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4 March, TA 3019. The early hours of the morning.
Underground. Helm's Deep.
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Lheuwen felt vulnerable and strangely naked without her body-paint. But at least without it, with her light brown hair and fluent Rohirric, she could just about pass for an especially sunburnt woman of the Horselords. Down here, in the very heart of Rohan, and in the midst of battle, that was what mattered. She had to remind herself that despite the absence of the painted wards invoking the Ox-spirit's protection, just now she was actually safer without them.
Like many of the unmarried women of Rohan, she had been frustrated with the order of the king that they were to be kept away from the fighting, holed up in the Glittering Caves - “for safety,” the captain had said. She ground her teeth at the memory. There seemed to her to be little “safety” in penning most of the population of the Westfold into a corner from which there was, as far as anyone seemed to know, no way out. When she had pointed this out to the captain he had first pulled a face and then yelled at her to just do as her king commanded like everyone else. Nettled, she had made herself useful helping to ferry stores of provisions deeper into the caves, grumbling under her breath that the whole thing was a mistake until one of the other women told her rather sharply to cut it out.
Finding herself with little to do apart from fret and infect small children with her own restlessness – much to the irritation of their minders – against the strenuous advice of the handful of guardians that the commanders had assigned to the caves, Lheuwen decided to go off on her own to try to find the back of the caverns and just maybe find an exit route. The caverns were far larger than she had ever imagined before tonight, and filled, somehow, with light, reflecting off or maybe even shining out of the great crystal formations that had given the Glittering Caves their name. She did not even need a torch – it made it difficult to be too scared.
Slipping away from the throng, and darting past a guardsman while he was looking the other way, she made her way down from the main island and headed away from the entrance, deeper into the caves. The deeper she went – leaping over whispering underground streams, scrambling over stray boulders – the more she began to allow herself to believe that, just perhaps, there was something akin to a path running deeper into the mountains after all.... As she followed it, the crystals were fewer and further between. The light began to grow dimmer.
That was when she heard voices coming the other way.
“It is not much further, my king. We are almost within striking distance.”
Lheuwen frowned. Théoden King was above, in the Hornburg, as far as the guardsmen knew...
It took her another moment to realise that the voice had spoken not in Rohirric but in Dunnish.
Under normal circumstances she would have been eager to meet her kinsfolk. Only as far as she knew, there were no Dunlendings fighting for the Kingdom of Rohan – and any Deansfolk, like herself, where the tongue was also spoken, would surely have been speaking Rohirric...
No, these voices were far more likely to belong to enemies.
All these thoughts raced through her mind in a heartbeat before another man replied to the first. His voice was low and irresistible, used to authority; it brooked no denial.
“In that case, stow your torches and ready your weapons. The gems here give enough light to see by – no need to draw attention to ourselves, before we have our blades on their throats.”
There was the sound of laughter, and one person invoked the name of the Falcon-spirit. Lheuwen drew a sharp breath. She knew this clan – she had met them before, many years ago. She also knew that they had sided with Saruman.
Suddenly she could see faint shadows thrown against the rock-face, behind a row of boulders just in front of her. They were much closer than she had realised – the echoes of their low voices had caused her to misjudge. Swiftly she looked left, then right for a place to hide – but before she could turn to race back the way she had come, someone rushed up behind her, seizing her arm behind her back in a vice-like grip and pressing cold, jagged steel against her throat.
A cruel, female voice rasped in her ear, in strongly accented Westron.
“Freeze, Forgoil.”
♦
The discovery of Lheuwen by the scout caused a hold-up for the king of the Falcons and his advance party. Before she could protest, she had been gagged, her hands bound behind her, and her spear confiscated, then forced to march back some of the way the Falcons had come until a scream would be securely out of earshot of the Rohirrim encamped on the main island. When she tried to make a noise, one of the men drew back his arm to threaten a blow, then placed a finger to his lips. She gave up, and tried to use the time to work out how on earth she would get out of this.
She would need a very good story...
Eventually they came to a sort of clearing amid the forest of towering rock formations, and the king gave a hand signal. Lheuwen was shoved to her knees – she winced in pain as her kneecaps collided with hard stone, sending daggers of pain up and down her legs – and when she looked up, the king himself was staring down at her, arms folded, his one seeing eye impassive, cold as stone. A slight sneer curled his lip.
She knew that face. Lheu Brenin.
“Remove her gag.”
He spoke lazily, without effort, certainly without the least doubt that he would not be obeyed. The man was huge, towering over the tallest of his men by at least a foot. His upper arms were as large as her head, his belly fat from beer and feasting – but not so fat that you would doubt his physical prowess for more than a heartbeat. The king of the Falcons radiated dominance.
The scout who had caught her removed Lheuwen's gag. Lheu leered down at her.
“Well well well. What do we have here? A spy for my ally Saruman – or a blood-traitor, who has chosen to side with the Forgoil against her own kin?”
Lheuwen suppressed the retort that only a fraction of the clans of Dunland had actively sided with Saruman in this war. Too many of the others had grown all too aware of his shadowy machinations: the orcs, plundering their lands, bearing the mark of his “white hand”; the horses stolen for his armies; the harrowing tales of the breeding of his Half-orcs. She may not think Rohan was perfect; but no one deserved the fate of servitude to the White Wizard.
But her convictions would not help her now. Cunning was her only hope.
Lheu Brenin had posed the question in Westron, but she responded in Dunnish.
“Please, my king – I am a scout for the main host. This is all a terrible misunderstanding. I was sent here to infiltrate the hated Forgoil and report back on their location and numbers.”
Whenever she looked up, the Brenin's one good eye bored into hers. She lowered her gaze humbly, hoping he could not see the lie in her eyes.
There was a long pause. At length he said:
“.... have we not met somewhere before, little spy?”
Too risky to lie. He might remember where they had met at any moment.
“M-my name is Lheuwen, my king. I once sought refuge among your people. Many years ago.”
“Ah yes – now I remember. The half-starved half-blood from the Stonedeans – driven from Rohan, accused of burning down her own village... the Forgoil certainly gave you ample reason to hate them.”
“That is why I am here.”
“Quiet. You know, when I first laid eyes on you, I could never quite believe that it was you who had done it. What sway should the legal verdicts of the Forgoil hold over me? But when you are king, and your own clan wants one thing, and a helpless stranger wants another – well, who would you listen to?”
He seemed to want her to answer. This was not the direction in which she had expected the conversation to go – it was much too personal, it made it harder for her to focus on her story. The memory of how every clan in Dunland had turned her away in her hour of greatest need was still much too raw.
“I – every clan in Dunland believed I had done the deed. Many still do. But I found a new purpose in service to the White Hand.”
“Strange... Isengard lies between the Stonedeans and the lands of the Falcon. In fact, now I think of it, I distinctly remember you heading west from Tur Morva, rather than turning back south to Isengard via the Gravenwood.”
Lheuwen silently cursed herself. The man's memory was astonishing, his thoughts were much keener than she had anticipated, sharp as an eagle's talon. And now she had no time to think.
“It was only later that I turned back towards Isengard. As I said, every clan in Dunland turned me away. It was only afterwards that I sought work with the White Hand. Later, when I had gained the trust of his generals, the Wizard helped me to clear my name so I could return to Rohan to spy for him.”
It was stupid and she knew it. Lheu Brenin laughed.
“That is an extremely tall tale, little lheu.” Big lheu was himself, presumably. “Do you take me for a complete fool?”
With little left to lose, Lheuwen looked up at him, and her blue eyes met his one grey one in defiance.
“Surely it is more believable than that I should ever forgive the Forgoil all the harms they have done me, and to our peop-”
Her last word was cut off as Lheu Brenin struck her the back of his right hand. He wore a leather glove with a small iron stud on each knuckle. Lightning flashed in front of Lheuwen's eyes and then everything went black. A few heartbeats later she came to, her cheek pressed against the cold cavern floor. She tasted blood.
Lheu Brenin knelt beside her. With the back of the same hand, he gently caressed her cheek, freeing some stray strands of hair from the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth.
“Never lie to me, Lheuwen of the Stonedeans. I will not warn you again.”
Too dazed to respond, all Lheuwen could do was watch as the king of the Falcons again rose to his feet, announcing her fate.
“We will take this one captive. She may yet be able to tell us something useful, in time. Failing that, I will keep her as a trophy until she no longer pleases me. Dulan – take this one back to the camp and keep her there. Hurt her if she gives you any trouble, but do not damage her. Ceri – get back to scouting ahead. Our captive would give us nothing but lies and we have wasted too much time already. The rest of you, get ready to move out.”
Dulan dragged Lheuwen to her feet, and began to haul her away. Too weak for the moment to resist, Lheuwen found herself looking back at Lheu Brenin one final time. One final time his good eye met hers.
“I will return to you tonight, blood-traitor. Drenched in the blood of your friends.”
Then he turned away to lead his men onwards, and Lheuwen was being pulled in the opposite direction – away from her allies, unsuspecting of the circling Falcons to their rear – towards the promise of an evil fate.
♦
“Move it, traitor.”
Dulan set an unforgiving pace, shoving her in front of him and occasionally prodding her in the back with her own spear. He brandished a torch in the other hand, along with a rope leash tethered to her bound hands. Lheuwen was recovering fast from the Brenin's blow, but she was trying not to show it. The odds were much better now – all she had to do was somehow get rid of Dulan and run back towards the light. The only difficulty was how to somehow overcome an armed man with her hands tied behind her back...
There had to be a way. She had to get back and warn the camp.
She pulled at the bindings round her wrists again. Dulan jabbed her in the hand with the spear.
“Do that again and I will make you beg for mercy. Just walk. Faster.”
It was dark in the cavern, but the crystals in the walls were still giving off a little light of their own when suddenly the cavern opened out and Lheuwen could dimly make out a narrow bridge across what seemed to a chasm. Far below she could hear the sound of rushing water.
This was the best chance she would get.
She paused at the start of the bridge. Dulan jabbed her again with the spear, this time in the back of the shoulder.
“Move.”
“But I cannot balance without my arms – I might fall.”
“Nice try.”
“Please – just free my hands while we cross. I cannot run back past you, the bridge is too narrow. Lheu Brenin will not be happy if you lose his trophy.”
“If you don't start crossing that bridge right now I'll push you in myself. The Brenin will understand. Trust me.”
He probably wouldn't do it, but Lheuwen began to cross anyway. As she did so she realised her request, which had only been a ploy, actually made a lot of sense. Still slightly dizzy from the blow to her head, it was much harder than she had expected to walk in a straight line. She managed a few paces, waiting until Dulan was on the bridge behind her, then sank to her knees with a groan.
“I can't...”
He jabbed her more fiercely with the spear, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. That one would probably leave a mark. When that didn't work, Dulan came closer. He had to tuck the spear under his other arm to try and pull her to her feet by the shoulder.
“For the spirits' sake, get up you worthless-”
As he stood over, Lheuwen suddenly rose to her feet, headbutting him in the chin. Pain exploded in her head, and she almost fainted – but she clung to consciousness enough to see Dulan reel backwards. He was almost to safety, back on the near side of the bridge – she had to move fast or it would be for nothing. She rushed at him before he could recover, smashing into his midriff with her shoulder. Dulan gasped as the air was expelled from his lungs – then overbalanced, and fell off the bridge with a scream, letting go of her spear.
He did not let go of the tether attached to Lheuwen's wrists. She did not even have time to swear before she was yanked over the edge after him, hurtling down towards the underground river coursing between the sharp rocks, many fathoms below.
♦
Lheuwen rose slowly through layers of semi-consciousness to find herself lying on a bank of cold, flat stone. Everything hurt – she had been battered, bruised and sliced by the rocks; and she was half-frozen to death by the icy underground waters.
But she was alive.
It took her a long moment to remember how she had got here.
The Falcons. They are here. They are coming to kill the Horsefolk.
She tried to jump up, but her muscles barely twitched. She tried again. It took all her willpower to fight through the pain just to stand up. She looked around.
Dulan was nowhere to be seen - whether he had been killed by the torrent or washed up downstream and eventually made it to safety, she never found out; but by some miracle, her spear had washed up on the flat rockface just a few paces away from her.
Picking it up, she set off at a limp in the direction of the light.
♦
*** Spoiler alert: Epic story Vol. III:13:8 - Secret Ways ***
Lheuwen never saw Lheu Brenin again: indeed she was one of the last people to ever see him alive; for a small child of the Westfold who, like her, had strayed from the main encampment of the Rohirrim on their underground island had spied Lheu Brenin and his band while they had paused to interrogate her, and raced straight back to warn the encampment. On the way he encountered the Dwarf, Gimli son of Gloin, and a famed champion of Eriador who was with him; and between them they slew every last one of Lheu Brenin's warriors, and then at last, after a long duel, the fearsome Falcon king himself.
But Lheuwen did not learn of this until some days later: for immediately after she finally found her way back to the Rohirrim encampment and began to babble to the sceptical guardsmen about the Dunlendings in the tunnels, orcs began to fill the Glittering Caves. And after that, it was all she and the other defenders could do to keep the beasts at bay until morning.
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