suddenly swept away by a boiling red-hot flood of anger. On the opposite side of the table, Gríma narrowed his eyes.

“You are right at least in that regard, my Lady: I got what I deserved! I got you, and whether you come to me voluntary or not is no longer of concern to me, for you are mine now!” And with these words he jumped to his feet and rushed toward her. Frantically, Éowyn tore at her bonds, but it was to no avail, and as Wormtongue forcefully shoved her chair around so that she had to look at him, she collected all saliva left in her mouth and spit into his face.

“Then I hope you enjoy this, for this is the only thing you will ever get from me!”

“We will see about that,” he sneered as he reached around her head to grab a handful of the glorious golden tresses, tugging at them so hard that she had to lift her face to him with a pained gasp. Before Éowyn could draw another breath, Gríma pressed his mouth hard onto hers. She pressed her lips together, but it was too late for she could already feel his urging tongue in her mouth. What happened then was a reflex, a panicked reaction in the face of an assault: she bit down hard, and suddenly the thick taste of blood filled her mouth as Gríma recoiled with a pained noise. He drew back, but his lower lip was still caught between her teeth and she clamped them down with a feeling of triumph as she felt him twitch in pain. The next moment, something hard connected with the side of her head and the world slipped from her grasp. Plunging into blackness as if thrown into a deep well, the last thing Éowyn heard was Gríma’s voice yelling for the guard.

----------------

WESTFOLD

Following the former Third Marshal’s arrival, the warriors had first been appointed their rooms and given an opportunity to rest before they were invited to the evening meal in the hall. Over a table laden with freshly baked bread, thick potato soup and slices of pork marinated in honey and herbs the men had traded news from all parts of the Mark and – thanks to Aragorn’s presence – even from outside their realm until well after nightfall. Like the Captain of Westfold, Grimbold had listened to Éomer’s and Aragorn’s reports with a sinking feeling in his stomach, until at last he felt it impossible to remain quiet.

“But wouldn’t we stand a better chance of defeating them if we drew them to Helm’s Deep instead? Its walls have never been breached, and we could repel even an army of much greater number from their safety. If Saruman’s army is indeed readying itself for the final assault, then we should await it there and make them pay dearly for the attempt!” Furrows formed on his brow as he saw Éomer shake his head in response to his outburst. “Why not?”

“Alas, I fear that is not an option, or at least not one that we should consider. Aye, I agree that the odds of defeating Saruman’s forces might be better if we hide in the fastness, but by doing so, we would at the same time invite them to raid our unprotected settlements instead. They would be foolish not to avoid us for as long as we sit in Helm’s Deep, waiting for them and doing nothing. They are not noble, seeking only battle against an armed opponent. If we permitted them to move unchallenged from village to village, they could kill our stock and ruin our fields at their leisure to leave behind burnt earth until only at last, there would be nothing else left for them to destroy and they would come for us. Even if we defeated them in the end, we would quickly perish in the famine afterward. No. Even if it will most likely result in more deaths on our side, we must meet them before they pass the Fords, or Rohan pays for it. And we must ride soon, for I expect them to strike any day now.”

“To attack the enemy while he is still shaking off sleep?” Erkenbrand mused, stroking his beard in an unconscious gesture while he contemplated Éomer’s suggestion. Briefly, his gaze found Aragorn who regarded him silently over the rim of his raised cup. “And still Saruman’s teeth will be sharp once he has fully woken. We were already almost defeated by his creatures in the last battle, and he was not even there himself. It can only get worse if we attack him on his own grounds! None of us know the terrain, for it has been too dangerous for scouts on the other side of the Isen for quite a while. For the past weeks, we have seen great columns of smoke rise from the Wizard’s Vale, but we do not know what devilry he has conceived. Perhaps he even is laying a trap there for us, waiting for us to attack. No, I feel very uncomfortable at the thought of riding into his lair blindly.”

“But each day that we wait, his orcs multiply,” Éomer said. “The army we will face once he sets them in motion because he deems himself ready will be much greater than the one we would face now.” Erkenbrand leant forward, his elbows on the table, and the intensity of his deep voice filled the room.

“Perhaps that is so, but we would have the advantage of the place if we fought here, and it would be an immeasurable advantage! I doubt that Saruman would accompany his orcs into the Mark, but if we fight at Isengard, we will be within his reach. What could we do against the might of a wizard? Even if he didn’t have an army of giant orcs at his disposal, he can probably kill us all with a snap of his fingers. If Gandalf Greyhame were still alive and joining us in battle, aye, then perhaps I would see a chance, but you said he was killed under the mountains. So what hope do we have left?”

“The hope stemming from the knowledge that the Rohirrim have never been defeated once their united forces stood against an enemy. The hope coming from the knowledge that your people prevailed under the grimmest circumstances for more than five hundred years,” Aragorn answered instead of Éomer, in intensity equalling the Lord of Westfold as he put down his cup. “And the knowledge that your enemies still fear your hardiness and determination enough to have first attempted to weaken you from within before they dared to strike. You proved that attempt futile, and now it is time to demonstrate to your enemy that he was indeed right: that you cannot be defeated once Rohan stands united.”

Erkenbrand stared at him, but in his grey eyes uncertainty still lingered instead of conviction.

“But what about the wizard? We never faced a wizard before. How can we hope to defeat him?”

“You underestimate your own strength” the Dúnadan replied passionately, his gaze urging. “Yes, Saruman has powers which we cannot begin to comprehend, but even so, he is made of flesh and blood like a man, and he can be killed by an ordinary arrow like everyone else.”

Grimbold snorted. It was getting late, and they were getting nowhere.

“Perhaps that is as you say, Lord Aragorn. I will not doubt it, but don’t Saruman’s powers enable him to kill those presenting a threat to him long before they have advanced far enough to actually become a danger? For everything I know, he could let fire rain from the sky onto our heads once we approach his tower.”

“Everything is possible in battle,” Aragorn said cryptically. “But history is full of fallen warriors who deemed themselves undefeatable… not least of all the Dark Lord himself. In fact it could very well be Saruman’s self-assuredness which presents us with our greatest chance.”

“But even if we don’t know how great Saruman’s powers are--” Éomer interrupted forcefully “— I would prefer to die in battle, hewn by the enemy in an attempt to defy him than crawl on my stomach through the smoking ashes of the wasteland I once called my home and perish in the famine that would follow our hollow victory if we followed your suggestion. I don’t know how you feel about it.”

Leaden silence spread in the room; the only noise coming from the crackling of the flames in the fireplace. At last, Erkenbrand nodded.

“How many do you think will answer your call?”

“I don’t know, but we will have to do with those who come. I know that the Westfold forces suffered great losses during the last battles, but I feel confident that the Eastfold’s éoreds are still behind me, and that they are possibly already on the way. If we can summon five thousand spears, we might have a chance.”

“And yet it is a long way from the Eastfold to the Isen. How long will you wait for them? You said earlier that we need to make haste, lest the enemy will be ready for us despite our surprise attack.”

“Aye, and I meant it.” Éomer inhaled deeply, and his gaze travelled over the present men. “I will give the éoreds two more days. On the third day, we must ride, no matter how many have come by then. Something is telling me that even this might already be too late, but we will achieve nothing if we ride with only three éoreds. My errand-riders were sent east two days ago and will have delivered their message by now, and the people of your ward were alerted by our advance force yesterday. Tomorrow, we should see the arrival of the first éoreds.” He paused. “Now you know everything, Lord Erkenbrand, and I need to hear whether you will join us in this attack. Will you ride with us?”

----------------

MEDUSELD

“—will gladly do this, but what about what you told me?”

“I no longer care. She wants it this way, she gets it, and I will enjoy it in a different way. If we cannot be companions, then we will be master and slave. She brought it about herself.”

Wormtongue’s voice sounded strained and muffled, and for a moment, disorientation was too great to remember what had happened when sensation crept back into Éowyn’s body. But when she opened her eyes and found herself still lying on the floor with her hands and feet tied to the overturned chair, she suddenly remembered what had happened and looked up. Her tormentor stood next to the door in discussion with the big Halfblood who had been acting as his right hand, and from his hissing speech and hectic gestures she concluded that he was still raging mad at her. With satisfaction, Éowyn watched as Wormtongue pressed an already bloodied handkerchief against his mutilated lip, and the taste of his blood on her tongue brought a faint smile to her face even against the violent throbbing of her head. She had hurt him. For the second time, she had drawn his blood and although it was clear that he would quickly avenge himself it was a comforting thought. At least she had and restored her dignity.

“—here in your chambers?” she heard Felrod ask when she shifted her attention back at the two men again. “You saw how dangerous she still is!”

“Tied and gagged she will no longer be a danger to me,” Wormtongue sneered with a quick glance at her, causing an involuntary shiver to race down Éowyn’s spine. What was he contemplating? Trying to escape her ties, she frantically moved her hands back and forth and hissed softly as the rope bit into the soft skin of her wrists. Quickly she had to admit that there was no way of freeing herself this way and she sank back, giving up in time to hear her tormentor’s next words. “But first, I want her to witness the effect of her assault. Go and tell your men to meet us in the dungeon. It is about time that our King’s haughty niece sees what pain her stubbornness causes other people!”

‘Elfhelm!’ All breath left her. ‘Oh no, Béma forgive me!’

----------------

The sound of the footsteps was different this time; hard, quick and determined, and their urgency woke Elfhelm from the stupor in which he had spent the past hour since they had taken Éowyn upstairs. He knew at once what the sound meant and what was coming at him, and although the prospect of further torture chilled his blood, Elfhelm’s heart suddenly sang in triumph for he knew that Éowyn had not yet surrendered to the Worm’s foul game. Her will had not been broken yet, and no matter what would happen to him, that discovery alone was worth any amount of pain the Worm could inflict on hin. Perhaps they could not win against Saruman’s crooked minion, but they could bitter the taste of his victory by defying him even in their death. It was a comforting thought.

When the new Lord of Meduseld and his guards stopped before his cell and the big Halfblood unlocked the door, Elfhelm’s gaze went past his adversary who held in his hands a nine-tailed whip of leather with iron spikes at its ends.

“Get the tunic off him!” Wormtongue growled, and Felrod cut the bloodstained rags off his body with a broad, expectant grin on his face. And still Elfhelm spared him not a single glance. His gaze locked with Éowyn’s, he braced himself for the pain, and at the same time, smiled at her in encouragement. ‘I am proud of you, my Lady’, his gaze said, oblivious to the wet trails of the tears on her cheeks. ‘You did not yield, not even for my sake. Your pride soothes my pain, and the knowledge that his victory will be hollow allows me to die with a glad heart. He will be denied what he craves the most.’ He saw that she understood and felt comforted, until the cracking of the whip plunged him into a realm of pain.