Chapter 50: A Warrior to a Leader

WESTFOLD

Ignoring the malicious cawing birds above his head, Éomer’s heart sang with joy as he directed Firefoot through the gate and beheld at once the sight of the vast camp beyond the city walls. He looked around in wonder, still barely able to believe that so many had followed his call despite Wormtongue’s poisoned words. As he slowly advanced, heads turned his way and the Riders pointed at him and waved, shouting their greetings which Éomer gladly returned. And yet the warriors’ friendliness was not the main reason for the fast beating of his heart; it was the long line of riders still on the road and carrying the banner of a stylised white horse-head upon green toward the camp. The Eastfold had finally come!

Soon, the clear sound of their horns pierced the air in salute, and again the warriors in the camp shouted with joy, this time over the appearance of their eastern kinsmen. Urging Firefoot into a slow trot as he did not want to demand too much of the stallion on his first outing after the injury, Éomer approached the éoreds. How many riders were there? A thousand at least, he estimated, and together with the forces already camping before the city walls, they would form a formidable éohere. For the first time, the possibility of their victory no longer seemed fantastic.

With a little kick into Firefoot’s flanks, Éomer directed his stallion toward the grey horse at the head of the arriving host, whose rider now turned to him in recognition with the expression of honest, heart-felt joy on his red-bearded face.

"Éomer! Praised be the Gods!"

"Findarras! Old friend!" Clasping hands, the two warriors regarded each other with the fond affection of long separated brothers who had found together again.

"When we heard of the verdict, I feared for a moment never to see you again," the lanky Eastfold Captain said with a deep breath and shook his head as he measured Éomer. For another moment, his blue eyes rested on the last traces of the cuts on the younger man’s brow before he inquired cautiously: "Arnhelm said that you ran into orcs?"

Éomer snorted.

"I did not so much run into them than had the Worm send them after me. First his henchmen, and when I sent them back to him bleeding and weeping, he set his master’s orcs upon my track. He did not leave my death to chance, for he was right about one thing: when I return to Edoras, I will kill him slowly… and painfully." A sudden shadow fell on Findarras’ face at the mention of their capital, alarming Éomer. "What is it, Findarras? Do you have tidings from Edoras? How are things there? Please, you must tell me!" His gaze swept the approaching riders, but he could not detect the great bay horse he had hoped to find among them. Instinctively his stomach clenched into a knot. Not really wanting to ask the question when he already sensed the dispiriting answer, Éomer knew that there was no way to avoid it: "Elfhelm has not come with you?"

Findarras lips became a bloodless line in his strawberry-coloured beard.

"He did not return from Edoras." He saw the dismay in Éomer’s eyes and felt equally helpless. "Two days ago, shortly after Arnhelm brought us your summons, Éothain sent us a messenger, too, asking for support as he suspected that Edoras would soon be the target of an attack…"

"And he was right about it, only that we will now intercept that army before it can even move into the Mark," Éomer explained. "We will ride today after nightfall. I know that this won’t give you and your men much time to rest after the long ride, but--" Findarras’ dismissive gesture interrupted him in mid-sentence. "What?"

"I am worrying about that, Éomer, you know that our men and horses are hardy enough for such efforts. But Éothain’s messenger said something else that troubles me deeply: no one in Edoras saw Elfhelm arrive… although there can be no question that he must be there, for they found his horse on the plains, waiting for his master. The Worm must have arrested Elfhelm secretly, avoiding the people’s attention... and he seized power over Meduseld and barricaded the hall against our people with the aid of the Dunlending forces he somehow led undetected into the city. Béma alone knows how he accomplished that deed."

Éomer blinked.

"Dunlending forces in Meduseld?"

"Aye. I could hardly believe it myself when I heard it. And it is even worse…" Findarras braced himself, not really wanting to give Éomer the horrible news when his commander needed to focus on the battle at hand, but it was something the son of Éomund needed to know. "Gríma holds Éowyn and Théoden-King captive in the Golden Hall… along with other members of your uncle’s household. Céorl was seen there as well, and I think it would be reasonably safe to assume that--"

"—Gamling and Háma were captured, too," Éomer ended the sentence for him, his expression grim. "Like Elfhelm, you mean. Captured… or killed. Béma…" Forcefully exhaling, his gaze went to the eastern horizon, unfocussed. All had turned the way he had feared, and once again, the pull of the Lonely Hill seemed to be almost too strong to resist. How could he ride in the other direction now when he was needed so desperately in Edoras?

"Éomer?" Findarras brow creased with concern as he touched his Marshal’s arm.

"Aye, I heard you." Éomer shook his head to clear the cobwebs of the nightmare images from his mind. "I loathe saying it, but it cannot be helped for now. As hard as it is, but we cannot allow ourselves to be distracted from the battle. Alone to defeat Saruman we will need the Gods’ benevolence before we can even think of concerning ourselves with this problem. It is a decision I was forced to make days ago, and I tell you, Findarras, that it pains me still. But there is no other way; the Master must be dealt with first before we can see to the disposal of his minion." Éomer’s tone and expression hardened upon saying those words, leaving the older warrior with a clear indication of his friend’s disposition.

Understanding Éomer’s turmoil, Findarras nodded as he followed his marshal’s gaze, even if nothing was to be seen at the horizon. Above them, the enemy’s birds of ill omen still circled the forbidding sky while their many thousand eyes observed each of their movements to report it to their master; the din of their cries adding to the distant rumbling thunder. The sight of the swarm chased a shudder down the warrior’s spine – it was too easy to imagine those beasts sitting on the corpses of the fallen, pecking at their open wounds. Forcefully shoving the images back, Findarras inhaled. "Perhaps it helps to think that Wormtongue will not kill Éowyn. I am sure of this at least. All these years, the filth worked so hard to get her under his influence; he will surely not kill her now that he has finally achieved his aim. Or believes that he has. We will prove him wrong. He will not succeed."

"No, he won’t." If possible, Éomer’s expression grew even grimmer. "I agree that he won’t kill her… but he can do worse things to her. Far worse things of which I dare not even to think." Brusquely, he averted his eyes, turning Firefoot around as his gaze swept over the growing camp. "Béma, how can she endure it? And how can the Gods allow it?" he muttered under his breath, desperation threatening once again to overwhelm him. ‘Aye, Osred, it is indeed a privileged life I lead. Would you do the same in my place? Would you abandon Freya and your children to serve your land?’ The thought was worthless, and yet he was powerless to suppress it.

Not knowing how to comfort his friend, Findarras cleared his throat. "If we are still alive after the battle tomorrow, and if I am somehow still able to stay on a horse, I will accompany you to Edoras, Éomer, even if they’ll have to tie me to the saddle. We will all ride with you. We will free Éowyn… and the King. And the others. We will not come too late."

Éomer did not look at him as he nodded without conviction.

"I thank you, Findarras. It is appreciated. I will try to believe it." He lifted his chin and inhaled deeply, shoving the torturous images in his mind back to where they would not hinder him from leading their éohere to victory. "See that you and your men get some rest. There won’t be many opportunities to replenish our strength before we meet the enemy tomorrow."

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The day was growing old as Éomer followed Erkenbrand through the corridors to the armoury together with the other captains. At last, the time had come to prepare for battle and to clad themselves into mail and artfully decorated cuirasses of steel and leather to meet the enemy. For a while, the arrival of the Eastfold éoreds had lifted everyone’s spirits, but when twilight thickened beyond the windows of Erkenbrand’s halls, tension among the warriors grew to the point where all were glad to finally be on the way. None talked as they strode down the corridor.

Lost in his dark thoughts, Éomer passed through the door after the Westfold Captain, barely seeing the servant who held it open for them. Provided he survived, he would take whoever was left and ride east for as long as Firefoot remained on his legs and he was capable of staying on his back, through the night and storm and snow if needs be. Victory would be worthless if they defeated the Necromancer only to arrive in the City of Kings to find his blood-kin and friends slaughtered. It could not happen. He would not allow it.

"Marshal?" From Erkenbrand’s questioning expression, Éomer concluded that the man had already addressed him previously without response. "Will you follow me, please? I have something special to give to you." At last being granted the younger man’s attention, the older warrior turned to Aragorn, a gesture pointing toward the servants waiting to help the Riders into their armour. "Gentlemen, please help yourself to whatever our armoury can supply you with. My men will be glad to assist you in eery way."

Aragorn gave him a faint smile in reply.

"I thank you, Captain." He waved at his Dunedain and elven brothers. "Come."

The Lord of Westfold observed them for a moment longer before he shifted his attention back to the waiting son of Éomund and his Captain Grimbold. Upon his imperceptible nod, his weaponsmaster Gorthard stepped forth with a heavy bundle in his hands which he unfolded now.

"The Prince’s armour, my Lord." He looked at Éomer and inclined his head. "I repaired and polished it myself, and I am honoured to give it to you now, Marshal. May it bring you luck and help you to lead our forces to victory."

His voice too tight for a reply, Éomer could only nod his appreciation, his gaze glued to the shining rings of his cousin’s mail shirt, and for the first time ever, it dawned on him: if he survived and they returned to Edoras to cast out the usurper, they would in all likelihood find his uncle dead or at least demented for the rest of his life because of the poisons of Grima Wormtongue. Théoden would be unable to further lead their people – and so he - Éomer son of Éomund - would be next in line. He would be king. A band of steel suddenly tightened around Éomer’s ribs. He – a king? It could not be. Théodred had been groomed to succeed Théoden; Théodred had possessed the political skills needed for that position; it was something Éomer knew he lacked and yet had never earnestly tried to acquire. He had been born to roam the Mark on the back of his horse in protection of his people, not to sit in a dark hall and engage in the same sort of net-weaving he had always despised.

"Èomer?" Erkenbrand’s voice seeped into his concious. The Lord of Westfold had sensed his discomfort and regarded him with furrows forming on his brow. "Is aught wrong? Have you decided otherwise, perhaps, and don’t want to ride in Théodred’s armour anymore? I can give you another one, although I think that you were right by saying that your cousin would want you to wear his’."

"It is not that," Éomer at last managed to say, forcing the paralysing thought into the back of his mind. With a deep breath, he accepted the weaponsmaster’s gift. "I thank you for this, Gorthard, and I will be honoured to carry it into battle again."

"As I would be if you allowed me to help you with it, my Lord" Grimbold said by his side, barely daring to meet the younger man’s surprised gaze. "If you have forgiven my harsh words, I mean. As Théodred’s brother-in-arms, we always helped each other into our armours, and I would be glad to be allowed to continue this tradition with our new commander."

Moved by the gesture, Éomer laid a hand on the warrior’s shoulder.

"I know what it means to you, Grimbold, and please know that it would be an honour for me, too, to keep that tradition alive." From the corner of his eye, he saw Erkenbrand’s satisfied expression. "I do not have the words to express how much I appreciate your gesture, Captain. By giving me Théodred’s armour… I feel that I am riding into battle together with him again." He looked at his fingers resting upon the metallic rings. "I can feel his presence."

The older warrior gave him a faint smile, but his eyes were proud.

"Then we will have nothing to fear tomorrow, for your Cousin was a mighty man of war... and so are you, Éomer son of Éomund, despite your youth." He laid a hand on Éomer’s shoulder, and when he spoke, his tone had never sounded more serious: "Lead us to victory, my Commander!"

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It was an hour later when the warriors left the armoury, clad in long shirts of mail and elaborately worked cuirasses and cradling their helmets of similarly sophisticated craftsmanship under their arms. Despite their usual preference to go into battle lightly, even the elves had chosen a few well-considered items from Erkenbrand’s well-equipped shelves and looked ready to take on the White Wizard’s challenge. The only member of their fellowship who had not instantly found what he needed was a still disgruntled dwarf, who now wore a makeshift coat of mail the weaponsmaster’s assistants had hastily shortened for him, but which still gave him the feeling that all it took to make the iron rings burst across his chest was a deep breath. Concerned whether the garment allowed him enough freedom of movement, Gímli swung his axe to test the feeling, thus forcing a surprised gasp from Halbarad, who barely evaded the blade at the last moment.

"Careful, Master Dwarf! I would greatly appreciate if you kept your bloodlust restrained until we meet the enemy," the ranger said, a wary eye on the still whirling weapon, and Aragorn also gave his short friend an eloquent gaze. "There will be enough orc-heads to split for you by then."

"But you were in no danger," Gímli objected indignantly, patting the blade like one did with a dear friend. "I know how to handle my weapons. I would never have cut you. What?" He saw Legolas’ haughtily raised eyebrows and glared challengingly at his friend.

Before either the elf or the rangers could offer a reply, Erkenbrand, Éomer and Grimbold stepped out of the armoury, the last ones to exit, and stunned silence could be heard from the Rohirrim captains as they caught sight of their former Third Marshal in their Prince’s armour. Sensing their bafflement, the Lord of Westfold exchanged a quick glance with the young warrior before he lifted his chin and announced in a firm voice: "Before we ride, I want it to be understood that it will be Marshal Éomer who leads us into battle in Prince Théodred’s stead. The Worm’s verdict has been proven to be part of the White Wizard’s conspiracy, and all accusations against Éomer son of Éomund are hereby declared void in my house. I will follow the Marshal into battle without second thought. If one of you objects, then now is the time to speak out!"

All remained silent, and still the men’s gazes were full of wonder as they beheld the vast change in their Commander’s bearing. Éomer stepped forth, and even Aragorn had to take a second look to confirm that the determined and fierce-looking warrior in the shining armour before him was indeed the same man as the anxious, guilt-ridden and doubtful rider he had saved in the mountains seemingly an age ago. The man he was looking at now seemed older, more mature, as if part of the armours’ former owner’s presence had taken possession of Éomer to guide him, and when the Rohír’s dark eyes glided over him, he gave the young man an encouraging smile, showing him how pleased he was with the unexpected transformation. The warrior had become a leader.

Éomer’s gaze found Findarras, whose eyes were also wide with wonder.

"Are the men ready outside?"

"The men are ready and waiting for us, Marshal."

"Then let us go."