Twilight of the Gods

CHAPTER 19

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With a gasp, he jumped back, and Galdur’s agonised scream rang over the battlefield as the lance skewered him through the armour and through the abdomen!

“Elfhelm!”

“Stay away, Éomer! He’s a traitor!” The marshal’s face was a mask of unrelenting disdain as he brought his steed to an abrupt stop next to them, almost causing the stallion to tread onto the seriously injured soldier in the process. “He was trying to kill you.”

His words were clear. Even the noises of the battle were dying down around them, so there was no way to misunderstand what the new Lord of Westfold had said. Yet Éomer’s mind was unable to grasp their meaning as he stood rooted to the spot, staring at his friend of many years before he stared at the fallen captain.

“What?”

A brief glance confirmed to the older warrior that their attackers were indeed under control and being herded toward a shallow niche in the rock wall. From the corners of his eyes, he also saw Thor coming their way with the reins of Éomer’s stallion in hand. His gaze grew cold as he stared down on Erkenbrand’s second-in-command.

“He was coming up behind you with his spear readied when you were fighting the three Dunlendings. Had I not intercepted him, it would be you lying on the ground impaled. Apparently, the expression of ‘having your back’ has quite a different meaning in the Westfold, does it, scum?” Elfhelm snorted, feeling tempted to grasp the shaft of his protruding spear and twist it. In answer, the deadly pale man on the ground spat at his feet, a mixture of saliva and blood.

“Galdur? Captain…” Éomer felt as if he had been hit over the head by a troll. His own soldier had attempted to assassinate him? Numbly, barely noticing what he was doing, he accepted Battleaxe’s reins from his scout’s hands as Thor rode up at his side. “Why?”

“Sire, I hate to interrupt, but we have rounded up the enemy against the wall. You will need to talk to them, my lord. Before they try a feint, or whatever comes to their minds.” Slowly, as if he was waking from deep sleep, his king’s eyes turned to him. Then, suddenly shifting his attention to what lay behind the captain’s shoulder, he seemed to return to reality.

“Aye…” With a last confused glance at the man on the ground, he stepped over to his stallion’s side and swung into the saddle. “Elfhelm, watch him. Make sure he survives until he can be questioned, or try now and see what you can find out. I will be back shortly.”

The marshal nodded and cast a meaningful glance at the wounded soldier.

“Aye, sire. My pleasure.”

Éomer’s expression darkened even more when he turned his attention to the captain’s steed. It was obvious the stallion would not get back on his legs again. He hated to give the next order, but it was the merciful thing to do. A small nod towards the grey.

“Put him out of his misery, Elfhelm. He should not be forced to suffer any longer.“ The Lord of Westfold knew what he had to do, and his expression told Éomer clearly how much he dreaded his task. Killing their beloved horses, even if the case was hopeless, was hard for any Rohirrim. They were partners in battle, no less. It was their horses who had enabled their people who were spread over such a vast land to endure against all odds. It was with a heavy heart that the older warrior drew his sword. Éomer chose not to wait. He turned to Thor.

“Come with me. I need you to speak some Dunlendish for me.”



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The moment he had seen them was the moment they had already vanished among the rocks. When Aragorn turned to spur on his horse, fighting two Dunlendings blocking his way, he followed only the direction the men must have taken since they had not appeared on the battlefield. He called to his men to follow him, but they only heard his command when Fáred on the other side of the battle repeated it. Shedding off their screaming enemies the ranks of the Royal Guard formed anew to accompany their king. Gazing upwards at the rugged walls Aragorn stood in the stirrups, silently hoping that the leaders had not escaped into the mountains. There was no way to be sure, but only to follow the narrow path along the mountain slope which he could see from his position. Hilberon in front of him suddenly pointed out to some shapes in dark clothes, mingling with the colours of the mountains. Closing in Aragorn distinguished two broad frames and one, considering that one to belong to a younger man. His face he could not see, but they would soon reach them. Upon his command the soldiers spurred their steeds into gallop, only to notice that the figures eluded their pursuers once more as if they could blend into the rocks and stones. Hilberon turned in the saddle, guilt in his features. The king signalled him to move on. There had to be a way to find them and – if they were not willing to halt by themselves – stop and hinder them from escaping again.

“There!” Tarés suddenly shouted raising his arm. “They take that curve!” He looked over his shoulder to see the king and the others follow and wondered how the Dunlendings could have been so quick compared to the speed of the soldiers' horses. But there would be time to dwell on this subject later. Right now they all only wanted to reach the hillmen as fast as possible before they had a chance to vanish again.


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“People of Dunland!” Éomer’s gaze swept the rows of defeated, anxious hillmen his éored had herded into the cornice. Worried black eyes met his gaze in dread. Some of the men were bleeding, some holding various body parts in pain, but all in all, it appeared as if the Rohirrim and their Gondorian brothers had largely succeeded in disarming their attackers and keeping them alive. “We have not come to kill you, this much should be clear to you by now. If we wanted to slaughter you, it would have been easy to do, and even now, as you are standing disarmed, unable to defend yourselves, doing what you expected us to do would be far easier than achieving our real goal.” He inhaled, waiting for Thor at his side to finish and meeting the eyes of a particularly broad, yet not very tall man he remembered from Edoras. One of the guards, if he was not mistaken.

“We are here because we want to talk. Because we want to salvage of our peace talks what can be salvaged, but since you would not listen, some of you have been wounded now, and a few even killed, although that had not been our intention.”

“Lies!” An angry voice yelled out of the crowd, and Éomer’s attention shifted to the stout man who was making his way to the front row now. He locked eyes with his scout who lowly repeated the uttered accusations in Rohirric. “You killed the leader of our delegation, and now you have come to finish what you have begun!”

“So why is it you’re still alive then, Durden? Why did we allow you to return to your land and alert your people? Why did we not slaughter you before you left the Mark, for it would have been the easiest thing in the world. Tell me!” Éomer urged Battleaxe a few steps forward, forcing the angry Dunlending back. Furious glances sized him up, contemplating whether it there was a possibility to drag the king from his horse and drastically change their position in these negotiations. Yet the Rohirrim king was smart enough to halt just outside their reach, and his guards were watchful. “And why did we not kill you and your men even though you ambushed us? Why did we take the greater risk of only disarming you?”

The leader snorted angrily.

“What do I know about forgoil-tactics?”

“Right,” Éomer repeated, glowering down. “What do you know? Nothing we could do would ever convince you of our good intentions. I meant what I said during the parley. I am as devastated by what happened as you. Never had blood been spilled in the Golden Hall, and whoever desecrated its sanctity will have to pay for it. I have set my mind on finding out who it was, and if you should know one thing about me, Durden, it is that I always achieve what I set out to do. Here and now, I give you my word that Grodes’ murderer will be brought to justice, no matter whether he is Dunlending or Rohirrim.”

Low muttering went through the rows when Thor had finished.

“You, however, should ask yourself whether it is really in your people’s best interest to simply shun the prospects of being granted farmland in the Mark. Have you already told these men who fought against us so courageously of our proposal? Do they know that if they would have killed us, the prospects of ever settling our conflict and being able to sustain themselves would have vanished? Did you tell them, Durden?”

The muttering increased in volume under Thor’s calm voice, and suddenly the Dunlending leader found himself in the focus of his kinsmen’s attention, their expressions ranging from bewilderment to anger.

“That is right,” Éomer took the opportunity to speak into the dumbfounded confusion. “We offered your leaders land in the Mark for a hundred and fifty of your people to plough. We offered them the protection of an éored and the knowledge of our people to help them with the work on the field. Our offer still stands, which is why we have come here to reconfirm it. Ask yourself whether you really want to throw this opportunity away. Ask your leaders. We will grant you the time to discuss this among yourselves. We left our main host at the Rohan side of the Isen. We will wait there for ten days. If you accept to continue the negotiations, you will get there in time and bring the Rohirrim captives you took from the two settlements you raided. If you are not there, we will know that you have no more interest in peace talks, and you will then have to face the consequences of your decision.”

“What choice is this?” Durden grumbled, yet sounding insecure under the close scrutiny of his people. Éomer stared him down.

“It is the choice between life and death for your people, Durden. Nothing less. Choose wisely.” He turned Battleaxe around and sent the stallion into a swift trot that brought him up next to his scout. “Let us follow Elessar, Thor. Lead the way.”


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The sandy turf turned to slippery stone, and their surroundings closed them in. Pillars of stone loomed like watchmen at the entrance of the southern part of the Misty Mountains, forcing those who wanted to follow the path to do so on their feet. Brego already reared, unwilling to set his hoofs into the hollow-sounding gorge. Aragorn looked up to the ledge the tribal leaders had been standing on not long ago. They must have passed through here; there was no other way leading into the mountains. The king had made up his mind before: he had to move on. Quickly he dismounted and named two of his company to watch over the horses, while the others marched behind him.

Halamin gave the reins to his comrade and strode beside Hilberon. The young man felt the same uneasiness he had experienced since the pursuit had begun. But if the king commanded it they both would go with him wherever they had to. That did not keep them from worrying about the outcome. Halamin glanced at his younger companion.

“Well, Hilberon, that’s when the troll swings the club, hum?” he tried to tease him, but Hilberon only twitched his lips, unable to react to the joke.

Aragorn would have liked time to explore the narrow path, but time was the least of his resources. Already in the distance, hard to make out in the mist that hung in the air like a spider’s thick net, shadows were vanishing. He called to them.

“Don’t run away! We come in peace! We will do you no harm!“ But the light footsteps did not stop, and instead ran further until they were hardly audible.

To their right and left rough vertical walls rose, and through the haze - which had not lifted though it was already noon -- it was impossible to look further than a few feet. With every step Aragorn took, the feeling of imminent danger rose. He knew that the cliffs within the narrow gorge they were marching through could bear peril out of their view, but their only chance of finally making contact with the tribal leaders lay ahead. If he did not succeed now, they would retreat into the mountains where it would be hard if not impossible to follow them. Stories were told about caves and paths in the Misty Mountains, some so old that their existence had turned into myth and most of the living had no knowledge of them at all. If at least some of these stories bore truth, the Dunlendings could hide quickly and their pursuers would pass them by without noticing.

Quickening their steps Tarés and Fáred flanked their king, and their ruler admitted them with a nod. With his hand on the hilt of his sword Tarés looked pale but nonetheless determined enough to skewer everything that got too close. He would not let anything happen to his king. Hilberon behind them breathed shallowly. This situation looked even worse than observing the Easterlings at their campsite in Ithilien. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, and though Halamin stayed at his side he knew instinctively that this might not keep the danger at bay. He wanted to swallow his fear, but when he glanced sideways he saw Halamin’s face bear the same tense and worried expression. It was too strange a path to be harmless.


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EDORAS


Passing under the warm afternoon sun Lothíriel and Arwen overlooked the plains, but no comfort could be gained from the rolling meadows. Watching the birds in the distance, they left the garden behind and entered the Golden Hall. Compared to the bright light it was dim, and the outlines of the hearth, benches and tables could hardly be seen. Suddenly Arwen fell on her knees with a choked cry, clutching her right hand to her throat.

“Arwen, what happened?” Lothíriel cried out and knelt beside her, but the Queen of Gondor could not answer. A weight, immeasurably heavy lay on her breast, cutting off air. She opened her mouth in a painful grimace, trying to inhale, but it was impossible. Her face turned ashen when the pain intensified. Pictures of an impenetrable darkness rushed her mind, of loneliness and pain. Arwen would have wanted to cry, but even that was impossible. Lothíriel gently touched her arm. “Arwen, how can I help you?” she asked desperately. Arwen shook her head slightly, closed her eyes, and concentrated, bowing her head. The images of darkness were without any scheme, but a threat of great amount still lingered. With an effort she then sucked in air as if it had to force its way to her lungs. Twice, three times she inhaled, and finally tears trickled down her cheeks. With her eyes still closed she murmured in a voice that seemed to come from afar:

“He is in fear. Such a deep fear.”