"Joyful the sound, the word goes around
from father to son, to son."

From "Father to Son" by Brian May and Queen

Lang, Son of Aleric

A Story by Russ centered around the events at Helm's Deep and the Fords of Isen as set forth by J.R.R. Tolkien in "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers" and "Unfinished Tales".

One
Helm's Deep

February 20, 3019
Mid-Morning on the training fields at Helm's Deep

“BEGIN!” shouted the training marshal and the young men, boys really, raised their weighted wooden sticks and began to pound away at the tall posts before them. 

“Cut! Cut!  Cut! THRUST! Cut! Cut! Cut!” the marshal yelled.

He maintained a steady rhythm.  This drill was about strength and endurance, developing the soldier's ability to fight, and keep fighting against the tireless arms of the enemy.  They were getting better the marshal noted, but they still had a long way to go and time was growing short. 

 It was their fourth week of training and the recruits were looking more and more like soldiers and less like boys.  They were becoming disciplined and tough, but their training was not yet half completed and it was unlikely that the enemy would wait for them to finish.  The Marshal shook his head; "Well, whatever time we do have will have to be enough."  He thought to himself and continued the drill.

*****

Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight...” Lang counted to himself as he watched bits of wood from both his practice sword and the training post before him splinter off and drop to the ground.  Yesterday they had drilled in sets of eighty blows before they would break.  Today the rumor was that they would go to one hundred.  When the marshal had called the seventy-first strike, Lang began to feel the, by now, all too familiar burning in his shoulder and arm.

Seventy-eight, seventy-nine...

Lang held his breath for a moment.

Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two...

And resignedly he let it out.  

A voice was screaming in his ear. And though Lang had not been expecting it, he showed no sign of surprise.   To do so would be to invite punishment, and punishment for losing ones composure was severe, though not nearly as severe as the consequences one would suffer on the field of battle.  The face of the assistant marshal was mere inches from his own.  Lang could feel flecks of spittle landing on his cheek.  ‘Krantz.'  Lang knew the subtly accented voice at once.  Why did he always get Krantz?  He was the nastiest, meanest assistant training marshal in Rohan.  He was practically a legend among the troops and Lang had heard all the rumors about how brutal the man could be.  He had been among Rohan‘s elite soldiers, serving with the eored of the King's house, but a cruel spill from his horse had left him badly lame and he could no longer ride with his troop.  He had been offered a position in Edoras as a member of the Palace guard but he had declined, preferring instead to see to the training of new recruits.

“HARDER BOY, HARDER!  PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT DAMN YOU!  NOW! NOW! NOW! KEEP YOUR SHIELD UP!  MAKE THE WOOD FLY!”  

Lang forgot all about the pain in his arms and attacked the post with renewed fury.  Krantz shook his head and Lang heard him mutter something about "fresh meat" and how rookies were considered "a delicacy in Isengard".  Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the assistant marshal was gone, off tormenting another trainee.

Ninety-six, ninety-seven...

“Almost there” he reassured himself.  The burning had begun to spread throughout his upper body as he hoisted his shield higher and continued to swing.  Beads of sweat stood out upon his brow and trickled, burning, into the corners of his eyes.

One hundred...

Exhausted, Lang let his sword start to drop to his side.  A moment later he saw stars and it felt as if his head had exploded when the fist of the assistant training marshal pounded the side of his jaw.  White pain blinded him and tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes as he lost his balance and fell to the ground.

"CUT! CUT! THRUST!" droned the voice of the Senior Training marshal over the roaring in Lang's head.

‘Oh no, I didn't!’ Lang winced to himself.  ‘Stupid!  Stupid!’

The voice of the assistant training marshal was at once bellowing in Lang’s ear as he grabbed for his sword and attempted to regain his feet.  Lang felt the weight of a well-planted boot land squarely in the center of his back as it shoved him roughly to the ground.  For a moment Lang did not move.

"DID I TELL YOU TO STOP?  DID I TELL YOU TO FALL DOWN?  YOU GET UP!  YOU GET UP RIGHT NOW!" 

 Lang could feel Krantz's lips against his own ears as the man bellowed in unbridled rage.

"YOU DROPPED YOUR WEAPON!  YOU DROPPED YOUR WEAPON! HOW DARE YOU DO THAT TO ME! YOU PICK IT UP RIGHT NOW AND YOU STAND UP, DO YOU HEAR ME!"

It was a rhetorical question.

"I'm sorry sir," Lang muttered and knew at once that it was a mistake to have said anything at all.

"YOU'RE SORRY!  YOU'RE SORRY!  DON'T TELL ME YOU'RE SORRY; TELL THAT TO THE URUK-HAI OR THE MAN ON WHOSE BONES THEY FEAST BECAUSE OF YOU!  TELL THAT TO HIS PARENTS IF YOU MANAGE TO SURVIVE WHICH WILL BE A MIRACLE!  I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO STAND UP...  “

The endless tirade in Lang's ear faded into a dull roaring as he focused on getting back to his feet.  His face was burning and he wanted nothing more than to turn and strike out at the assistant marshal, which of course, was exactly what Krantz was trying to get him to do.  Lang retained his composure and struggled to his feet.  He began swinging once more at the post in front of him, seeing the hard-as-nails face of Krantz beneath every blow.

The count ended at one hundred twenty and Lang waited until he heard the marshal cry “HOLD” before he stopped swinging.  Krantz cuffed Lang roughly on the head.

"Don't let that happen again," he said, and walked away.

For penance, Lang and the others who had made similar mistakes were required to land twenty extra blows and to spend the remainder of the break standing at guard positions.  Then they began all over again. 

*****

High up in the tower of the Hornburg Prince Theodred, sole heir to the throne of Rohan and First Marshal of the Riddermark, and Erkenbrand, Master of Deeping Coomb and the principal Lord of the Westmark stood looking out over the brown, hard-packed earth of the training field.

“They’re young, Lord.”  Erkenbrand said.  “Sometimes I wonder if they are too young.”

Theodred nodded as he watched the trainees going through their drills.  “They are,” he replied. “They always are, but I think everyone is too young for war.  How many are there?”

“In this group, three hundred.  And there are three other groups in training as well. Say...five companies in all, no more.”

"Archers?" the Prince asked.

"One eored." Erkenbrand answered.

Theodred shook his head.  “It should never have come to this," he said sadly.  "Ah well, it will have to do.  Train them well, Erkenbrand, we are going to have need of them, I fear."

It was true Erkenbrand knew.  The enemy patrols grew bolder with the passing of each day.  Time and again their scouts had been found on this side of the Fords.  Worst of all, the wolf riders were reported to have been seen gathering near Isengard.  Soon they would come in earnest.

"How long, Lord, do you think, before it begins?"

Theodred shook his head.  "Weeks perhaps, days more likely.  In either case they will come too soon for these young ones." he said, nodding at the field below.

"Whatever comes Lord, even should the soldiers of the white hand come here, these men will give good accounting of themselves, and shall teach the enemy a lesson he will not soon forget."  Even though they were young, they were being well trained and Erkenbrand knew it.  These were his people and his pride was obvious.  

Theodred smiled.

"I have no doubt," the Prince replied. "Especially that one there."  He pointed to one of the trainees who had fallen to the ground and was even now trying to stand.  "It would seem that Krantz has taken a personal interest in that one." 

Erkenbrand laughed, "No doubt he will welcome battle if it offers a chance to escape the attention of the assistant marshal."

Theodred laughed as well.  "If he has any sense about him at all he will," the Prince replied.  "I know I would."

The two watched for a moment longer, and then the Prince spoke once more.  "I will go to the fords soon."  

The Second marshal nodded.  He had known the time was coming but he had hoped it would not be so soon.

"The men there have need of me."  Theodred said.

"Yes, Lord."  Erkenbrand replied.  It was true he knew, the men at the Fords of Isen, more than anywhere else, did need their leader for the dark days that lay ahead of them all.  And they needed more than just their Prince. 

"They need their King as well," Erkenbrand added cautiously.

Theodred turned to face Erkenbrand.  He placed both hands firmly on the man's shoulders and met his unwavering gaze.

"The King will come," he said softly but with force. "Do not doubt it.  He will come."

"There are some who say..." Erkenbrand began but was cut off.

"There are some who say we should join with the Isengard!"  Theodred said, his eyes flashing. "They say the West is finished and no help, even though it come from Edoras, or the White City it's self can bring us any hope of victory.  Do we pay them heed?  No."  Then, sighing heavily continued.   "My fa...the King, will come.  It is true that he has taken ill counsel of late, but there are yet others to whom he would still listen, though he might say otherwise.  Still, I would that..." 

Theodred paused, then he smiled and when he spoke again it was in a firm voice and his eyes shone and all doubt passed from Erkenbrand.  "Fear not!  The King of The Mark will come and in wrath! Woe to those who try to stand before him!"

"Aye Lord!"  Erkenbrand spoke, and as he did he looked upon Theodred and saw there not only the King's son and Prince of the Riddermark, but a man of valor who one day would be King in Theoden's stead and his heart was put to rest.  "That day will make a tale worth the telling."

*****

All the men of Rohan were trained early in their lives in the use of sword and bow, and Lang had been no different.  His father had often taken him aside in the evenings after the day’s work was finished and instructed him in the basics of combat.  Lang had been a willing pupil and learned quickly.  He had mastered the basics and was ready to move on when his father had been called away to serve with the Footmen of Westfold at the Fords.  It had been the last time that the two had seen one another.

When the call came for Lang to join with the others at Helm's Deep, he had gone willingly, and not without thought or hope of finding his father, or at least some news.  Always he sought for any word of events at the Fords, and there was plenty to be heard; though of his own father he could discover nothing at all.  

When Lang had reached the Gates of Helms Deep, he was assigned to train for the cavalry.  Like most young men of Rohan, he was a skilled rider and eagerly looked forward to the day when he would ride with his first Éored.  Before that could happen however, he would have to learn to fight on foot.  The lessons Lang's father had taught him had been well learned, but Lang quickly discovered that there was still a great deal more that he did not yet know.  As he was with his father, Lang was a capable and willing student.  And with Krantz supplying the necessary encouragement, Lang and the others were quickly becoming skilled swordsmen.  

By midday the drills had ended and the trainees broke up into groups to practice technique.  This was Lang's favorite part of each day. He listened intently to the training marshal s as they described the day's new technique.  His ears took in every word and his eyes followed every detail of the marshal's movement as he mimicked them with his own sword.  Finally, the senior training marshal dismissed the recruits to drill on their own and Lang returned to his training post and began swinging.  He heard the footsteps approach and then stop just beyond his sight.  He swung harder.  

"Hold," a soft voice spoke.

It was not Krantz.  Lang stopped and waited, eyes fixed on the post before him.  A hand gripped his elbow firmly and raised it slightly.

"Hold your arm a little higher, like this,” the voice said.

Lang stole a glance from the corner of his eye.  It was Erkenbrand himself!

"Aye Lord,” Lang said, his voice unsteady.

The master of Helm's Deep, still holding Lang's elbow with one hand, took his wrist and slowly brought it back until his sword was in striking position.  

"Now," he said. "When you swing in and bring the tip of your sword over, twist your wrist like so, all in one motion."  He directed Lang's arm in the prescribed movement and Lang watched as the speed of the blade dramatically increased and leapt forward toward the target, hitting with the opposite edge of the blade.  "Now try it.  Full speed this time."

Lang did and as he did, he felt the sudden sharp increase in the power of the blow as it struck the post.

"Good."  Erkenbrand said.  "It makes it easier to get through your opponent’s armor and will make the blow more difficult to parry.  You do this right and you will bring down an armored enemy twice your size with ease."

Lang struck the post several more times before stopping and turning to face the man.  "Thank you, Lord," he said, and made a half bow.

Erkenbrand acknowledged it with a nod.  Lang saw Krantz standing not far off, watching the exchange, but he could not read the expression on the man's face.

"It's Lang, isn't it?"  Erkenbrand asked.  "Son of Aleric?

"Yes, Lord."

Erkenbrand was about to speak again when trumpets rang out from the gate.

"A messenger from the Fords!" called the watchman as the gate swung open to allow him to pass. Erkenbrand started toward the rider and then stopped.  "When you are finished here," he said to Lang. "I want to see you in my chambers." 

Then he left to meet the rider.  All watched as the two spoke beyond the range of others to hear, and then the two of them went with haste to the tower of the Hornburg where the Prince waited.

"ON GUARD!" called the senior training marshal and the recruits turned once again to their practicing.

The command did not register at once with Lang, Erkenbrand’s unexpected words still fresh in his mind.  Was there news of his father?  Lang had made no secret of the fact that he was seeking any word he could find.  Had he heard anything?  Lang's mind wheeled as he tried to determine what it was that Erkenbrand would want to see him about, but nothing other than news of his father made any sense.  But why would a Lord of the Mark wish to personally bring news to...unless.  Lang's mind froze as he tried to push the thought away, but he could not.   He turned to practice the blow he had been shown, forcing himself to focus and as he did, he stole a glance at Krantz, expecting to see the man storming toward him, ready to punish the boy for his delay in obeying.  But Krantz was distracted as he watched the commander and the messenger leave the field for the tower and did not notice Lang's mistake.

*****

Evening,
Hornburg Tower

"And you are?” the soldier demanded.

"Lang, sir, to see Lord Erkenbrand."

Lang could feel the sweat on his brow and hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke to the door warden of Erkenbrand's office.  Lang felt completely out of place here.  Officers walked the halls purposefully, each going someplace of great importance Lang had no doubt.  Pages and couriers scooted from one room to the next; delivering messages mostly, food and drink occasionally, to those within.  The entire complex was a flurry of activity.  Something was about to happen, but what it was Lang could not tell.

The man standing before the door to Erkenbrand’s office gave Lang a dubious look.  He wore the insignia of Westfold as well as that of the house of Lord Erkenbrand.  He was tall and lean and his eyes were hard and cold.  A long scar ran down the side of his face from his scalp to his chin.  There was not even a hint of mirth about the man.  He was all business and Lang could see why he had been chosen for this job.  At his side hung a long, slightly curved sword with a glittering basket over the hilt.  Tassels hung from the pommel and Lang thought to himself one day he would have such a weapon.  It was different than the one…

"On what business?" the door warden asked.

"Sir?" Lang stammered, his reverie broken.

"Do you have ears?  I said what business?" the man growled, already becoming impatient.  There were too many of these young rascals about for his taste, manpower needs or no.

"Business, yes sir, um, I mean, I don't know sir, I was ordered to report,” Lang replied.

"By whom."  

"Lord Erkenbrand, sir."

The warden jerked his head in Lang's direction and two others came to stand on either side of him. 

"Wait here," was the Warden's reply as he vanished into the small room behind the door.  A moment later he emerged.  "Go in."  He said and resumed his post.  Lang entered.

Within the office Erkenbrand sat behind his desk. Writing was not a common thing in Rohan and few save for the very wealthy or highborn possessed such skills.  Erkenbrand was one or both or so it appeared.  Lang was neither.  Maps of the Deep and Westfold and the surrounding lands littered the Lord's desk and covered his walls.  Lang could recognize those well enough, but of the words that were written on them he could make out nothing at all.  Lang dropped to one knee upon entering the office and bowed his head.  

"You summoned me, Lord."

"On your feet, boy," the Lord commanded.  

Lang obeyed. 

The Lord of Helm's Deep was a tall man.  No longer in the prime of his life, but fit and strong.  His clean-shaven face was deeply tanned and lined with the tough look of well-weathered leather.  His hair was gray and worn long in the fashion typical of the Rohirrim.  But underneath his shaggy grey brows his blue eyes burned clear and bright. Lang thought to himself, "Here is a man to be reckoned with!"  And was glad he and the Lord were fighting on the same side.  

Erkenbrand bore himself with the air of one born into status and high position but without the arrogance that all too often accompanies the highborn.  A just man, fair and caring about those in his charge he was decisive and brave as well.  He was born to his task and met it unfailingly.  He was loved equally well by the soldiers and the ordinary folk of Westfold and was held in respect by all of Rohan.  

Erkenbrand stood and came out from behind his desk.  In his hand he held a short, heavy sword, well made and sturdy.  Lang blanched and trembled slightly, recognizing it at once, but when Erkenbrand tried to hand it to him, he made no move to accept it.

"I'm very sorry Lang.  He was by all accounts a good man, and one that will be missed."  He held out the weapon further, but Lang stood motionless.

"How did it happen?"  Lang asked.  "Where is his body?  I wish to see it."

Erkenbrand sighed.  He placed the sword on top of the pile of papers on his desk.  This was the worst part of his job, and it was a duty he had performed far too many times of late.

"I'm sorry son," he said at length.  "No remains were found, only this sword and the bodies of those who were with him."

Lang kept his eyes on the weapon, refusing to meet Erkenbrand's eyes.  "Then you don't know for certain if..."

"You father was with a patrol on the east bank, Lang.  Uruks and Wolf Riders ambushed them.  We found none that survived.  Several were missing, your father among them."

Lang finally looked up at the master of Helm's Deep.  The blood drained from his face and bright tears filled his eyes.

"But you don't know!" he said.  

Erkenbrand met his gaze and did not waver.  "They were Uruks boy, URUKS!"  
  
Lang's eyes grew wide and he staggered backward a step as the full implication of Erkenbrand's words struck him as surely as any blow from a sword.  The man took hold of his shoulder and steadied him.

Lang straightened.  He looked at Erkenbrand and although his face was pale and stained with tears, his eyes were hard and cold.  He reached out and took his father's sword.  Erkenbrand nodded.  

"You are the last of your family,” Erkenbrand stated.  

Lang nodded. 

 "You are discharged.  You have leave to go either to your home, or into the caves to await the outcome of the battle and fight there should it come to that, or to go to Edoras and await there if you choose."

Anger flared up in the boy's eyes.  Erkenbrand had expected it.  He would have been disappointed had it been otherwise.

"No."  Lang said in a low voice.

"Your pardon?" Erkenbrand said.  It was what he always said.

"I said..." The words caught in Lang's' throat.  "No. I will not go to the caves to wait with the women.  I will not be left behind to tend the flocks or nursemaid children while the rest go to the Fords to fight.  I would, I would..."

Erkenbrand narrowed his gaze.  "You would what?" 

"I would have my vengeance!" 
 
Erkenbrand nodded and sighed.  

"I know, Lang, believe me I do.  But there is no shame in being assigned..." 

"I...said...NO!"  Lang spoke with such violence that Erkenbrand’s hand moved reflexively toward his sword.

The door to the office swung open and the Door Warden stepped in, his hand too going to the hilt of his sword.  He took a step toward Lang, then stopped and looked at his commander who, with a quick shake of his head, directed the Warden to leave.  He took a second look at Lang and then turned and departed the room.  

Erkenbrand turned to Lang.  "No," he said softly. “I'm afraid that is not possible.  We are going to need men whose heads are clear and judgment sound.  We...I cannot afford to have men going off to settle their own personal vendettas.  There may be a place for you with the defenders at the dike..."

Lang shook his head emphatically.  "No," he said, tears threatening to come once again.  "I am not a child or a dotard.  I am not a thing to be protected until the last.  I would go with the others when the time comes.  It may be too late to save my father, but his honor, my family’s honor, at least I can uphold in battle.  That much I think I deserve.  That or give me leave to depart from here and I will go to the fords on my own.  But I will not remain behind.  I cannot.  Could you?"

Erkenbrand studied the boy, man, he corrected himself, for this was a man's trial that he now endured.  He shook his head.  No, if he were in Lang's place, he would not go to the caves, nor would anyone else.  But he was required to at least make the attempt.  This was how it usually went, but as before, he would have been disappointed if it had gone any other way.

"Very well, “ he said at length.  "But you will maintain soldier's discipline.  You will be watched closely and if you fail, you will be sent to the caves.  There are other lives than your own at stake here, Lang, whether it matters to you or not.  Am I clear?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Good.  See that it remains so.  Dismissed."  Erkenbrand returned to his desk and Lang made to depart, but at the door he stopped and turned. 

 "Thank you, Lord,” he said, but Erkenbrand merely waved him away.  

After Lang had gone Erkenbrand went to the Door Warden.  "Tell Krantz that I want to see him at once,” he said.

"Yes, Lord," the door warden replied and left and went in search of the assistant training marshal and Erkenbrand returned to his desk.  He took a pen and drew a line through the name "Lang" in the middle of a long list of names, set down the pen and awaited his next visitor.

*****

Long did Lang walk alone within the gates of the Deep.   Everywhere was the frenzied activity of those preparing for war.  Refugees came in through the gate in a steady stream now and Lang guessed that nearly half of all Westfold must be behind the great wall.  The sounds of their passing would remain with Lang for the rest of his life.  The sounds of babies crying, children and parents calling out to one another, the bleating of sheep, the barking of dogs and the endless rumble of wagons as they carried their stores through the Deep and down to the caves, there to be stored against the chance of a siege.   But of laughter or song, there was none at all.  

Lang wondered how many of them had lost friends or relatives.  Children, women and the very old were in abundance but of men of fighting age, few, if any, were to be seen. 

Lang could not explain how he felt.  There was sadness of course, and the expectedly profound sense of loss.  But there was something else.  Something inside him like a caged animal that demanded to be set free.  A beast that wanted nothing more than to rend and tear at the flesh of those who had slain his father and then feast on their bones.  It wanted to drag bodily those who were responsible for the scene Lang now stood watching and demand payment for the damage they had done.  Payment for every farm burned, every child taken, every father who would never come home again.   It was a frightening feeling, one wholly new to Lang, and he did not like it.  But he did not hate it either. 

It was well past sundown when he finally returned to the barracks and those who were now the closest he had left to a family.  But in that meeting he found no joy.

"It's Lang!" one of the recruits called out as he returned to the barracks.

"And with a sword!" called another.  "It looks like someone has found favor with the 'Old Man'."

Lang surveyed the long row of bunks and faces smiling at his return.  But straightaway they beheld his expression and fell silent and turned from him.  He laid the sword at the foot of his bunk and climbing in, pulled the covers close so that none could see and silently he began to weep.  

*****

February 23
Early Morning

 For the past several days the trainees had been playing at war in the lands surrounding the Coomb, learning the subtleties of movement and combat in tight formation.  They had been long days and hard and Lang had found the distraction of practicing combat in the field a relief. Thoughts of his father had been coming to him unbidden and at odd times and it was all that he could do not to weep in front of the others. Training helped to turn his mind away from those thoughts.  But it was not satisfying and Lang found himself growing more restless with each passing day.  Still, it was a distraction, and for now that would have to be enough.  The young men together with their instructors worked, slept, (when they had the chance), and ate in the field.  Staged attacks came without warning and at all hours and often they had no chance to sleep at all.  They were cold and tired and hungry, but they endured it; knowing without being told that conditions would be far worse should war come to the gates of Helm's Deep.  Still, they were not used to it and morale among the trainees was low.

Lang understood this, and he often would try and cheer them up.  He would tell them stories his father had told him.  He would teach them old songs and give them encouragement.  He would tell them what to look for in the field, whether it were tracks, signs of an impending ambush, or merely a likely place to find fresh water.  Lang also seemed to have an intuitive grasp of combat tactics and often times the younger boys would look to him for guidance and direction.  Even some of the older men took notice of Lang's ability.  He seemed able to rightly assess the situation in the field and make adjustments without waiting for orders.  This skill was not lost on the instructors.  They all noticed and made note of it for the future.  

Lang and the others had expected this state of affairs to continue for the remainder of the week at least. But one morning instead of making another camp the men were ordered to prepare to march.  Before the sun had reached its zenith they found themselves once more within the fastness of their own walls. And so it was that on this day the training regiment was assembled once more before the Burg for their morning drills when the trumpets rang clear and loud and the hoof beats of many horses were heard in the Deep. 

The Prince of Rohan rode forward with Erkenbrand at his side and behind him followed all of the cavalry that remained in Helm’s Deep save those of Erkenbrand's house alone.  Theodred sat astride his horse arrayed for battle.  On his arm was the shield with the emblems of his House and in his hand a long spear flying the green and white pennants of Rohan.  There was murmuring among those gathered there, for the arrival of the messenger in the days before had caused great interest and excitement among the men.  Indeed it was compounded when errand riders were sent galloping hard to Edoras and other places with tidings of war.  Long into the night the lamps had burned in the Hornburg and when darkness finally came to the windows of the great tower upon The Rock all wondered what tidings the coming days might bring.

"Behold!" cried Erkenbrand. "The Prince of the Mark goes forth to the Fords of Isen!"

A cheer rose from the gathered young men. “Theodred! Theodred!" they cried and the mounted riders cheered also.

Theodred raised his hand and the noise diminished.

"Today I ride forth with all the men of my house and such others as I have been able to gather hither.  The Master of Orthanc prepares for war against Rohan and it is to this end that we go out to meet him in open battle.  Those of you remaining here I charge with the safekeeping of The Deep until my return.  Erkenbrand, Lord of Deeping Coomb and the Master of Helm's Deep, a man of valor and high esteem shall act as marshal in my place.  Follow him as you would me." 

Again a cheer rose from the men on the field, for Erkenbrand was well loved, and the shouts were echoed from the walls and towers. "Erkenbrand!" they cried. "Erkenbrand for Theodred and The Mark!"  

A drum pounded and horns blared as the cheers and shouts rose high into the morning.  All the while the Prince sat unmoving, allowing the clamor to grow.  At length he handed the standard to a bearer and drew his sword.

The cheers died away as Theodred sat upon his horse and sword held high cried in a loud voice, "Forth Eorlingas!  Forth to the Fords for Westfold and Helm's Deep, Forth to the Fords for Rohan! Hai!"    

A third time the shouts rose up, longer and louder than before and throughout all the Deep trumpets sounded and drums rolled, echoing through the caverns and deep places like thunder. The Prince wheeled about on his stallion and charged forth through the Gate and all his riders with him as they went forward to the Fords of Isen.

Lang's eyes were filled with wonder as he watched and with longing also.  For it seemed to him that the last host of the Westmark had now ridden out.  And he was not among them.  As the last of the riders passed and the gate swung closed his head lowered and his wooden sword hung limp in his hand. For some reason he could not explain he felt ashamed.  The riders had left and Lang was kept behind, not yet ready to go to war, but ready enough to know that that was where he belonged.  How would he avenge his father's death now?  He did not hear the footsteps approach, nor did he look up as the hand was laid upon his shoulder, a hand that was firm, but not ungentle.  

"Patience boy."  The consoling voice of Krantz spoke softly in his ear. "Your time, and mine, will come soon enough, I think." 

Lang met the man's eyes and through the hardness in them, he saw also a kinship. A kinship born of the desire to go with the Prince to the fords and at last meet the enemy in battle, and something else, too.   And though he had no words to speak, none were needed, for in that moment Lang saw Krantz the man.  And the man understood.  

"Many are the accountings that Isengard has to answer for,” he said.  "There are scores older than yours yet to be settled."

And there was a gleam in the old man's eyes and for a moment Lang saw the Krantz of old, Krantz the warrior and leader of men who had come to Rohan long ago from places unknown and of whose story this tale does not tell.

Then Krantz's demeanor shifted and the assistant training marshal stood before him once again. 

"But not today.  Now," he ordered. "Back to work."

And back to work Lang went, and with a purpose.

*****

February 23
Afternoon/Evening

The training had taken on a new note of urgency following the news of the loss of Lang's father and the departure of Theodred.  Whatever light-heartedness there had been among the recruits was now gone and in its place was resolve and discipline born of need.  Rarely now came the rebukes of the training marshals and not once since the news of his fathers death had Lang given them cause.  Certain of the young men now began to excel far ahead of the others, Lang chief among them and soon these were taken aside and given special instruction on how best to assist their leaders with command once in the field.  But always they were returned to their comrades so as not to be taken as a group apart.

When the morning drills were complete and the trainees had rested and taken their midday meal, they were assembled once more on the field.  But instead of sword drills or physical training which was what they had come to expect over the weeks, they were met by the quartermaster, who summoned them in groups of twenty to the armories of Helm's Deep.  Once there they were given spear, sword and shield, helm and mail if any could be found to fit the wearer.  The swords were old and their edges dull and many were rusted and pitted. The shields were likewise and some were notched and dented from old battles, as were the helms.  The armor, for those lucky enough to find any that fit, was often rent and damaged and all the items were in need of some repair, but all were serviceable and if need arose, would fare better than wooden sticks or empty hands.

The remainder of the day was spent in the restoring of edges and mending of holes and by supper time the young men of Rohan were armed and armored as well as they were able. 

That night was given to the men to rest and many of them spent their free time mending armor and honing the edges of their blades. Lang's father's sword was short and heavy.  A weapon designed to pierce armor and thick hides.  Lang enjoyed the feel of it in his hand.  Each time he held it he looked forward to the day when he might employ it.  It was not as graceful or elegant as the longer swords of the cavalry and that, Lang supposed, was why many of the others sought out the latter type of blade.  But Lang had sharp ears and knew that mounts would be few, if indeed any were to be found at all these days.  ‘Better’, he thought, ‘when fighting on foot and in close quarters, to have a weapon designed for such a purpose.’  And when he chose his weapon from among those in the armory, he selected only a spear.  Krantz gave him an approving nod.  By the time the young troop went to their beds, their restored weapons and armor hung over the posts at the foot of their bunks.  And anyone entering the barracks might have thought that here was quartered a troop of veterans and not the youthful trainees that they were.

The next several days passed much as the others had, with ever increasing time spent drilling and practicing, running and exercising, and more drilling and practicing.  Now there was yet more urgency to the training.  It felt as if a great storm was steadily drawing near and the very air was heavy with the threat of it.  All felt it.  Lang himself spent ever more time alone on the practice field developing his stamina and refining his technique.  Occasionally one of the other recruits would ask to spar with Lang, and he always agreed.  He attacked his sparring partners with a force and drive rarely seen save in actual battle. Lang's blows rained down hard and fast upon the other trainees.  In spite of the heavy and overly padded armor they wore, more than one had been sent to the infirmary for minor injuries at Lang's hands.   To some it appeared that he was already fighting the war, and perhaps, in a way, he was.  But Lang told himself that it was simple practice.  If others could not stand against him, then it was their problem and not his own.  More experienced soldiers had tried to make an example of Lang by delivering to him the kind of beating he had begun to hand out.  But Lang endured it without complaint.  In fact he seemed to thrive on it.  And soon he was holding his own against even the most experienced of fighters.  Lang's father had taught him the old axiom, "If you practice at half your ability, half becomes your ability."  It was a lesson Lang had taken to heart.  

Erkenbrand’s ever-increasing presence observing the training and inspecting the defenses of the Deep was noticed now more than ever and his demeanor shifted from that of a peacetime leader to a wartime commander.  All the while, all the people of the Deep and those who were fleeing hither from the threat of the oncoming war waited for news.  Not for news of the Prince and the Fords only, but for news of the King’s riding as well.  Many deemed it unseemly that the King should not be present when so great a trial was at hand and rumors began to spread.   Some said that the King of the Mark had fallen ill and lay on his deathbed.  Others that he had fallen under an enchantment, losing his will and sitting unmoving, unwilling to leave his halls.  And others claimed that his mind was no longer sound and his judgment impaired.  Some hit closer to the mark than others, but in the end they were all simply rumor and speculation.  

Erkenbrand was hard pressed to quell the rumors of the King's seeming infirmity.  Each day they grew stronger and more numerous and it was having an effect on the morale of the men that he found ever more difficult to assuage.  Even he himself began at times to doubt whether the King of the Mark would come.  Perhaps only Eomer would ride to their aid, but that would mean the greater part of the muster of Edoras would remain behind with the King and that, Erkenbrand feared, would prove fatal.  Still, he harkened back to the words of Theodred that day on the Rock. 'The King will come!' he had said, and Erkenbrand wished with all his heart that it would be so.

*****

February 26

"No!  No!  No!"  Krantz bellowed at the top of his lungs.  The recruits tried to make themselves small as they kneeled behind their shields.

"Think you this will stop an attack?  This is called a shield WALL!  It is supposed to STOP the enemy!  You let these attackers pass through like tea through a sieve!"  Krantz shook his head.  They should have this down by now.  "Lang!  
Your line barely moved to keep that one out!"  Krantz spat, indicating the enormous man that had just plunged through his portion of the shield wall.  "Next time do something!  Embrace him, kiss him or dance with him, but do NOT let him through again!  And you archers, where were you?  The Uruks will not stop their charge to wait for you all to find your place!  Once around to the gates and back, then we'll try it again!"

The men groaned as they rose to their feet and, shields, armor and all, began to trot toward Helm's Gate.

"Silence, or you'll run it twice, NOW GO!"  Krantz yelled.

Time was short, he could feel it.  And though these boys were doing as well as any could reasonably expect, he feared that it would not be enough.  He had told this to the senior training marshal and had their training periods extended by fully four hours each day.  But they could not keep this pace up for long.  Soon they would have to take a day of rest.  He watched them as one by one they reached the gate and turned back to the training field.  He signaled the men acting as Uruks to assemble for another mock attack.

When the last of the trainees had returned, the group formed into marching ranks and began to walk forward.  The senior training marshal lifted a horn to his lips and blew a loud signal; it was one the members of Lang's troop knew well by now.  With a chilling shout, the attacking "Uruks" began their charge.  Lang's group split into three parts, two of equal size and a third somewhat smaller.  The two larger groups formed two ranks, one behind the first with the first one kneeling and locking the edges of their shields together with an audible "clack".  They drew their swords and kept them ready at their sides.  Lang quickly looked to the five men to his left, then to those on his right.  These were the men of his "line".  It was his duty to see that they were in place and properly braced for the onrushing attackers.  Everything looked right, but then it had looked right three times before and had broken at the first impact of the enemy.  The second rank laid their long wooden "spears" atop the shields and braced them while the third group formed a tight square behind the first two ranks.

"Archers!" cried Krantz. "Ready!"

The men lifted their bows high and drew their soft tipped practice arrows back.  "This was better,” he thought to himself.

"SHOOT!" he called and a wave of wooden shafts flew upward and came down among the charging "attackers".  A number of them fell to the ground and waited.  The archers reloaded.

Upon hearing the sound of the horn, Lang felt his heart begin to pound.  He was trembling as the men of Rohan, tested riders of Erkenbrand’s own personal Eored, began their charge.  Each time they had charged, a particularly large and brutish looking man had come straight in at Lang, and each time he had broken through, tapping Lang on the shoulder with his wooden sword and saying, "You're dead, boy!"  And then he laughed about it as he did the same to others in the confusion of the broken formation.  He was coming again; Lang swallowed hard and braced himself.

Lang heard the swish of air as the second wave of arrows passed overhead and his heart lightened as he saw more of the "enemy" drop to the ground.  It seemed the archers had finally found their marks.  Then they were upon him.  The big one, "the Boulder" was how Lang would describe him later, bore straight down upon Lang, eluding the spears and charging the wall.  Others could not avoid the spears and fell, laughing to the ground.  As the giant of a man drew near and prepared to hammer into the shield wall Lang felt a sudden rush of blood to his face and felt a terrible power building up within him.  He released it with a great incoherent snarl and surged forward hard on the balls of his feet. He drove his shield up and into the attacker with all his strength. 

The impact of the "Boulder" was fierce and Lang saw stars.  He was rocked nearly off his feet once more, but this time there came a satisfying whoosh of air from his attacker as Lang's shield drove hard into the man's belly, stopping him in his tracks.  This time his section did not falter and when he saw the blunt wooden tip of the spear of the man behind him jab the Boulder in the chest, he let out a whoop of joy.  The big man froze, his eyes growing wide in disbelief, then rolling back into his head in an exaggerated manner and he fell convulsing to the ground.  The others of the "dead" laughed out loud at the sight.  There was a great shouting and a clash of wood against wood, and then the horn blew again.  The drill was over.  The wall had held. 

A shout went up from the boys in the field and to a man the Riders of Erkenbrand’s house saluted them.  The men of Lang's line clapped him on the back and saluted his leadership.  Even Krantz looked pleased.

"Well done, men!"  Krantz congratulated the company.  "That," he emphasized, "is how it is supposed to be done.  Now, let's try once more to make sure that..." but the sound of blaring horns from the gate cut him off and the attention of all present turned thither. 

"A rider!" the lookouts cried. "A rider from the Fords!"

The great gate swung open and the rider passed through at full gallop making for the Hornburg but before he reached the Tower, his horse, drenched with sweat and foaming, collapsed sending the rider sprawling across the ground.  Lang burst from among the onlookers and raced to the aid of the fallen man.  What he saw there gave him pause.  The rider's helm was battered and his shield was dented and notched in a dozen places.  The man's face was dirty and covered with flecks of dried blood and his armor was rent while fresh blood flowed from a hastily bandaged wound to his arm, pooling beneath him on the ground.

The man tried to rise but fell back with Lang catching him.  "I must speak with the Master of the Tower at once," the man said.  "At once!" 

"So you will.  See, even now he comes," Lang replied. 

Even as he spoke, Erkenbrand raced from the foot of the tower to where the man lay bleeding.  He bent over him, putting his ear to the man's lips.  The Rider whispered something to him and Erkenbrand’s face turned deadly pale. 

 "Take this man to my quarters at once," he ordered.  "See that he is given rest and that his wound is tended.  Have all captains and Marshals meet me in the Tower, now!" he demanded and left without another word.

Lang and the others watched as the tower guards bore the wounded rider away.  

"Did you hear what he said?" someone asked, but Lang shook his head, he had not.

Whatever it was though, it gave him a very bad feeling.  They stood there for several minutes, not knowing what to do since all of the instructors had gone in answer to Erkenbrand’s order.  Before long however Krantz returned to them from the tower.

"Welcome to the Muster of Westfold,” he told them, and they knew that they were recruits no longer.  "Get yourselves to the barracks and await orders there.  Be ready to march when the word is given.  If you came with a horse, you would do well to see that it is ready to travel.  Unless you wish to walk all the way to the Fords of Isen."

Several of the youth ran off in the direction of the stables and the remainder, Lang among them, turned to go back to the barracks and prepare to leave.

But no orders came.  Not the rest of that morning, nor all of that afternoon.  All were ready when finally word was sent down from the Tower that Prince Theodred had suffered defeat by the army of Isengard on the West Bank and was slain. His men commanded now by Grimbold, a valiant man and brave, still held the fords.  It was a close fight and things might have gone far worse had it not been for the timely arrival of Elfhelm, a great lord in his own right.  He had arrived at the fords with a strong force of fresh riders from Edoras in answer to the summons sent by Theodred before his fall.  

Like the others, Lang took the news hard.  But also he felt a sense of relief.  For now his chance would come, he was sure of it.  And he would make the enemy pay.  In blood, or worse.

*****

Gamling, an old man, but well known among the folk of Westfold, arrived that night at the barracks.  He carried with him a great sword and bow and a shield but he wore no armor.  A fighter of renown in days past, many of the young men had listened to his tales on those nights when they were free to do as they wished.  This night however, he came not bearing tales, but orders from the Lord of Helm's Deep and new Marshal of the Westmark.

"On your feet, lads!  Tonight we march!" he cried to the men in the barracks.  "To the Dike we are being sent, there to wait upon the words of the marshal and to bid the messengers of Old Sourman welcome should he send them.  Be ready in ten minutes, no more!"

Though many of Lang's troop had been drowsing peacefully when old Gamling arrived, Lang among them, it did not take them long to make ready to leave, for they had heeded well the admonitions of Krantz to prepare. Lang checked and rechecked his gear and then, satisfied that all was in order, he departed to join the ranks of those already assembled on the grounds outside the barracks.  When he stepped out he found far more than the three hundred or so members of his own training company.  There were gathered there on the road toward the gate all of the new recruits save those who came on horses.  They remained behind with the Riders of Erkenbrand’s house.  More than a thousand strong they were.  Some old, many, many more were of a similar age to Lang.

The young men who knew Lang turned to him and asked him what was happening; where they were going and if they would return?  There was fear in them for they were young and Lang could see it, and he felt it as well, but he kept it hidden.  In truth, Lang knew no more than they did.  Only that they were being sent to the dike.  But he did his best to set their minds at ease.  No, he told them, he did not think that the enemy would come, not yet.  Grimbold still held the fords and Elfhelm was with him.  There were still many men, footmen and riders, between the army of Isengard and Helm's Deep.  Yes, he told them, some of them would eventually go to the fords.  Replacements for the fallen would be needed.  But not tonight.  He told them not to worry and to remember that which they had been taught and they would be fine.  That last he knew, was not entirely the truth.  Too many of those that stood with him now would not see through to the end of the war.   But of that he told them nothing saying instead that if they were in need, too look for him and he would help them if he could.  

When all were present and ready to march, Gamling stood before the assembled young men and studied them.  "Well, by now you have all heard the news of Prince Theodred's fall.  It is a great loss and he will be sorely missed.  He was a brave man and honorable and would have made a noble King one day.  But were he here today, he would say to you as I do, that hard as this news may be, there are greater challenges that face us and now is not the time to wallow in our grief.  The enemy marches to Helm's Deep and someone must meet him at the Dike with a greeting worthy of the Riddermark."

As the old man spoke, Lang felt his breath quicken and his heart begin to race and he too wondered if they would see battle ere morning came.  He found himself hoping that they would.
 
A dark sneer passed over Gamling's face as he spoke and his eyes sparkled.  "And who is better suited to that task than us, the last Footmen of Westfold!" he shouted and a roar of approval rose up from those assembled there before the gates.    "Let us march!" he cried, and as he did so the great gates swung open and, with Gamling at their head, the last muster of the men of Westfold passed out of Helm's Deep.

Gamling began a song as they marched and the older men quickly picked it up.  Soon the younger soldiers were singing as well.  Out they went, singing into the darkness as they marched down the road to the dike.  Behind them the great gate clanged shut.

*****
  
All was in confusion in the Deep.  Some of the captains demanded that Erkenbrand take such men as he could and go at once to the Fords, while others desired him to recall the troops and save them for the defense which was surely coming.  To all of their counsel the marshal listened, for he was wise and was neither a man of haste nor overly cautious.   He understood that the need for him to go to the defense of the fords was great.  Indeed, doubly so if he were to have any hope of preventing the enemy from over running the men already there if that was still possible. The men of the Mark had suffered heavily and the strength of the enemy, Erkenbrand now knew, was very great.

Yet he would not leave without making certain that the defenses of the Deep were well ordered and manned with such as he could spare to defend it.  And that he could not tell until he made as full an accounting as was possible of his own strength.  In the meanwhile riders were sent out to Edoras to beg the King hurry to their aid while word was sent to the fords to the captains Elfhelm and Grimbold placing them in command and telling them that Erkenbrand would come as soon as he could.

*****
February 27
Helm's Dike

Lang had fully expected to find the enemy waiting for them at the dike, but none were yet to be found.  A good force of men, most near to Gamling in age, was already garrisoning the defenses. They were glad to see the new men arrive and greeted them warmly.  Gamling, who had been given orders from Erkenbrand to take command of the troops at the dike, quickly set about re-ordering the defenses and stationing men where he thought there would be the greatest need.  A part of them he set behind the rampart, ready to be moved to whichever place they might be needed most should the attack come.  The distance to the fords was barely a day's march.  If the enemy had broken through they would come quickly.  Mounted patrols were sent out, but returned with no further news.  It seemed that all was quiet for the moment.

Lang's first duty was to man a watch station roughly a furlong distant from the dike.  There were many such places hidden around the grounds.  They were all kept under cover of blinds built of thick bushes and tall grass and afforded clear views of the road and the approaches to the Dike.  To those riding in the watchers would appear all but invisible.  It was the duty of those manning the posts to watch for the enemy and should he come, to report back to the dike with all haste.

The night had passed and the early morning cold was bone numbing.  When Lang reached his assigned position, he dropped his pack and wrapped himself in a heavy woolen blanket of the kind issued to all the soldiers of the Mark.  He was not hungry, though he had heard the stories told by the older men and knew he should eat something while he had the chance.  He chewed a hard biscuit and a little dried meat.  He was tired and worn.  It had been a long day and the news of his father still weighed heavily upon him.  His hand rested lightly on the cold hilt of his sword.  It all seemed like a dream to him.  Any moment he half expected to awaken back in his bed on their farm.  Indeed, he wished for it.  He wished for the long days under a warm sun when thoughts of war did not trouble him.  He wished to sit once again by the fireside and listen as the men spun tales of days long past and there was laughter and joy and songs all through the cold winter nights.  He wished for the warmth of his own bed in the comfort of his own house.  The boy, who for so long had wished to be a man, now wished only to be a boy once more.  And he wished to have his father back.

Hoof beats.

Lang absently wiped the tears from his eyes without even being aware they had come upon him and cautiously looked up.  It was only a patrol returning to the dike.  They did not see him.  Lang settled back into the blind and waited for morning to come.

*****

February 30

The morning was cold and dreary and clouds hung heavily over the dike.  Three days they had been there, yet no further word came down from the tower and all wondered at the delay.  Once more Lang found himself sitting in a blind, waiting for an enemy that seemed reluctant to appear.  He fished another biscuit out of his pack, looked at it for a moment, and then replaced it.  He was hungry, just not that hungry.  Footsteps were coming through the brush behind him.  Lang turned and saw that it was a young fellow, younger even than Lang himself, but the boy carried a sword and a spear and wore the ensign of Westfold on his hauberk.  It was much too large for the boy and the sight of it brought a slight smile to Lang's cold lips.  He was not part of Lang's unit and he wondered how long the boy had been serving here. 

"See anything?" the boy asked.  Lang shook his head.

"Only a few patrols returning to the dike,” he said.

The boy nodded then extended his hand.  Lang took it.  

"For the Mark," the boy said.

"The Mark," Lang repeated absently and thus relieved, retrieved his blanket and pack and headed back up to the Dike.  

Breakfast consisted of tea, a bowl of boiled oats, a slice of bread and a piece of cold pork.  Now Lang was truly hungry and ate the meal with relish.  He was chilled from his long night of watching and he could feel the warmth of the tea and oats spread throughout his tired limbs.  Oats.  His father had refused to serve them.  "Oats are for animals, not men," he would say.  Lang wondered if he had eaten them once he had gone to the fords.  Probably not.  His father, if nothing else, was a stubborn man.  Lang smiled at the thought.  And resourceful.  If other fare were to be found, then his father would be the one to find it.  When he had finished Lang washed the bowl and spoon and set them back in place with the others and then left in search of sleep.

When he awakened it was near to mid-day and there was a commotion at the dike.  Lang rose and worked the stiffness out of his muscles and joints.  Painful reminders of his previous night's duty.   He dressed quickly and strapped on his weapons.  Then, even as he lifted his pack to go and see what was happening, an errand runner, barely half his age, trotted up.

"You are Lang?" the boy asked.

Lang nodded.

"You are wanted," the boy said, pointing his arm toward the breach road.

Lang looked up as the boy dashed off to deliver another message and he saw gathered on the road before the dike a large group of men and at their head stood Krantz, talking to Gamling.

Lang walked up and saluted the two men.  "You called me sir?"

"Perhaps," Gamling said, "and you are?"

"Lang."

"Ah yes, Lang.  You are assigned henceforth to the command of Lord Krantz here and will leave today for the fords.  How soon can you be ready to move?"

"I am ready now, sir."

"Good," Krantz said.  "Go and find the others of your line and join with those on the road.  We march in half an hour's time."

"Yes sir!"  Lang said and went off in search of the others of his unit.

Finally, they were going!  All the weariness fell away as his excitement at receiving his new orders flooded through him.  The Fords of Isen, at last!  

"The others of his line?"  Gamling frowned.  "How many others do you plan to take with you?"

Krantz grimaced; he hated to be the bearer of bad news.

TWO

The Fords

As soon as Krantz had enlisted sufficient men from the garrison at the Dike he departed.  Many men went out with him, too many for Gamling's liking but there was nothing to be said and so he let them go.  The core of the troop was of Krantz' own men.  They were veteran soldiers, tried and battle hardened and numbered just over one hundred.  With him also came the last of the muster of the footmen of Westfold.  Most had already gone to the fords with Grimbold weeks ago, but these men were held back to act as a reserve against a setback just as had been suffered by Theodred.  They marched now with Krantz, eager to rejoin their units and avenge the losses they had suffered.  The balance was made up of the young soldiers of Lang's training class.  Nearly all three hundred of his own company had been selected, as had half of another and most of those training to be archers as well.  Together they numbered nearly a thousand strong and the presence of the older men allayed the younger soldiers' fears.  As they left the Dike they seemed confident and eager.  The few who were mounted acted as scouts and outriders, looking ahead for signs of activity, be it friendly or otherwise.

It was not long before they emerged from the Valley of Deeping Coomb and arrived at the split in the road.  One direction led to the southeast and the Capital of Edoras; the other bent away to the north and west toward fords.  It was a place Lang knew well.  From here it was two hours easy walking to the north and a little east to arrive at his home.  Here he and his father would often stop and take a short rest on their way to market.  They would sit and watch the other travelers as they made their way along the road.  Often they would play a favorite game of making up stories about the strangers; who they were and what their business in Helm's Deep might be.  That one might be a wealthy merchant bringing exotic goods from across the sea.  This one on an urgent errand to the King or perhaps a Dunlending spy?  Lang felt his throat to tighten at the memories and he pushed the thought away trying instead to think about the fords and what might await them there.

The men stopped only briefly for a cold lunch and then were on the march once again.  Ordinarily they would have taken two days to make the journey but time was short.  The men were well rested and eager and it was Krantz' intention that they arrive no later than nightfall so that they could report to Grimbold, the field commander of the Westfold Muster, and be assigned and still have time enough to rest should circumstances permit it.  It would also make things easier for Erkenbrand when he arrived to take command for himself if the units were already in place.

As they had on the way to Helm's Dike, the older men struck up a song and the others joined in.  They did not travel far, however, when they began to come upon the wounded from the fords making their way back to the Deep.  Many had already arrived there, coming in carts and wagons having been too badly injured to walk.  These men were not so badly hurt, though it was plain enough to see that they were not able to fight.  Some wore blood-soaked bandages and walked with makeshift crutches or canes.   Others had their eyes covered and were led by those that could see.  And some few merely followed along or were led by ropes, blank stares on their faces, not giving any sign that they even noticed the fresh troops marching in the opposite direction.  Lang studied each face as it passed, hoping against hope that just one of them might hold a familiar look.  But none did.

As the last of the wounded men passed behind them, Lang heard them rise up a great shout of exhortation.  The sound of it chilled him.  It was not a salute or a well wishing.   It was not a summons to great deeds and bravery.  It was a demand for retribution and vengeance and there was hate and death in that cry and Lang felt it in his very bones.  In answer the troop pounded spears against shields, but they spoke not a word nor did they look back to see the others gathered there and the host moved on.

In the west daylight was still showing above the horizon as they rounded the long curve in the road and came within sight of the Fords.  Smoke rose up from many fires as the evening meal was prepared.  Even in its reduced state, for Isengard had left nothing untouched, not even the river, Lang could not help but admire its beauty.  He studied it as it ran down out of the Nan Curunir, called the Wizard's Vale in the Common Tongue, and out into the Gap of Rohan, its silver ribbon glittering and sparkling in the reflected light of the waning day.  But to the north and east all was dark and the foreboding look of it made Lang shiver.   Though he did not feel cold, Lang pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders as he walked.  Before long he began to notice the gentle decline of the road and down they went to the fords.

Grimbold was waiting for them as they arrived.

"Krantz!" the commander shouted as they entered the camp not far from the fords.  "Things must be getting thin up on the Burg if they are sending me the likes of you."

Krantz grinned and received the other's outstretched hand.  "I'll have you know that I'm worth any ten of your young bucks!" he growled.  

"Twenty at least."  Grimbold laughed.  "And what is this I see?  Why it looks as though you have brought me the entire host of the Riddermark!"

But as he studied them further his smile faltered.  He took Krantz a short space away and spoke to him in a low voice.

"These are boys, man. Are things that bad?"

Krantz nodded. "These are the last.  The larger part of them is from the most recent training group.  What you see before you represents the best of that lot.  I picked them myself.  My own men are with me of course.  The rest are older, trained, but perhaps a bit rusty and a little thick in the middle, but they'll fight."

"They'll have to."  The Commander scowled.  "Our losses have been heavy enough and our scouts tell us that the enemy grows stronger with each day."

"They will fight, upon my word they will," Krantz said. "I myself have had a good hand in their training.  It would have been better though if there were more time, but these men…"

"Boys," Grimbold corrected.

"Men," Krantz insisted, "will give as good an accounting of themselves as any green troops could, better if I'm any judge of soldiers". 

Grimbold still frowned and shook his head.  "I had hoped for better."

"There are none better to be found," Krantz stated flatly. "Not in the Westmark, not without more time."

"And where is Erkenbrand?" Grimbold asked. "I had hoped to find him with you."

Krantz shrugged.  "As had I.  I half expected him to overtake us on the road.  But as yet there has been no sign or word from him.  He may have been delayed in the Deep.  There was still much left to do.  And we traveled fast resting only a little.  He may arrive in the morning."

"Let us hope so.  But for now these will have to do," Grimbold said indicating the new arrivals.  "The archers and your own men will stay here on this side of the river.  You may remain with them if that is your wish."  

It was.

"Divide the balance into three groups, two larger and one smaller.  Spread the older men out evenly between them.  Those younger ones will have need of their experience."

"Yes, Lord," Krantz replied.

"After that is done take them to the cooks and get them fed.  In the morning they will go across the River.  The two larger groups will go into the forts, the other shall guard the passage between them."

"Yes, Lord," Krantz replied.

He knew that the space between the forts was narrow and that a larger body of men would find themselves crowded and at pains to maneuver to meet the enemy should he come that way.  This would also force anyone trying to move that way to expose their flanks to attack from within the forts.  Krantz thought it a good plan and said so.

His orders given, Grimbold relaxed.  He pulled a pipe from a pouch on his belt and lit it.

"It's good that you are here, my friend."  He said, "If I had but an eored of men like yourself we might drive these brutes all the way back to the gates of Isengard."

"Don't count anything out, not yet," Krantz sneered as he withdrew his own pipe.  "This fight has only just begun."

"Perhaps you are right,” Grimbold replied, but in his heart he feared it would not be so.  Krantz could read the man's expression, but he said nothing.

The two men smoked in silence for a moment and looked out from the camp toward the fords.  The outlines of the forts were only barely visible in the deepening gloom.  Night was coming on and the clouds obscured the moon making it seem even later than it was.  There were no fires from the forts this night as Grimbold had ordered them to be kept unlit.  There was no sense in giving the enemy a target at which to shoot his arrows if he chose.

You know, I had expected to see more men here," Krantz said, looking around at the nearly empty camp.

Most of Grimbold's troops were already across the river save for his archers, the few remaining cavalry and a handful of footmen.  But even that did not account for the lack of soldiers in the camp.  And it certainly did not explain the very apparent lack of cavalry.

"Yes." Grimbold said.  "Elfhelm was here with a good number of men from Edoras.  He saved my life and if he had only come but ten minutes sooner he might have saved that of the Prince as well."  Here Grimbold looked down and his voice faltered.  Krantz opened his mouth to speak but Grimbold took a deep breath and continued; "It was his thought that we should abandon the fords and make our stand along the approaches to the north."

"Give up the fords?"  Krantz said in disbelief.  "Why, the men of Westfold have guarded the fords since long before you or I were old enough to lift a sword."

Grimbold nodded and smiled, he understood.  The fords, indeed all the Gap of Rohan had been kept secure down through the years due to the vigilance and blood of the Rohirrim of Westfold.  To simply hand them over to the enemy without a fight would be a bitter pill for any of them to take.

  "He felt that the main of the attack would come down the east side of the river and that by holding to the fords we would be trapped.  Cut off at the very least."

Krantz nodded.  It was a sensible idea.  "Well I suppose that is to be expected of someone from the Eastmark," he said.  "They are a rather practical lot.  But did he stop to consider what would happen once the enemy's scouts found the fords abandoned?  They could march down the road in half the time, move on the Deep and we would be in no position to halt them or even delay them much."

Grimbold smiled again.  "That, my dear Krantz, is exactly what I told him.  And it is why he is to the north and we are here."

"Well, I don't like it."  Krantz scowled.  "Now there are not as many of us as there should be at either place."

"None of us like it, but it is all we can do."  Grimbold replied.  "Neither route can be left undefended and neither can be guarded adequately.  We will just have to make do."

Krantz huffed. "I am getting tired of hearing that phrase,” he said, emptying his spent pipe.  

Grimbold laughed out loud and clapped Krantz on the shoulder.  "As am I, my friend.  Now let's get these boys…men," Grimbold corrected himself. "Fed.  And perhaps we can find ourselves some more weed to smoke.  I am out.  You?"

Krantz shook his head.  "That was the last of mine as well.  It's getting impossible to find any in the Deep these days."

"I am not surprised."  Grimbold replied.  "Say, have you heard about the new weed?"

"New weed?"  Krantz said.

"Yes," Grimbold replied.  "It's called Longfellow or Fatbottom or some such thing, they say it comes out of the west."

For the first time in a long while Krantz found himself genuinely surprised.  "Really?"

"Yes," Grimbold said again. "From a place called The Shire.  Rumor has it that it surpasses anything we have here."

"Hmmmph, Krantz snorted.  "I've heard that before.  For my money Westfold weed is the best."

"Not anymore apparently."  Grimbold replied with a smirk.

"Well, I'll have to judge it for myself."  Krantz said.

"Why Krantz, I do believe your pride is showing!"  Grimbold said, laughing as he had not done in many days.  And the two of them started back toward the waiting new arrivals, thankful to have something other than war to talk about for the moment.

*****
 
March 1st, Helm's Deep

For three days the new Marshal of Westfold saw to the strengthening of the defenses and the gathering to him of such men as he could and then, fearing he could delay no longer, prepared to set out for the Fords.   Few riders were with him, the larger part already having been committed to battle.  Only the men of his own house and a handful of others remained in the Deep to ride with him.  All others he ordered withheld for its defense.  There was no blaring of trumpets or rolling of drums at his departure.  The folk of Westfold, nearly three quarters of which had fled to the safety of the Deep, were too busy making all remaining preparations for its defense.  Even as Erkenbrand and his men rode through the gates, stores of arrows, spears and water were carried up the rampart and set in place.  Those who were on watch at the gate and upon the wall saluted the men and cheered them on as best they could while the last Riders of Helm's Deep set out for the Fords of Isen.

*****

Early Morning, March 2nd

Lang had been dismayed to learn the previous day that he and most of the others of his former training group were to be sent across the river to the forts defending the approaches to the western end of the fords.  He had fully expected that he and his inexperienced comrades would be held back with the veterans holding the line in front.  It was not to be.  Manpower was critically short.  Nearly all of the men, veterans and green alike, were sent to the west bank.  But Lang quickly learned that even had it been otherwise, veterans were considered to be more valuable than green troops.  They were often placed so as to offer a hard counter attack, or stiffen a defensive line.  The untried soldiers would suffer the brunt of any attack and hopefully weaken the enemy.  Then the more experienced men would take up the fight in earnest.  In any case, Lang and the others would have found themselves precisely where they were anyway.  Lang asked an older man how many battles it would take before he too would be considered a veteran soldier.

"One," the man replied.  

After a mostly sleepless night in the forts, learning about the enemy and how he had been fighting, hearing the first hand accounts of the fall of Theodred and the last minute arrival of Elfhelm, Lang spent most of this morning with his line, those men for which he was responsible.  When the orders came down, they would descend from the marshals to the captains to the lieutenants and finally to the line-leaders, and from there to the remaining soldiers.  Lang was comfortable in his position of leadership, limited though it was.  He knew his job well and the young men under him knew it also.  What was more, they trusted him.  Even during their training in Helm's Deep if a question arose on a particular aspect of what they had learned they would often turn to Lang for his advice and opinion.  It was not simply that Lang was more knowledgeable, or had greater skill than the others, though this was often the case. It was that Lang carried with him from the moment of his arrival in the Deep an air of confidence and authority that the young men recognized even if Lang himself did not.  They were comfortable with him, and followed him naturally.  

The garrison was entrenched on the West Bank in earthen forts and well enough prepared with water and cold rations to withstand a long siege.  There were several hundreds of men in each fort.  Many of them young, but a fair number of older troops were with them.  These were the veteran footmen of Westfold.  They had fought with Theodred at his fall and had held the fords against the enemy's attacks.  Many were veterans of other campaigns, and all were tried and tested.  They had welcomed the arrival of Lang and the others that came over the river with him inexperienced though they were. For though they were strong and valiant, their losses were telling and all help, however old or young, was well received.  Spears and shields lined the walls and every second and third man sat against them, napping if he could.  Others kept a close watch on the approaches from the north and west.  Those not sleeping or watching managed to take in a few bites of food and some cold tea.  The men were skilled, confident and rested.  Lang did not see how any force, however strong, could dislodge them.  

A thick fog hung over the fords.  As it began to lift Lang could see great numbers of dead orcs littering the ground. Fat, black carrion birds were moving among the fallen, hopping from one feast to another.  On the ground between them the tracks of wolves that had come in search of easy fare could be seen.  They had arrived and departed under the cover of the mists and darkness, for they feared the men of Rohan and their bitter spears.  It was nearing the time for the morning meal, but neither Lang nor any of those with him felt as though they would be able to eat.  Instead of taking their meal, Lang and his line went instead to an empty place along the wall and took up their positions.  The more experienced men just shook their heads.  These men ate freely and even joked with one another in the face of the carnage lying before them.

Behind Lang on the eastern bank waited Grimbold and the remainder of the cavalry of the Westmark.  What few archers had come with them were added to Grimbold's remnant and they waited there too, as did a few handfuls of footmen who guarded the banks leading from the fords.  If the enemy tried to force a crossing, the horse and archers would see to it that they did not succeed, or make them pay a heavy toll if they did. 
 
Lang himself could not help but gaze into the fog and mist, trying by sheer effort of will to pierce them if he could.  His ears caught every sound no matter how small, and so it was as mid day approached, that he heard the sound of hoof beats rapidly approaching the his position.

"A rider!" he called out. "More than one!"

The senior men stopped their joking, put away their pipes and listened intently.

"Where boy?" the eldest among them demanded.

Lang pointed out into the fog. "Out there," he said and before the last of his words had been spoken, a rider of the Mark raced out of the fog at full gallop.

 "They are coming!" the rider cried as his horse splashed through the shallow water and across to the waiting Grimbold.

Two others followed him, also riding hard.  But not hard enough and a swarm of black arrows chased after them.  One of the men fell from his horse, a bouquet of thick black shafts sprouting from his back.  He landed in the shallow water below only to drift away, face down and unmoving.  The other made it to the middle of the crossing unscathed, but a pair of arrows struck his horse and it collapsed, throwing the rider, a crimson froth blowing from its nose and mouth.  The rider leapt to his feet and dashed safely across the river.

"Positions!" the older soldier ordered, but Lang and his group were already at their stations.   Shields lined the battlements and spears bristled as the defenders awaited the attack.  Behind him an older man, a spear-carrier, began to softly hum an old tune.  Lang stole a quick glance and saw that the man was smiling and his eyes were bright and in them Lang saw no fear.

"They're going to sing about this day, boy, just you wait," the man said.  "On feast days and in taverns all will sing the song of the Battle of the Fords of Isen and the last stand of the men of Westfold.  All Rohan will remember it.  They will sing of us and of the Ride of Eorl the Young and Helm Hammerhand!  It will be glorious, boy, glorious!"

Lang's heart began to beat harder and his breathing quickened as he listened to the soldier speak.  He could feel the man's excitement and taste the infamy that awaited him after the battle was fought, come what may.  

Within the mist the throbbing sound of drumbeats could now be heard growing ever louder, followed by the marching of many feet.  Closer it drew until Lang thought he could sit still no longer, then it stopped.  All was silent for a moment and even as he watched, a riderless horse, followed by a great hulk of a man, one of the Dunlendings, appeared from out of the mists.  The horse, wild eyed and foaming red at the mouth trotted mindlessly up and down in front of the forts, a number of arrows protruding from its side and flanks.  The man stood still and, raising his hand in token of parley hurled a wrapped object into the air.  It landed in Lang's fort.  One of the older men picked it up and unwrapped the severed head, dropping it as soon as he knew it for what it was.  The Dunlendings gave a horse cry and other things, each more unspeakable than the last came flying from out of the fog.  Some banking off the walls and rolling away, others landing in the forts to the horror of those within.  But if the intent was to inspire fear in the Rohirrim, then it was a miserable failure.  For the men of Rohan, now more than ever wanted repayment in kind and were eager for battle.  A cry went up from the forts and as if in answer the mists swirled away, and rank upon rank of men and orcs were revealed to them and with a shout and cry the enemy charged.  And though he knew it not, for the first time in his young life Lang felt the lust of battle rise within his breast.  And it was like a fell beast, hungry and feral, but Lang did not care any longer.  Battle was before them and so he let the beast take him.                                

The onset was fierce, for there was hate in the hearts of the men of Dunland.  Old grievances long remembered drove them on toward the waiting Rohirrim.  But Lang saw fear also in their eyes as they approached and it heartened him.  He had no love for them, for they were the enemy.  The servants of Isengard and in league with the murderers of his father.  Let them come.

The first wave of the attack broke upon the walls and the shields and spears of the defenders, but the Dunlendings came on.  From behind arrows flew and sailed high over the heads of the defenders.  Many found their mark in the advancing host, but they were too few and the attack continued.  Black arrows answered but the hillmen were not skilled and many went wide and landed harmlessly.  Some few though struck home and each loss was keenly felt within the forts.

Lang watched with detached fascination as wave after wave of the enemy drove against the walls of the earth forts, only to be thrown back with great loss.  Each time they fell back, the men of Rohan would cheer, but always the enemy would come back with even greater resolve.  Suddenly a tall man with wild eyes and a writhing, tangled mass of hair rose up before Lang, a great ax in his hands.  The ax came down hard, but Lang caught the blow on his shield and deflected it even as he swung his heavy sword.  The thick blade passed easily into the soft flesh of the man's side and blood came from his mouth.  Lang swung repeatedly, finally lodging his blade in the man's breastbone.  Then he was gone, pushed from Lang's sword with the point of a spear from behind him.  Again and again the attackers rose up before Lang.  And again and again he swung his father’s sword.  He soon became covered in blood and bits of gore and on he fought, giving himself over entirely to the hate that drove him.  One after another the attackers fell before him; some to his own sword, others to the spears of those behind him.  One fellow had the misfortune to raise his head directly in Lang's line of sight.  A single swing of the sword separated head from body.

"Aye lad!" shouted the man from behind as he thrust his spear into the belly of another attacker. "Now you've got it!  That was a fair blow!"  

But Lang did not hear this.  Two men came after him at once.  He drove the point of the sword, (something he would not have been able to do with a longer blade he later reflected), deep into the first man’s chest.  The Dunlending's momentum carried him forward into the fort and he tumbled to the bottom of the wall, wrenching Lang's sword from his hands and carrying it away with him.  The second man saw this and gave a howl of delight as he drew close upon Lang.  But Lang was not dismayed.  He reached for and drew his long, curved hunting knife.  When the Wildman swung down upon Lang, the young soldier of the Mark easily blocked the move and swept up with his knife, thrusting it into the man's face between his cheek and jawbone.  The man sprayed blood and bits of broken teeth from his mouth and tried to step back from this unexpected agony, but Lang was faster and he plunged the knife further in and drove it upward through the roof of the man's mouth.  The Dunlending jerked once then collapsed.  Lang withdrew his knife, then, planting his foot on the other man's chest, recovered his sword.  And even as he rejoined the fight, the men of the Mark began to sing. Lang grinned and sang with them for such is the joy of battle.

The men of Dunland were astonished at that sound and fell away in fear, to the glee of those in the forts.  But the respite was short lived, for behind the Wildmen followed the orcs of Isengard, and for them the songs held no fear.  The orcs were armored after their fashion, and armed with weapons more suited to the kind of fighting that now filled all the western bank of the fords.  But the men of Rohan withstood their charge and sent them too falling back, but not without losses of their own.  

Long did they fight and the day wore on without rest or sign of victory, for the enemy was determined and their numbers were great.  But the men of the Mark were valiant and fought on though their hope dwindled with the loss of each man.

By mid-day the men began to grow weary.  The frenzy of battle had passed from them and now they fought on for their very lives.  The defenders on the walls of the forts slowly began to diminish; some to the edge of orc steel, others from sheer fatigue, but of the enemy the supply of troops seemed to have no end.  

Suddenly a great cry arose from the defenders of the second fort. "Uruk-Hai!" they cried, "Uruk-hai have forced the river!"

Lang looked to the south and indeed he saw there, passing between the two forts, a strong force of ironclad Uruks, the bane of Isengard.  A great wrath rose up within him.  These were the creatures that had killed his father and now at last Lang saw the chance to avenge his loss.  But he also knew his duty, and although for the moment the attack against the fort slackened, he dared not leave his position unguarded.  Between the two forts the uruks drove.  They scattered the force that met them there for the men were weary and battered but the uruks were fresh.  Still, the footmen of Westfold fought on with valor and with skill but they were overmatched and fell away, allowing the Uruk-hai to pass. Lang watched for a short time, but his attention was diverted when a moment later the assault upon the forts was renewed with vigor and again Lang found himself fighting once more and again the beast took him.

Once the Uruk-hai had passed between the forts and into the river, they gave out a loud roar of triumph, for the defenders on the east bank were few and the Uruks were many.  But they had not reckoned upon the valor of Grimbold and the Riders of Westfold.  A horn blew and with a shout and cries of "Rohan!  Rohan!"  the cavalry joined the battle.  

Down the high bank and into the water they charged and so fierce was their onset and so terrible was their wrath, that though they were greatly outnumbered, they sundered the ranks of the Isengarders.  The riders swept through the enemy's lines, slaying all that stood before them, singing as they fought and emerged from the enemy's rear unscathed.  Up the east bank they charged and the lesser orcs and the Wildmen of Dunland seeing this and thinking the uruks defeated, lost heart and fled away from the forts.  Who were these grim men that suddenly appeared when victory seemed to be at hand?  

A shout of triumph arose from the forts and the men within, emboldened by the success of the riders leapt up and gave chase to the fleeing enemy, killing many of them and wounding many more.  But the captains in the forts at once saw their peril as their men, unbidden, charged recklessly down upon the enemy and so, with stern voices and great effort, they called them back.    The enemy continued to flee even as the men returned to the safety of their forts.

Alone once more in the middle of the fords, the uruks of Isengard now saw their chance to grasp victory.  The riders were on the far bank and only a few footmen and the handful of archers remained behind to guard the crossing.  The Uruks moved forward at once with all the speed they could muster.  Yet the weight and bulk of their clumsy armor and the soft bottom of the fords hindered them.  Archers, though few in number, rained arrows down upon the slow-moving Uruk-hai.  Feathered shafts struck home and Uruks fell.   Not many, but enough to slow them further.  Before they could reach the east bank of the fords Grimbold sounded his horn once again and the horsemen roared back across the river and fell upon the disordered ranks of the enemy.  It was more than the uruks could bear and they broke and fled back across the fords in dismay.  But even as Grimbold led his riders on, a new battalion, fresh and anxious to do their master's bidding, advanced upon the crossing.  Upon seeing this Grimbold knew that the west bank was lost.   The defenders remaining in the forts were too few and too weary to continue at such a pace without rest or food.  And so, with his cavalry covering their retreat, Grimbold ordered the men to withdraw from the forts and to make for the east bank of the fords.  In the west, the sun began to set behind thick clouds and the sky began to grow dark.

Lang heard the horn blow the call to withdraw, but even as it came drifting to him over the fords he could not believe it.  Had they not thrown the enemy back?  And not once, but all day long?  Who was it that went running from the walls of the forts?  Not the men of Rohan!  Even the vaunted Uruk-Hai quailed in the face of the onslaught of Grimbold and his riders.  Why then?  Why must they leave now the forts for which they had labored so long and so hard, and for which so many had fought and died?  But even as the thought passed his mind Lang caught sight of the new group that was approaching and knew that he must leave the field or die there. 

When Lang reached his post he could see in the eyes of the men around him great weariness.  Many of those he had known had already fallen and of the ones still remaining all were worn far beyond what their years or training had prepared them for.  Suddenly Lang felt very, very tired.  He looked at those around him.  Some were sitting, exhausted, others staring ahead at what Lang could not tell.  Still others wept quietly.  Many of his fellows were dead, and many more lay dying and the battle was still far from ended.  Beyond the forts the mist and fog began to thicken as evening drew on.  Through it Lang could see the army of Isengard regrouping and preparing for another attack.  The sudden onslaught of Grimbold had given them pause and the wrath of the riders had driven them, for the moment, back from the forts.  Still, of the army of Isengard, there seemed to be as many now as there had ever been.  Indeed, it seemed that despite their horrific losses, there were now even more than before.  Lang sighed.  He knew now that Grimbold was right to order the retreat from the West Bank.

He slung his pack and shield and turned to help the man next to him.  He was pale and bleeding with the broken shafts of two arrows jutting from his leg just above his knee.  His right hand was wrapped in a piece of torn cloth.  The shape of the bandage and the deep color of the stain told Lang that this man would not be able to fight again this day, or even ever again.  He slipped his arm under that of his fellow soldier and lifted him to his feet.  The look in the man's eyes was all the thanks Lang would ever receive, but it was more than enough. He simply nodded and the two of them made their way to the rear of the fort and over the wall.  Behind them the uruks had halted and now a hoarse shout of victory arose from the ranks of the enemy. The sound of it burned in Lang's ears like hot coals.

The scene repeated itself throughout the forts as the soldiers helped one another back across the shallow remains of the river.  All that could not be carried with them was piled in the center of the forts and set ablaze so as to deny the enemy its use.   Of the dead they took what they could, but there were simply not enough of the living to rescue them all.

Once across the river Lang took the man to a place where he might receive aid and then went in search of the members of his line.  Several he knew for certain were dead.  The others were missing, lost in the confusion of the battle and the retreat.  Lang walked about, calling their names, but there was no answer.  Shortly a rider approached, one of the lieutenants still guarding the east bank.

"You there!"  the man called to him. "Lang."  Lang nodded wondering how the man knew his name.  "You are wanted," the man said and raised his arm to point in the direction of the riverbank.  

Lang turned and his spirits lifted.  There, barely a stone's throw away stood a smiling Krantz, and with him a good number of the Westfold men that he had marched from Helm's Deep with, including the missing members of his own line.  They were battered and weary, but unbowed.  Five of them only there were, but so glad was Lang to see them that for the moment, all thoughts of the others vanished from his mind.

"Thought you could escape me eh?"  Krantz said as Lang came walking up.  "Well, it won't be that easy! There'll be more work for us 'ere this night's done, I think.  You up to it boy?"

Lang stared coldly back as he met the man's eyes.  Krantz studied him as the two warriors faced each other.  Lang's eyes were flat and emotionless.  His face was grim and set and although Krantz knew the boy did not seek death, it was plain that he no longer feared it either.  He had been tested with fire and proved himself.  He was fully vetted now and worthy of the title of soldier of the Mark.

"Yes," he said, not without some pride. "You're up to it."  And then he turned and began issuing orders.

Krantz had directed all those with him to take up positions along the edge of the steep riverbank.  On the far side Grimbold's horse harassed any Isengarders who attempted to give pursuit to those who still were retreating from the forts. The remaining men made it across in good order and, the evacuation complete, Grimbold with his riders fell back to the east bank.

Lang looked around at the five members of his line that still survived. Two of them kneeled behind their shields talking casually, sometimes even laughing; their eyes fixed on the ranks of the enemy who as yet made no move to cross the river.  One of them laid back and began to nap.  Two others had withdrawn some of the cold rations from their packs and were eating.  They waited on the enemy, not with the wide-eyed trepidation of only a few hours earlier, but with casual acceptance, thankful for a moment's peace and determined to make the most of it.  They waited on the enemy, but he did not come.

*****

By the time night had fallen all the remaining host of Westfold was assembled along the bank of the river. The riders had dismounted from their horses and allowed them to graze nearby, but they remained saddled.  Along the river’s edge men slept in brief snatches, and only a few at a time for all knew that attack was imminent 

Grimbold had sent riders both in search of Elfhelm who had been deployed to the north, as well as to Edoras and the Deep.  He had expected the arrival of Erkenbrand sometime ago, but as yet no sign of him had been seen.  The riders he had sent north returned quickly with reports of large numbers of wolf riders barring the way to Elfhelm's camp.  The way was impassable save by force of arms and no such force could Grimbold spare.  The other riders did not return.  He wished luck to Elfhelm and turned his thoughts to his own situation.  

The east bank of the Isen was steep and could be easily defended.   If attack came from the north along the road from Isengard, and without word from Elfhelm Grimbold now feared this to be a possibility, then no force he could muster would be strong enough to hold both the east bank and the northern approaches.  He simply needed more men.  

*****

Late night/ Early morning, March 2nd & 3rd

Lang sat on the damp ground and waited.  The excitement of the earlier fighting had worn off and now he and the rest of the men were merely cold and tired.  The mist hung over the fords beneath a heavy covering of clouds, but did not descend to the ground.   The hours now passed in silence as the men tried to stave off the inevitable stiffening of limbs that came with inactivity.  All signs of the enemy had disappeared with the coming of the night.  The attack across the river still had not come and Lang was beginning to wonder if it ever would.  Just now he wanted nothing more than to eat a hot meal and get some sleep, but tonight neither was to be found.  Fires had been ordered to be left unlit and only brief naps were allowed and then only for a few men at a time.  Eyes and ears silently studied the far side of the river; looking and listening for any hint of an approaching enemy, but they heard none.   Rumors began to circulate that the enemy would wait until dawn to make his next move.  To Lang this made sense.  It seemed to him to be folly to make an attack across the river in this darkness.  The enemy would be forced to carry torches and few though the archers were, the losses they would inflict upon the torch carrying Isengarders would be severe.  The confusion this would cause, the stumbling over bodies in the water and trying to avoid the deadly arrows would slow the advance enough to allow the defenders on the river's edge to inflict tremendous losses on the enemy.

Yet, as if in answer to his thoughts, points of light suddenly flickered into life far back across the river and slowly began to move forward.  There were shouts of warning and the noise of men rising to their feet as the word was passed along the lines that the enemy was coming.  Lang checked his men to be sure that all were up and ready.  They were.  So were the rest of the men under Krantz's leadership.  Krantz himself strode boldly up and down behind the lines giving encouragement to those under his charge.  The lights of the enemy host suddenly surged forward as they approached the fords and began their charge.

Lang felt his excitement mount as they army of Isengard drew closer.  He could not believe that this was really about to happen.  He felt sure that victory was within the grasp of the men of Westfold.  But even as he prepared to meet the charge, other shouts could be heard.  The enemy was, as Grimbold had feared, coming down from the north also.  Lang turned to look and he could see the points of light of the enemy's torches moving quickly down the route from Isengard on the east side of the river.  Then without warning, both approaching forces seemed to burst into flame.  Only a handful of the enemy's troops had been carrying lit torches before.  Now it seemed as if all of them were doing so and all the lands to the north and west seemed to be awash in fire, so great were their numbers.   To Lang it seemed that their plight had gone from that of imminent victory to inevitable defeat.  He stood his ground and awaited the attack.  If they were going to be defeated, Lang fully intended to make them pay for his small piece of earth as dearly as he could.  But it was not to be.  Not here along the river's edge at any rate.  Grimbold sent his lieutenants riding up and down the lines ordering all to pull back to the camps to the south.  There they would form a shield wall about the camp and try as they might to hinder the enemy's advance.  It was clear that if they remained deployed along the river they might indeed hold off the attack across the fords, but if they tried, the vast army descending from the north would roll over their open flank like a great burning wave and carry them all away.  

The men began their withdrawal under the cover of the heavy darkness.  Lang kept the men of his line together as they trotted the distance back to the camp.  The horsemen of Grimbold again remained behind to make sure that all were safely away.  When the riders finally arrived at the camp, now encircled by the shield wall, the wolf riders of Isengard were hard on their heels.

The wolf riders did not attack though.  Instead they raced on to the south in the direction of the road to Edoras and Helm's Deep.  Behind them to the pounding of drums and the blaring of horns the host of Isengard came on and soon the camp was surrounded like an island awash in a sea of flame.  Burning torches flew over the shield wall in a vain attempt to start fires and instill fear in the hearts of the defenders. But these were quickly extinguished and the men of Rohan waited.  The archers expended the last few of their arrows then went to take their place along side of the other defenders.

Finally the attack began.  The orcs of Isengard came on first, bellowing and crying out in their hoarse tongue full of hatred and wrath.  Lang stood his ground.  The orcs were strong and their attack was fierce, and they had no fear of the men of Westmark.  But they were small in stature and could not easily reach past the spears of the waiting men.  Many fell before the shield wall.  At one point the orcs began to throw themselves bodily upon the shield wall, grasping the tops of the shields with their bare hands and trying to pull them down so that those behind could pass through.  Several pairs of severed limbs lay on the ground before Lang's feet as a testament to the enemy's bravery.  But the shield wall still held. 

Then, as suddenly as they had come on, the orcs withdrew.  The captains of Isengard had seen that they were having no success against the larger opponents and so ordered them to pull back.  In their place came on the much larger Hillmen of Dunland.  These too were full of hate for the men of Rohan, but they were not without fear.  Nor were they as skilled in fighting as the men of Westfold.  Time and again they came on, and time and again they were thrown back and with heavy loss.  The shield wall continued to hold, though not without some casualties.  The circle around the camp slowly drew closer as the losses of the Westfold men continued to mount.

Lang fought on, his arms growing wearier with every blow he sent.  Even his legs began to tire as the battle raged.  Without warning the man to his left was struck a mortal blow and fell backwards.  Lang tried to hold the breach in the wall as a sudden surge of Dunlendings drove toward it to try and exploit the gain.  Lang thrust his sword into the belly of the first man, withdrew it and swung at another before he was bowled over and pinned beneath his own shield as the Dunlendings tried to storm over him.  The Dunlendings, once they were past Lang, would be between the spears, rendering them ineffective.  Lang knew this and although unable to use his sword, thrust his arms out and grabbed onto the legs of the passing hillmen, trying to trip them and drag them down.  Suddenly a horn blew and Lang could feel the stamp of heavy hooves upon the ground as the riders of Grimbold charged down upon the Dunlendings pouring through the breach in the shield wall.  Strong hands grabbed him under the arms and dragged him back as the cavalry rode down the hillmen and sealed the breach.  Lang was lifted to his feet and his sword was thrust into his empty hand.  

It was Krantz.  

Bloodied and battered and breathing heavily, but grinning and with a gleam in his eyes he had pulled Lang out of harm’s way and lifted him up.  

"Back to your place boy!"  he ordered with a sneer. "The night is young and there is still work to do!" 

Lang couldn't help grinning back as he returned to his place in the shield wall, Krantz now taking the empty place beside him. Together they fought; they sang and they slew as if they were champions of old and many marveled that one of Lang's youth or Krantz's years could make such an accounting.  Yet they did so and even unto this day are those stories remembered among the folk of Westfold.

That same scene was repeated many times during the night.  The Dunlendings would finally break through the shield wall, only to be thrown back by a determined charge of riders.  But each time although the Dunlending’s losses were heavy, a few more of the riders fell and at length it began to become clear to all who had eyes to see with that the battle was slowly being lost and not all the valor and skill of the Rohirrim could make it otherwise. 

Grimbold looked upon all that was happening.  His purpose had been to hinder the enemy advance and that they had done, and in so doing had inflicted grievous losses upon them.  But now that part of the enemy had begun to pass away to the south and east and no help had arrived from either Erkenbrand or Elfhelm, he was no longer serving any purpose by fighting here, save to bring about the slow death of his entire command.  Helm's Deep, he rightly suspected, would be the next object of the enemy's attack and so he determined to send all of his men that he could in that direction.  He still had a good-sized force and if even a part of them could escape to the Deep then those already there would stand a much better chance of survival.  But whatever he chose to do, Grimbold knew that he would have to act quickly.  The enemy would soon be moving behind him and the army of Isengard would block the road to the Deep entirely.

Lang stood side by side with Krantz on the shield wall, helping each other when they could, fighting alone when they had to.  Behind them the spearmen were keeping the enemy at bay and killing many.  Lang looked away to his left and when he looked back, Krantz was no longer there.  Another man was now taking his place.  Lang looked at the stranger with questioning eyes.

"He's alright!"  The man shouted over the din of the battle, "He was recalled to a meeting of..." But the man's voice trailed off as he focused his attention on the battle.  

Lang was relieved.  He would like to have known what Krantz was doing, but as long as he was not hurt Lang was satisfied.  Time lost all meaning for Lang as the battle wore on and when Krantz did finally return he could not tell whether it had been hours or merely minutes that had passed.  But he was comforted to have the man on his right side once more.

Lang could feel a wind rising up and for a time the fresh air swept away the stench of battle.  Overhead the moon was peering through brief snatches of thinning clouds as they moved quickly across the sky.  The mist was blowing away and although the darkness was complete, Lang began to feel his spirits rise a little.  Some of the weariness passed from his limbs and he fought with a renewed vigor.  Suddenly there was a great gust of wind and the enemy's torches went out.  Brazen horns sounded and for the moment the attack had slackened a little.  Lang, for the first time since the attack had begun, now found himself without an enemy facing him.  He looked this way and that, but only here and there along his section of the shield wall were there any enemies to be found.  In other places the sounds of fighting were still to be heard, but for the most part the host of Isengard seemed to be backing off.

Krantz leaned over to Lang and spoke, "Lang, I have a proposition for you."

Lang looked at the man.  Krantz was deadly serious.

"It is a dangerous proposition, and could well result in your death and mine as well, but it will give us a chance do deal a hard blow to these brutes," he said, waving an arm in the direction of the enemy. 

"Tell me," Lang said.

"There will be no turning back on this one, Lang,” Krantz said gravely.  "Once you decide, then that is the end of it and you will be committed, yea or nay."

Lang nodded his understanding and waited.

"We are being overrun," Krantz stated flatly.  Lang knew it also; he had seen the groups of the enemy passing around their shield wall and moving away toward the south.  "Even now some of the enemy are moving behind us.  But there is still time for the greater part of our group to escape."

"Then we have failed?"  Lang asked in disbelief.  They had slain so many of the enemy…

"Failed?"  Krantz snorted. "Hardly.  We have delayed the invasion and killed many.  But our losses are mounting.  We no longer have enough men here to keep the Army of Isengard from passing around us.   And no help can be expected from Elfhelm or Erkenbrand, else we would have heard from them before now. Lord Grimbold will order a small group of men to stay here with him to hold the shield wall for as long as we may, and send the rest of the men back to try and reach Helm's Deep if they can." 

"Can it be done?  The escape I mean," Lang asked.

Krantz nodded.  "He has a plan.  But its success depends on those who remain behind."  He looked Lang direct in the eyes at these last words and Lang understood his meaning.

"I will stay," Lang said.  There was no doubt or hesitation in his voice, though as he spoke the words he wondered if it was the bravest thing he had ever done, or simply the most foolish.  Both he supposed.  "I will stay," he repeated. "Let the others go."

Krantz grinned.  "I knew you would.  But I am glad you say so, for I have already pledged your sword to Lord Grimbold!"  And Krantz laughed.

Lang shook his head in disbelief.  How had Krantz known?  And what gave him the right to…but the look on the other man's face told him all that he needed to know.  He and Krantz were something of a kind and the older man knew it.  If it had been anyone else Lang had no doubt that he would never have taken such a liberty.  But for some reason, even though they were not close, Krantz knew Lang and had judged him rightly.

It was not long before the signal to evacuate the camp was quietly passed down the line.  All those who were going packed up what they could and prepared to leave.  Of Lang's line, only he remained behind with Krantz.  They wished him well and then those who were leaving left.

Moments later a great horn sounded and the remaining riders of Westfold charged out to meet the enemy gathered outside the shield wall.  To the east they went first and so great was the fierceness of their onset that the enemy fled back in terror.  Then the riders split into two groups and charged one to the north, the other to the south, opening a wide breach in the enemy's encirclement.  The Orcs and Dunlendings broke and ran; in the gloom it seeming to them that a large fresh force of riders had come upon their flanks unawares.  A cheer went up from the men still holding the shield wall, Grimbold remaining behind with them.  Then the footmen charged out through the breach and disappeared into the darkness going away to the east.  

The evacuation of the camp complete, Grimbold ordered the remaining men to form up into ranks and had then begin a slow withdrawal, trying to prevent or at the least hinder a pursuit by the Army of Isengard.

There was only token resistance.  A handful of Dunlendings and Orcs chased after them, but they were easily driven off.  Then the clouds covered the moon once again and the darkness was complete.  The battle was over and Isengard held both sides of the fords.  Now only the disorganized and scattered forces of Westfold lay between them and Helm's Deep, and from there Edoras and all of Rohan.  It seemed that Saruman had won.

THREE

The White Rider

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN GONE?"  Grimbold fumed.  "How can a dozen men just disappear?"

The trooper stood before his commander and shrugged.  "I don't know, sir,” he replied timidly.  "They must have gotten lost in the darkness."

"You figured that out all by yourself did you?" Grimbold snapped back and the soldier remained silent.

The commander of what remained of the Westfold muster stood and looked at the man.  He had been pushing his troops hard all night in order to make it to a point south of the fords and east of the road.  There they would halt briefly, for his men were badly worn and needed rest and food.  Once they were sufficiently refreshed they would try as best they could to make their way back to the Rock, the Hornburg tower and help those already there as they might.  

They had made good time.  It was not yet dawn and his group had managed to overtake and join with many of those who were retreating from the fords.  They had fought a hard battle and then undertaken a forced march of several miles without complaint and had done so in good order.  Grimbold was proud of his men and tired as he was, he knew that they were wearier still.  Indeed, the poor messenger who had just delivered the upsetting news was swaying slightly on his feet, even as he waited for words from his commander.  Grimbold drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to hold his temper in check.

"You've done well,” he said at length, forcing a slight smile.  Then, clapping the poor fellow on the shoulder he said, "Find yourself something to eat and take some rest.  We will be here for a few hours yet."

The man nodded and gratefully withdrew.

'Now what?' Grimbold thought to himself. 'I can't just leave them out there, nor can I spare enough men to go out and bring them back.  If only I had some horses...'  

But of course he did not.  Most of his remaining riders had gone at great speed in the direction of Helm's Deep once the shield wall had been breached, in hopes of beating the expected advance of Isengard.  The few he had managed to retain were busy scouting the enemy's movements and could not be spared.  No, there was nothing for him to do now but wait and hope the missing men returned before they departed this place and made for the Hornburg.  Grimbold looked to the lightening sky and wished them well.

*****

Lang had volunteered to stay with the rear guard.  A dozen or so of the fastest young men were with him.  It was their job to keep watch for any sign of pursuit and if any were to be found, to send word ahead to the rest of the troop.  They traveled in pairs, each a dozen or so yards behind the other.  It was the duty of the lead pair to keep track of Grimbold's group, while the rearmost had the unenviable task of keeping watch for the enemy.  Lang and one other whom he did not know brought up the very rear of the column.  They traveled quickly and made little sound as they went, taking care not only to look behind them but also to their sides in the event the enemy was trying to maneuver around their flanks.  But in the darkness they could see nothing at all.

Several hours had passed since they left the fords.  They were continuing to move when they came upon the next pair of men, both bent over, studying the ground before them.  

"What is it?" Lang whispered.  

One of the two men pulled Lang down and pointed to something on the ground.  Animal tracks.  Clawed tracks.  Wolf tracks.   Lang swore at himself under his breath for not having noticed this sooner.  His partner came over to see what Lang was about and Lang pointed out the tracks to him.  The fellow's eyes grew wide.  

"What do we do?” he asked in a hushed voice.

"Pass the word up, that's what we do,” Lang replied.

Now he was even more dumbstruck.  How could Grimbold or Krantz have missed this?  Lang was no ranger, but in the damp earth of the road the tracks were very clear.  Lang began to get a sick feeling.

The road.  

They were still on the road.

"Come on," he whispered. "We have to get this up front."

The other was about to speak again when a flash of lightening drove away the night.  Out away to the east wolf riders ranged freely across the grassy flatlands.  Not far behind them ran a large number of orcs.  They were passing them in the same direction in which ran the road, as if covering the flank of...

"Down!" Lang ordered.  And the two of them (they) dropped to their bellies.  Then all was dark again.

"Do you think they saw us?" someone asked.  

"No," Lang said.  "At least I don't think so. Come on, we have to tell the others."  

The four of them trotted forward.  They had reached and passed the next two pairs of soldiers and told them of the wolf riders to the east.  They were just moving on when lightning flashed again and three soft whistles, the signal for danger, came drifting back to them.

"Everyone down!" a voice whispered.  Lang did not need to be told twice, but the boy with him stood rooted in place, his eyes wide with fear.

"Those aren't our men,” he whispered in a terrified voice as he studied the marching shadows moving down the road ahead of them.  "Those are…" 

Lang grabbed him roughly by the arm and dragged him off into some heavy brush. "Those are what?" Lang asked, not sure that he really wanted to hear the answer. 

"Orcs," the boy said, "They looked like orcs."

Lang looked hard into the darkness but he could see nothing.  It was only a moment before the rest of the squad arrived and hunkered down in the grass with them.  

"We're cut off!" one of them whispered.  "A half-score of wolf riders have passed between us and Grimbold.  They move in the same direction.  I think they are following them."

Lang shook his head.  "I don't think they are following Grimbold,” he said.  "I don't think they're following anyone."

The others looked at him, puzzled.  It would make sense for the captains of the Isengarders to want to keep track of the enemies' movements.  

"We're still on the road." Lang said.  "But Grimbold said he was going east of the road to re-group.  I don't think the orcs are following anyone.  I think it's we who are following them."

The others gasped and turned to look at the one who had been charged with keeping track of Grimbold.  His name was Cuth and Lang knew him from their first days in training.   He had been hard working and dedicated and though competent, was hardly exceptional.  Worse, he was known for being given to occasional moments of distraction.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," Cuth stammered, wide-eyed and shaken.   His partner said nothing at all.

"You idiots!" another muttered.  But Lang cut him off.

"Don't,” he said.  "We don't have time for this.  We're stuck out here on our own with half a score of wolf riders around us and an..."

"Well we wouldn't be here at all if...” the other started, but Lang was having none of it.

"I said enough!"  His voice rose dangerously loud and the others glanced around to see if they had been noticed.  They were not.

"It was a simple mistake.  I nearly lost track of those in front of me more than once.  It could have happened to any one of us," Lang said, his voice dropping once more to a whisper.  The young men looked at each other and nodded.  They knew it was true.

"It's all right Cuth," he said, placing a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "It's not your fault.  Don't worry about it."

It was easy enough to say, but Lang knew how he would feel if their situations had been reversed.  It was obvious from the glint on Cuth's cheeks that he was going to be harder on himself than any of the rest of them might be.

The sound of heavily clad marching feet began to draw near to them.

"Orcs," one of them said.

“Uruks,” whispered another.  "And more than half a score."  

It was a sound they all had come to know far too well.

Lang nodded.  "Come on," he said. "Let's get off the road."

Silently they rose and reluctantly Lang began to lead them toward the low hills.  What he wanted to do was to head east, but there were the wolf riders.  Ten of them would be no threat to Grimbold and his troop, but to Lang's group ten could be very bad indeed.  No, he would lead them into the hills.  There at least they could find cover and daylight would be coming soon.  Any chance of concealment along the road would be greatly reduced by the light of day and Lang did not want to be caught out in the open.

‘Oh Cuth, what did you do...‘ he thought to himself, but did not speak it aloud and one by one they disappeared into the dwindling night while behind them the heavy tread of the orcs continued to move up the road.

*****

March 3rd, mid-day

The hilltop was thickly wooded and covered with tall grass.   From it Lang had a good view of the road and the grasslands to the east.  The clouds had departed with the arrival of dawn and overhead the sun beat down hard upon friend and foe alike.  Lang thought it had never been this hot so early in the year and had shed his cloak and even considered removing his leather jerkin which provided his only armor but thought better of it.  Around him all but one other were asleep.  Lang himself had slept a few hours but even as tired as he was, the thought of enemy scouts coming upon them had made sleep difficult.  Still, he was somewhat refreshed; the thick fog of drowsiness had been driven away by his brief nap and he could now think more clearly.

He had hoped that with the coming of the day he might be able to spot some sign of Grimbold and his men off to the east.   It was not to be.  Instead of Grimbold all he found were orcs, Dunlendings and more orcs as they traveled along the road to Helm's Deep.   Battalion after battalion moved tirelessly past his vantage point.  The banners of Isengard, white hand on sable flew atop their long spears and the coarse voices of the host could be dimly heard drifting up from the road.  Farther to the east along the edge of the plains the wolf riders patrolled and Lang gave up all hope of crossing back to search for Grimbold.  Even were they, by some great fortune, able to cross the road unseen, once in the open plains the riders would spot them easily and for Lang and those with him, the war would be over.

He burned with indignation at the sight of the enemy moving unmolested across his homeland, and the rising columns of smoke in the distance rent his heart.  ‘They will pay, and pay and pay...’
 
Lang felt a shadow approach him from behind.

"Lang," Cuth said quietly. "How bad is it?  How badly did I foul things up?"

Lang motioned for Cuth to sit down next to him in the high grass while he studied the enemy's movements below them.

"I'll not to lie to you Cuth, we are in a bad way,” he said after Cuth had seated himself(.) beside Lang.  

The younger boy uttered a soft moan and for a moment Lang regretted his words.  But he had already spoken them and it was the truth after all.  ‘Perhaps,‘ Lang thought, 'it was better to tell him straight out.'  After all, Cuth was a soldier now and there were certain rules of conduct that a soldier lived by.  Owning up to one's mistakes was foremost among them.  Lang looked at Cuth.  He looked positively beside himself with guilt and failure and Lang's heart went out to him.

"But it's not nearly as bad as I think you deem it to be,” he added, hoping to raise Cuth's spirits a little.

"Don't Lang,” Cuth said. "I've really gone and put my foot in it this time.  I know it, you don't have to honey-coat it for me.  You would probably have done better to leave me behind."

Lang shook his head.  This just would not do.  Cuth's head was in the wrong place right now and Lang needed everyone at their best if they were going to make it through this alive.  He wondered how his father would handle such a situation and was at once reminded of the time that he failed to fix a broken fence rail.  The rail had lain upon the ground all of that night.  When the sun had risen the following day, their entire heard of sheep, their cattle and pigs had found their way into the fields and all but destroyed the seedlings of wheat and corn that had sprouted little more than two weeks before.  What they had not eaten had been trampled and very little remained.  His father had been red faced with anger and worry that they might not have enough of a crop left to see them through the winter.  But Lang had understood his mistake without being told.  His father recognized this and spoke not a word of judgment.  Instead he explained to Lang very carefully that the remainder of the crop would have to be looked after diligently and that the majority of it would have to serve as feed for the animals and seed for the next planting season.  It would mean a lean winter and a difficult spring, but they would manage.  And it had been difficult, exactly as his father had told him it would be.  But instead of saddling Lang with the guilt of what he had done, Aleric had instead focused Lang's attentions on what they needed to do to make it through.  By the time winter had crept upon them Lang had forgotten his self-recriminations.  The harvest of the following season was greater than any they had experienced before, or ever after.  

"Look Cuth," he said, "I told you I'm not going to lie to you and I won't.  Yes, you did put your foot in it, all our feet.  We are alone and the entire host of Isengard is little more than an arrow's flight away.  What's more, I don't think we can expect much in the way of help from Grimbold or anyone else, for that same host lies between us and them.  We are going to have to do this on our own."

Cuth groaned again and his head seemed to slump even lower than before, if that was possible.

"Look at me, Cuth."

No response.

"Look-At-Me," Lang insisted.  Cuth's head lifted slightly, and mustering all of his young will, Lang took the youth's gaze and held it.

"Things are bad, but they are not altogether lost.  No one will be looking for us here in the hills, at least not yet.  We have to pull together, all of us, and do the job that we have been trained for.  There are things in our favor.  We know these hills and all the lands surrounding Helm's Deep.  We have walked much of it and can move over the ground without the need for trails or guides.  We know where to find water, food and shelter.  We know where to lie up or make a defense if need be.  The enemy will have to stop and determine where they are heading.  We are a small group and can, if we are careful, remain unseen.  We can move more easily and quickly than a large group and we are already on the side of the enemy nearest the Deep.  Naught lies between us and our home other than hills and woods, at least for now.  Not even Grimbold has that to his advantage."

And as went on he found he was speaking as much to allay his own doubts as those of Cuth, and soon his own spirits began to lift.  Lang continued to speak and, without noticing their coming, soon found himself surrounded by the others of his group who had awakened and now stood listening intently to him.

He stood and there among the trees he drew his father's sword and looked at the others gathered around him.  Proud and fearless he seemed and those who looked upon him felt their weariness fall away.   

“But there are so many,” one of them said, eyeing the passing host.  “Can we stop them?”

“I do not know," Lang replied.  “But we can try.  And if they cannot be defeated, then at least we can make them pay the fullest price.”  

The young soldiers stared at him, and Lang could still read the doubt in their faces.  Cuth reached up and tried to pull Lang back down into the cover of the trees and grass, but Lang shook him off as if for him the army of Isengard held no terror.  Folly it seemed, but whether by chance or by design, none saw him.

“I said I do not know if we can defeat them, and I do not.  But I do know that I can fight them and fight them I will whether it be at the fords, the gates of the Deep or in the streets of Edoras.  I will fight them.   I will fight them from the hills and rivers, in the mountains and across the plains.  I will paint the land with their blood and not until the carrion birds gnaw my bones will I lay down my sword!“    
  
"We are the Rohirrim!" he said, and there was power in his voice.  "Soldiers of the Mark, the Footmen of Westfold and I for one shall not despair!  We are at war and the enemy marches upon our homes.  Let us march to the Deep and there raise our swords together come what may, for this is our land and I will not yield it willingly."

"Nor shall I," spoke Cuth who was now standing as well, no longer bowed but straight and tall.  His eyes shone and the color had returned to his face.  "For the Mark," he said in a firm voice and there was renewed strength in it and his doubt had passed.

"For the Mark!" the others repeated.

Around Lang there now were grinning faces.  All were standing straight and there was light in their eyes and swords in their hands.  Lang looked at his comrades and realized that, though some of their faces seemed familiar, he did not, save for Cuth, know any of their names.

He went to the nearest of them and extended his hand.  “I am Lang,” he said, “Son of Aleric of Westfold.”

“Brand, son of Oswald,” the youth replied and shook with Lang.

“Dunstan, son of...” the next said and one by one each of them introduced themselves.  There were Eadberht and Stan,  Wig, Wulf, Ælfwine and Sihtric, Eadmunt and Aldfrid and Leofric (called Leo please). 

"Well,“ said Lang. “That is better.  Now let us move", he said, "for the day is half gone and we still have far to go."

The others returned to their gear and prepared to leave.  But before they departed that place Cuth returned to Lang and, offering him his hand said simply, "Thanks."  

Lang grinned and shook with him and together they left the hilltop and began their journey to Helm's Deep.

Below them near the place where they had left the road, three pairs of wolves with their riders moved slowly into the high grass, sniffing at the ground, searching...

*****

The day wore on and as night drew near the small band of young soldiers began once again to feel the strain brought on by days of marching and fighting with but only a little rest and even less food.  The worst of the heat had passed with the coming of the evening, but it had already taken its toll on the weary men.  Great billowing clouds had now begun to appear in the sky and were becoming thick and dark.  The air grew heavy and the threat of storm was rapidly growing.  The land they were crossing now was rugged and steep.  They stayed away from the well-traveled paths and often followed only game trails or no path at all.  Several times they found their way blocked by sheer cliffs or masses of jumbled rock around which they were forced to make wide detours.  But always they pressed on in the direction of their destination, though they knew not what they would find when, or even if, they reached it.

By the time darkness had descended once more Lang’s group was nearly spent.  They had covered many miles since leaving the hilltop and had done so without incident.  But they were quickly reaching the limits of their endurance.  Still they struggled on, and without complaint; the stronger helping the weaker up and down the most difficult passages.  It was clear that Lang was leading them now and they would follow him as long as their weary legs could carry them.  Lang knew that they had to stop and rest.  Of what use would their swords be when they reached the Deep if they had not the strength to lift them?  Even Lang could not continue much farther.  But where to stop?  And for how long?  They had been moving without the aid of lights and now that the moon and stars were obscured by clouds Lang had only the vaguest approximation of where they were and where they needed to go.  

Sudden a burst of laughter issued from one of the soldiers; it was Cuth.  Lang and the others turned and looked to see what it was that gave him cause for such an outburst.

Cuth was standing at the foot of a large and knotted oak.  The trunk was dented and chipped as if it had recently been beaten upon by many staves.  Lang looked about and saw that many other trees in the area exhibited similar marks.  At the old oak’s base there lay a wooden bowl and spoon which Cuth bent down and retrieved.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked, but the others did not recognize this place.  “Lang, you should know this spot.”  But he was either too tired to remember or had forgotten.

“This is the last place we camped before we returned to the Deep and bid farewell to Prince Theodred.  We are but a few hours march from home.”

Lang looked around and he did remember this place.  He went to Cuth and clapped him on the back.  This was good news.  It was also a good place for them to take their rest.  It was a sheltered spot at the bottom of a small valley.  The dense trees provided good cover from observation and would break the chill wind that even now was rising.  There would be no fires of course, but none were needed.  The little food that they still possessed required no cooking and although all would have appreciated a warm cup of tea, water was all they had to drink.  Each member of the group withdrew all that he had to eat and it was divided evenly among them. 

Then, having eaten and relaxed, each went to find a place to sleep.  Lang would have liked to order a watch set for that night, but it was clear that none would be able to remain awake long enough and Lang did not want to place any one of them in the position of failing at another task.   And, in spite of his misgivings and worry about what tidings the coming day might bring, Lang slept deeply.

*****

Past Midnight
March 4th

It was the steady downpour of rain that awakened Lang first.  He was not up for but a few minutes however, when the others began to stir as well.  All were soaked through and the ground beneath them was sopping and muddy, as if it had been storming for some time while they were sleeping.  Which it had.  Their fatigue of body and spirit had been so great, however, that even the thunder and lightening and drenching rain had been insufficient to rouse them from their dreams.  It was a cold rain that was coming down but this was to their advantage in as much as it brought them quickly alert as they arose.  There was no light at all save for the intermittent flickering among the clouds, but it was enough for Lang to pick out the well-used trail that led to Helm’s Deep.  This trail had been used by many training groups throughout the years and was therefore wide and well marked; indeed it was more nearly a dirt road than a trail so worn had it become and even if they had not been able to see it by the lightning flashes, the feel of it beneath their feet would have been enough to guide them.

Lang went before them all, determined to set a brisk pace so as to be able to cover as much ground as they were able.  They all had their cloaks and their exertions would keep them warm enough as they traveled.  With any luck they would reach Helm’s Gate by dawn and be safely within the walls of the Deep before the sun was fully arisen.  Then, if luck was with them, they might be afforded a genuine opportunity for rest in a warm bed and a hot meal before the host of Isengard arrived and the battle began. 

The trail ran between hills and over streams which, though swollen, they were able to cross with the aid of trees felled long ago and laid across the beds for just such a purpose.  They moved quickly, for though the ground was slick with the fallen rain, the hard packed trail was firm and the footing sound.  Volleys of thunder rolled over and through the canyons and vales; the violence in the sky seemed to them to be a herald of things to come but for good or ill they did not know.  They were heartened, however, as they approached closer to the familiar grounds surrounding Deeping Coomb and the Deep.  The young men began to recognize and point out landmarks, each one marking a shorter distance to safety.

After traveling several miles at a brisk pace the storm began to pass and here and there stars could be seen peeking out from behind the breaking clouds.  Lang halted the group for what he told them would be a brief rest.  But there was another reason as well.  Lang had quick ears and with the passing of the storm he began to hear other sounds, familiar sounds.  They were far away and came to him but dimly; still, for all their faintness they were no less recognizable.  The sounds of ringing steel and the cries of men and orcs echoing through the hills.  War had come to Helm’s Deep before them.  

Instantly Lang turned to get the others on their feet, but there was no need for they had discerned the same thing and were already standing, hands to the hilts of their swords.  Lang led them forward at a trot.  All were silent now for the enemy might be close and none knew from whence they might appear.  Night was passing and a faint light grew in the sky as they rounded a bend in the path and Cuth gave out a cry of joy.  For before them the trail wound a short distance along the base of a ridge then turned steeply up and passed through a cleft, beyond which lay Deeping Coomb and the road to the Dike and beyond that Helm’s Deep and home.   

But Cuth’s shout of joy turned to alarm when they saw standing in the middle of the path one of the wolf riders, spear in hand ready to charge.  A second joined him.  Lang turned and looked for a safe retreat but behind them there came a second pair with yet a third pair of the fell beasts and their riders emerging from the darkness beneath the trees to their right.  Only the steep slope of the ridge was unguarded and that was still muddy and slick from the passing storm.  To attempt to flee to safety that way would mean a quick death from behind as they could not possibly escape the riders in that direction.  There was nowhere to run.

Lang drew his father’s blade and those with him drew their own.  No one said a word, for none were needed.  The enemy was now before them; battle was what they had sought here, and battle they would be given.  They placed the slope at their backs and, with shields raised, prepared to face the enemy.  But the orcs and their deadly mounts were cautious for they had expected the scent of terror from their quarry; instead they found that they faced a dozen soldiers of the Mark, hard and grim, cold glittering steel in their hands.   

“Throw down your arms.”  One of the orcs spoke in their rough parody of the human tongue.  “Throw them away and we shall be merciful and make your deaths as quick and painless as we may.  There is no hope for you here; your fortress is fallen, your King slain.  Throw down your weapons lest we be not swift in our killing and allow our beasts to feast upon you while you yet live.”

There were soft moans of despair from the young men gathered there.  Shields began to lower and sword points dropped.  As Lang looked around at them he felt his spirit began to falter and the chief of the riders gave out a short, cruel laugh.  But there was among them one who was not dismayed.  Tall and straight he stood and there was lightning in his eyes and thunder in his voice as he raised up his sword in defiance and his voice in song.  And Lang saw that it was Cuth who stood there without fear or doubt and he was heartened.  Lang joined him in that song and the others with him.  And even as they sang in the face of death a fresh breeze rose up out of the west and the sky above them began to lighten as it heralded the coming of dawn.

As the soldiers sang, the leader of the wolf riders let out a howl of rage and his beast leapt toward them, but they did not flinch and the rider was dealt a savage blow from those standing before him.  The other riders followed and hurled themselves into the makeshift shield wall and by the sheer force of their weight sundered it.

Lang was among the first to be borne down, but he did not go easily.  He swung his father’s sword in a mighty arc and, remembering the instructions of his Lord, twisted his wrist and forearm in a snapping motion and plunged the edge of his blade deeply into the roaring beast.  Blood flew from its wound and it bellowed in pain and rage, reeling away and casting its rider to the ground and taking Lang’s sword with it.   Lang drew his hunting knife and threw himself upon the fallen warg rider, thrusting his blade again and again until the creature lay still.  Finished, he jumped to his feet, only to be thrown down once more as another of the beasts thundered into him, its claws carving long red furrows into Lang’s thigh.  Lang tried to stand, but found he that could not and, knife still in his hand, prepared to face his death.  But even as the beast charged, there was a sudden loud cry and Lang saw Cuth catapult himself onto the back of the creature, spilling its rider and plunging his blade up to the hilt.  The wolf collapsed and Cuth, letting out a cry of victory, bent to free his sword from the fallen animal.  He never retrieved it, for the rider of the beast he had felled came upon him from behind and drove his own sword into Cuth’s back.  Cuth fell to the ground and did not move.

The wolf riders withdrew a few feet and prepared for a final rush.  Lang looked about him and saw that, besides himself, only four of the twelve remained.  All were wounded and two could only lie upon the ground and moan.  Of the Wolf-riders, three of the beasts remained and four of their riders.  They formed a half-circle around the fallen Rohirrim and prepared to attack.

Yet even as the dreaded creatures began to move, a new sound was heard ringing through the hills.  It was the sound of a great horn blowing from afar.  The orcs bellowed in anger and fear and the wolves howled at they knew not what.  Lang waited for them to come, but before they could move there came a great rushing noise from the woods behind them as of the stamping of many feet.  Suddenly there burst forth a man upon a great white horse.  Clad all in white he was and shining as if the very light of Valinor lay hidden beneath his cloak.  The wolf riders cowered and shrank away at that sight.  They sought to flee but could not, for behind the rider, emerging from the shadows beneath the trees, there came an army of men, swords drawn.  At their head strode a tall man and Lang recognized him at once as Erkenbrand, and with him was Grimbold and many of the men from the Fords and beside him came Krantz and the look on his face was terrible to behold as he slew first beast then rider.  The men issued out from the woods and in a great wave they fell upon the servants of Isengard and slew them.
 
Then before them all, the white rider took a place upon the slope of the ridge and called in a loud voice, “Hear me Men of Westfold!  Your hour is at hand; Behold!  The Horn of Helm Hammerhand sounds again in the Deep!  The King of the Mark has ridden hither and now comes out to war upon Isengard.  The enemy is at your gates!  The doom of the Rohirrim awaits you!  Up now! Up for Rohan!  Up for Westfold!  Up for Theoden and victory!”

And having finished, the rider turned and galloped upon his horse to the very top of the ridge, followed closely by Erkenbrand and Grimbold and the other footmen of Westfold.  And Lang, all pain having left him upon hearing the words of the White Rider, came to his feet with his knife in his hand and, amid shouts of “Theoden King!” and “Rohan! Rohan!  Westfold for Rohan and Theoden King!” ran up the slope with them.  

But he did not go far before he heard a voice call his name.  It was a voice that he knew well and the sound of it brought him joy beyond measure.  Lang turned and racing up behind him came a man. Tall and strong and though he wore a bandage on his head and arm: though covered in dirt and mud, though his clothes were rent: though blood stained his hauberk and face, Lang knew even before he looked that he had found that which mattered most to him in all the world.  He had found his father.  With brimming eyes he ran to his embrace and there they stood, unmoving though all the host of Rohan passed around them.

Above them, upon the top of the ridge, the dawn fully broke and the first rays of the sun struck the White Rider who stood upon his horse, his sword held high and he shone there like a guiding star from the heavens come to land and all about him swarmed the men of Westfold.

And even as Lang, Son of Aleric, was reunited with his father he did not hear the footsteps approach, nor did he look up as the voice spoke, a voice that was firm, but not ungentle. Lang turned to find Krantz standing there, a sword in each hand, one long and curved, the other short, thick and heavy.  He handed the latter to Lang.

“I thought I told you not to drop it again,” he said with narrowed eyes and a smirk.

“But ... but I ... ” Lang stammered as the sword was pressed into his hand.

To which Krantz gave out a long laugh and slapped Lang upon the shoulder.  He then turned to Aleric.  “Your father I presume?” he said.

“Yes,” Lang replied, “Yes he is.”

Krantz nodded approvingly.  “You have a fine boy here Aleric, father of Lang.  Hold onto him.”

Aleric nodded.  “I will,” he said full of pride for his son and joy at their reunion.  “I will.”

Krantz nodded again.  “Well, you’d better get moving or you’ll miss all the fun!” he said with a wink and then departed, racing up the ridge with the others.

Lang looked to his father.  “I think this is yours,” he said, handing him the sword.

But his father did not take it.  “Keep it; I think you’ve earned it.  And I have already found another.  When this is finished I’ll tell you about the man to whom it used to belong.” 

Upon hearing that Lang suddenly turned and, to his father's surprise, dashed down to the bottom of the hill.  He went to the still form of his friend Cuth and, kneeling beside him, discarded his knife and replaced it with Cuth’s.  He then folded Cuth's hands over his breast and finding his friends sword still in the carcass of the slain warg, pulled it free and thrust it into the ground at Cuth's head.  Once finished, he returned to his father.

“I will look forward to hearing about the man whose sword you carry,” he said,  “And then I will tell you of the man who used to own this.”  Lang patted the newly acquired knife.

“And I will look forward to hearing of that,” his father said.  His voice was solemn, and his face somber but his eyes shone with pride in his son. 

The two looked up to the top of the ridge and found that the White Rider and Erkenbrand had already passed over the crest as had the larger part of the host of men.  They looked up in time to see Krantz raise his sword and, with a terrible cry, race down behind the ridge top to either death or glory or both together.  Then the two looked at each other and grinned.

"Can you make it on that leg ... if I help you?"  Lang's father asked.

Lang smiled wide.  "Oh yes," he said, then asked in return, "What about you?"

"I could use someone on my left."  Aleric said, indicating his wounded arm and Lang nodded.  Then, father and son together, the two soldiers of the Mark joined the host and disappeared over the ridge.

The End