13: Another Threat Looms
Author’s Note: A description of the aftermath of an attack on a village may be upsetting for some readers. I have tried not to make it too graphic, but some descriptions just cannot be avoided.
****
"We found traces of Men crossing the river here and here," Thandir said the next morning, pointing to two areas on a map that lay on a trestle table. The Elves were gathered in the hall with Aragorn, Heruthain and Cedric, breaking their fast as they gave their report. "In each case the tracks lead towards one of the villages."
"How old are the tracks?" Heruthain asked.
Thandir shrugged. "Hard to say, but at a guess, no more than two weeks old."
The captain of the éored stared at the map and then glanced at Cedric who shook his head. Aragorn turned to the Elves standing there patiently, as if they had all the time in Arda, which of course they did, he reflected wryly to himself.
"The tracks lead towards the villages," the Dúnadan said, "but no tracks were found leading away from the villages."
Thandir shook his head. "I didn’t say that, Estel. I said we found tracks leading from the river. There are no tracks going back to the river, but there were plenty of tracks leading elsewhere."
Cedric grunted. "Would you care to explain that, Master Elf?"
Thandir sighed as if what he had just said should have been obvious even to a child. "We followed the tracks to the villages. In each case the village had obviously been attacked recently. The tracks led into the village but did not return to the river. Instead they headed north."
"What?" Heruthain exclaimed. "But that would have put them in the path of the returning éored. How could we have missed them?"
The Imladris scout shrugged dismissively. "That is something you will have to learn on your own. My friends and I have done our part and we would leave you now to decipher this puzzle for yourselves. Imladris calls for us and we would go."
Heruthain looked ready to argue the point but Aragorn stepped in, speaking somewhat formally. "Thank you for your help, my friend. Please give my best regards to the Lord of Imladris when you meet." Then he switched to Sindarin. "Tell my adar he need have no fear for me, Thandir. I am well, as is Gilhael."
For a moment the Elves did not move, then Thandir gave the Mortals a slight bow of the head. "We leave now. Thank you for your hospitality, Cedric Héadofmann." Then, without another word the three Elves turned and left the hall, walking with such fluid grace that it left the Men watching them feeling incredibly clumsy and earthbound.
When the Elves had disappeared the three Mortals at the table turned back to the map. Heruthain muttered an oath under his breath. Then he gave the other two men a sour glance. "Earntungol, tell the éored to mount up. We’re heading out."
Aragorn gave the captain a bow and left, calling for Wídfara to alert the other men. Inside ten minutes the éored was heading south to their next destination. Looking northward, Aragorn sought for signs of the Elves, but, of course, there weren’t any, nor did he actually expect to see them. Within twenty minutes, Dunwulfstun was out of sight as the éored followed a bend of the mountain.
****
The next village on their route was even smaller than Dunwulfstun and Aragorn suspected it didn’t even have a name, or if it did, he never learned it. The denizens greeted the éored politely enough and news was passed between them, along with the beer, but Heruthain lingered just long enough to assure himself that all was well with the village before giving the orders to move on. They ended up bivouacking some six leagues beyond. The mountains loomed menacingly above them to the east and the plains stretched out all about them. The River Isen was lost to sight; not even a thin ribbon of blue on the horizon marked its path.
As was their habit, Aragorn and Heruthain shared a fire. Wídfara joined them this time, looking somewhat morose. Aragorn gave him a smile.
"What is it, my friend? What has you looking as if you’ve lost your best horse in a bet?"
Heruthain snorted at that and gave the younger Rohir a shrewd look. "Methinks the lad is pining for his elvish friends."
Aragorn saw Wídfara blush and nodded his understanding. "I rather miss them, too," he said reflectively and saw the Rohir give him a grateful smile.
"Are they always so... so...."
"Mercurial?" Aragorn supplied with a smile.
"Graceful," Wídfara corrected the Dúnadan and Aragorn raised an eyebrow.
"It is natural to them, my friend," he said carefully, suddenly understanding Wídfara’s mood. "It is nothing to which any of us Mortals can aspire."
Wídfara nodded and sighed. Heruthain looked questioningly at Aragorn and the Dúnadan shook his head before returning his attention to the younger Man. "That does not mean we do not have our own grace, for we do and we should rejoice in it."
"What grace do we have that would rival the grace of the Firstborn?" Wídfara asked, unconvinced by Aragorn’s words.
"I did not say that our grace rivals that of the Firstborn. I said that we have our own grace with which the One endowed us and we should rejoice in it and develop it to the best of our abilities."
"And what grace would that be, young man?" Heruthain asked with a scowl. "For I will admit me that when the dwimmorfolc were in my presence I felt clumsy and uncouth, something I have not felt since I was younger than Wídfara here. I little liked the way they made me feel."
Aragorn nodded, aware of how Elves often affected many Mortals. He did not speak immediately, but gathered his thoughts carefully. "It is the grace to pick ourselves up and continue on against all odds of survival."
"Huh?" Wídfara said. "That doesn’t sound like any grace to me."
"Does it not?" Aragorn countered and shrugged. "Compared to the Eldar, we Mortals are weak in body and spirit, yet there is a core of adamant within us that always surprises the Firstborn when it manifests itself. Where even they would have given up, we go on, though it lead to our deaths. We can never surpass them in either beauty or grace, but we can hold our own alongside them and that is a special grace that could only have come from the One who created us both."
Heruthain took in a breath and there was a look in his eyes that told Aragorn that he had touched the older man on some level. Wídfara looked less convinced, but even his posture was more thoughtful and his dark mood had lifted somewhat. Aragorn nodded, then he excused himself to take up the watch.
****
For the next few days the éored fell into a routine of stopping at the villages, making sure all was well with them before moving on. It was now the height of the harvest and most of the villagers were abroad, reaping the fields. It was not unusual for the members of the éored to give them a hand on occasion. It was hot and sweaty work and Aragorn was convinced he would have a permanent crick in his neck, but it brought the harvest in all the quicker.
Some of the éored took a few of the village men and older boys and put them through their paces, training them to better guard their people.
"Do not try to save the crops," Éomund would tell them. The doughty warrior was usually assigned by Heruthain to train the villagers. "Crops can be resown, lives cannot. The granaries of the king are full and there is a surplus. Do not concern yourselves with preserving foodstuffs or livestock. Concentrate on preserving the lives of your families instead."
It was sound advice but Aragorn did not think too many would heed it. It was difficult to stand by and watch the fruits of your labor go up in smoke or be carted off by others, but Éomund was right: crops could be resown, lives were forever lost.
The éored swept south and west, swinging away from the mountains at last, and headed northwest across the Mark towards the River Isen. Here, the distance between the mountains and the river was at its widest and it would take them more than a week to traverse it.
"There are several villages between here and the river," Heruthain told Aragorn. "They are quite prosperous and ripe for the picking, I deem, for the raiders had not gotten this far south when last we patrolled this area."
"Cedric said the raiders were moving southward," Aragorn said reflectively, "but there must be two groups, one of which disguises themselves as Rohirrim."
Heruthain nodded. "Yes, and we will have to address that eventually, but I am more interested in finding this other group of raiders and putting an end to their marauding."
****
They saw the smoke before they saw the village. It was nearly twilight and Heruthain had planned to spend the night at this particular settlement. From the looks of things, though, they were not likely to receive any kind of warm welcome.
They came upon the first bodies in the newly gleaned fields surrounding the village. From the looks of it, these people had been fleeing the village and had been struck down even as they fled. Women and children, mostly, Aragorn noted with rising fury that was all the more frightening to see for the Dúnadan’s expression was cold and implacable. The Rohirrim were grim-faced and they drew their weapons to the ready.
Then, Aragorn spied something to the right and with a whisper to Mithfaron, he slid from the horse’s back. "Heruthain, do not follow," he commanded in a hiss and before the captain of the éored could respond, Aragorn was gone. Heruthain was tempted to call the young man back but was afraid of making any loud noise in case the raiders were still about. The sun had set in a blaze of glory not long before and they were all in shadow.
After a few tense moments, the Rohirrim saw the Dúnadan return, bent over as he studied the ground. As he approached the éored, Heruthain hissed. "What have you found?" Aragorn didn’t answer immediately but climbed onto Mithfaron’s back.
"Answers," came Aragorn’s hoarse whisper. "Come, this may be worse than we think." He gave Mithfaron quick instructions and the elven-bred horse set off in a gallop across the darkened plain. Heruthain muttered an angry curse and ordered the éored to follow.
It was when they reached the first burning building that Heruthain suddenly understood what Aragorn had meant.
"Béma help us," he whispered and he and the other Rohirrim sat upon their horses looking upon a scene of absolute carnage. Bodies were strewn about, broken in ways not to be considered by any sane person — men, women, children. Most were headless and when they made their slow way into the village center, they saw why.
Heruthain reeled in his saddle, unaware that Aragorn had caught him before he fell out of it. "Steady, man," Aragorn said in a hiss. "Whatever horror they suffered, they are beyond it and safely in Lord Námo’s hands. No more harm can touch them now, nor any evil."
"Wh-what does this mean?" Wídfara asked after being violently sick. He was not the only one, but he seemed to recover more quickly than some of the other Riders.
Aragorn looked grim in the firelight as they all gazed upon a scene from their deepest nightmares. "No Dunlending did this," he said bruskly. "This was done by orcs." Then his gaze fell upon the severed head of a child amidst the jumble of heads stacked haphazardly in the town center and he allowed himself to weep.
****
Morning just made the carnage seem worse. The éored had allowed the fires to burn themselves out and left the village to set up camp a half league away and upwind from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. No one slept and when dawn finally appeared, they made their way back to the village to care for the dead and garner what clues they could. It was a terrible task and more than one Rider was seen running to the edge of the village to become violently ill. Aragorn spent most of his time practically crawling upon the blood-stained ground looking for clues. There were precious few, but Aragorn made some shrewd guesses based on what he found.
"They came from the mountains," he told Heruthain once the grisly task of burying the dead had ended. They were all taking turns at the village well, washing the blood and grime from them as best they could. "They went back that way too but not directly."
"What do you mean?" the captain asked as he accepted a pail of water for himself.
"It appears the orcs went south before turning east again. That’s why we missed them coming from the other direction. I suspect several leagues separated us from them, for which we can be thankful."
"Why do you say that, Outlander?" Éomund asked harshly, standing nearby. "Think you we are cowards or untrained youths to run even from orcs?"
"Peace, Éomund," Aragorn said placatingly. "I meant no such thing, but from the evidence I found the orcs easily outnumber us three to one."
All who heard him paled at the thought.
"Even if we had a full éored we could not have bested them," Heruthain said in a defeated voice.
"These villagers never had a chance," Aragorn said with a nod, looking immeasurably sad. This was not the first orc-depredated village he had ever seen, but it was the most horrific in scope. He wondered briefly if the orcs Thandir and the other Elves had sought and killed had been heading to join up with their fellows.
"So now we have three groups of marauders," Heruthain said with a weary sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a monumental headache and he feared it was about to get worse.
"The one group disguising themselves as Rohirrim, I think, we can ignore for now," Aragorn ventured, "though, if they are not stopped soon, the rest of the Westmark may well rise up against us. The greater threat is the orcs. They will not stop at just one village and there is the whole of the Westmark for them to plunder. No one is safe."
"What if we send people to the south to warn them?" Wídfara ventured somewhat hesitantly. He was the youngest member of the éored and had no real standing among the older men, but his friendship with the Dúnadan gave him some measure of respect and his words were not dismissed out of hand.
"Would they believe us, though?" Éomund asked and many there shook their heads, knowing well how suspicious the people of the Westmark were of the Rohirrim. Their allegiance was suspect and there was much distrust between the two peoples.
Aragorn shook his head. "It would do no good, I deem, for while we are at one village giving warning, another may well be attacked. And can we really afford to split our troop? Our only chance is to seek out the orcs’ den and destroy them, but for that we would definitely need more men."
Wídfara gave the Dúnadan a worried look. "H-have you fought against orcs before, Lord?"
Aragorn gave the younger man a sympathetic look. "Yes, I have, though never against such numbers as these. We often wondered where the surviving orcs went after the Battle of Five Armies. Now I think I can guess." He closed his eyes. "I need to get word to Imladris. Lord Elrond must hear of this, and Thengel must also be warned. This is a far graver threat than any can imagine."
"And why would the Dwimmorfolc care if we are being preyed upon by orcs?" asked one of the other Rohirrim who came from the lands around Helm’s Deep.
Aragorn gave the man a piercing look, but his voice was soft and there was no anger in it. "Lord Elrond has fought against orcs since the First Age, Grimhelm. Though he has not wielded a sword these last three thousand years, still, his sons ever hunt down orcs in memory of the ones who nearly destroyed their mother, forcing her to forsake these lands for the Blessed Realm. Lord Elrond has dedicated his life to protecting all those who fall prey to the Shadow, however it manifests itself. He needs to know, as does Thengel King."
"How will you get such a message to him, then?" Wídfara asked excitedly, wondering if the Dúnadan knew of some Elf-magic that would speed his message on.
Aragorn smiled at the younger man’s excitement and cast a wry glance at Heruthain, who was equally amused. "Why? Are you volunteering to ride to Imladris to deliver the message yourself?" he asked in a teasing voice.
Wídfara visibly paled. "Me?" he squeaked in surprise and the men standing around him laughed good-naturedly at that.
Aragorn shook his head. "Don’t worry, my friend. There are other ways for me to get a message to the Lord of Imladris without depriving this éored of a valuable Rider such as yourself."
The younger man almost preened at those words and the other Rohirrim looked upon the Dúnadan with open respect, for as much as they might tease Wídfara for his youthful eagerness, they recognized his abilities as a warrior and a Rider and were pleased that this Outlander also recognized the young man’s worth.
"So what do we do, Heruthain?" Grimhelm finally asked. "Continue as we have or forsake the patrol for Helm’s Deep?"
Heruthain thought for a moment, then shook his head. "We continue as we have, but we linger not, staying only long enough in each village along the way to give them warning. If we maintain a steady pace we can be back in Helm’s Deep inside a fortnight."
"And perhaps," Aragorn added, "we might run into the Dunlendings and put an end to that threat at least."
"One can only hope," Heruthain said with a grim nod.
****
They left the village shortly thereafter, all of them heartsick and weary, so they did not go far that day but camped early when they came to a small spring-fed pool. Heruthain suddenly declared to no one in particular that he needed to bathe and many of the men nodded, understanding what he really meant. Thus it wasn’t long before all but a few of the Rohirrim were standing in the cold water, eagerly scrubbing their bodies with cleansing sand, even as they hoped to scrub the memories of the previous night from their minds and souls. Aragorn elected to stand watch with one or two others, singing softly the Lay of Nimrodel in Sindarin. Even though they did not understand the words, those who heard him sing were oddly comforted.
Night gathered about them and the cooking fires were lit. Few had any real appetite, but none refused to eat, knowing that they needed to keep up their strength. The stars blazed forth and when Eärendil appeared, Aragorn sighed and gave the star a brief bow before retiring for the night, having been excused from the nightwatch by Heruthain.
"You stood watch earlier," the captain said when Aragorn protested, "when most of us were too busy washing away bitter memories. There’s no reason for you to stand two watches. Get some sleep, young man."
So, Aragorn was asleep when disaster struck.
It was the sound of someone screaming that brought the Dúnadan awake. His dreams had been somewhat troubling but not enough to disturb him completely. He was out of his tent with sword in hand before he was even fully conscious. All around him was chaos as men grappled with dark shapes that in the flickering firelight were made more hideous.
Orcs!
But worse than that. Aragorn saw that dark-haired men fought alongside them against the Rohirrim.
Dunlendings and orcs as allies!
Aragorn had no time to ponder this new information for soon he was being set upon and he found himself fighting for his life and the lives of his friends. It was wearying and the only thing that saved the Rohirrim was their horses, who, upon being released by Dunlendings attempting to steal them, promptly stampeded and began to attack the enemy, crushing the attackers wherever they could, so that soon Dunlendings and orcs were fleeing into the darkness. Aragorn’s own steed, in fact, led the way, the horses of the Rohirrim following the Elf-horse in their stampede.
Heruthain called for the fires to be stoked so they could see better what damage had been done. Most of the Rohirrim had survived the attack, but two were dead and one was likely not to live to see the dawn. The survivors looked after their wounded and began the grim task of giving any wounded orcs that they found a knife in the throat. The Dunlendings who were wounded they ignored for the moment, merely removing all weapons from their reach. Some would not survive the night as it was, so serious were their wounds, while the one or two who were not so gravely wounded would be questioned rather mercilessly in the morning. Whether they would be brought to Helm’s Deep as prisoners or slain outright remained a question none were eager to answer just then.
Of Aragorn there was no sign.
Wídfara called for his friend, searching the bodies of the dead and the wounded, tears running down his cheeks. He himself had suffered only scratches, though he was covered with blood and gore, all of it black. Then, luck found him and he stumbled over the body of an orc. He heard a groan from underneath the corpse and, pushing it off, found Aragorn. In the dark it was difficult to ascertain the man’s condition and Wídfara called for a brand. Heruthain came himself, bearing a torch.
"He does not appear to be too injured," Wídfara said with some relief, but when Heruthain went to lift the Dúnadan up they both gasped. Before the orc had died on Aragorn’s sword, it managed to slice the man’s left leg almost to the bone. The evil looking knife was still embedded in Aragorn’s thigh. Heruthain pulled it out with a vile oath. The wound was grave, but luckily the knife had missed the main artery. That wasn’t his main worry, though. Heruthain shoved the blade towards the light of the torch that he had given Wídfara to hold and nodded grimly.
"What is it, Heruthain?" Wídfara whispered fearfully.
"Poison, lad. The blade is covered with it."
****
All words and phrases are Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon) unless otherwise noted.
Dwimmorfolc: Elves, cf. Dwimmordene as a Rohirric name for Lórien.
Historical note: The Battle of Five Armies took place in T.A. 2941 when Aragorn was ten years old. See The Hobbit for further details.