The Ride of Ceorl

By Russ 

From "The Two Towers" (Chapter 7, "Helm's Deep")

	He came, a weary man with dinted helm and cloven shield. Slowly he climbed from his horse and stood there a while gasping. At length he spoke. ‘Is Eomer here?’ he asked. ‘You come at last, but too late, and with too little strength. Things have gone evilly since Théodred fell. We were driven back yesterday over the Isen with great loss; many perished at the crossing. Then at night fresh forces came over the river against our camp. All Isengard must be emptied; and Saruman has armed the wild hillmen and herd- folk of Dunland beyond the rivers, and these also he loosed upon us. We were overmastered. The shield-wall was broken. Erkenbrand of Westfold has drawn off those men he could gather towards his fastness in Helm’s Deep. The rest are scattered.

	"Where is Eomer? Tell him there is no hope ahead. He should return to Edoras before the wolves of Isengard come there." 

	***

Chapter one

	It was a desperate move called for by a desperate situation.  There was no guarantee of success, no guarantee that any would live through it, no guarantee of anything at all, except that anything, anything would still be better than sitting there and waiting for the end to come.   Horns blew and the men of Westfold gave out a loud cry.  The shield wall parted and the last of Grimbold's riders swept out of the surrounded camp and down upon the unsuspecting orcs of Isengard.  Half of the company wheeled away to the left while the other half turned and charged the ranks upon the right side of the breach.  Terrified, many of the orcs and wild hillmen of Dunland turned and fled, only to be cut down by the raging Rohirrim.  Behind their onslaught the greater part of the remaining footmen of Westfold slipped away into the darkness leaving only a handful of the bravest behind to cover their retreat.  There was one rider, however, who did not join in the charge, nor flee with the footmen.  Once the breach was opened, he spurred his horse out from the scene of battle and flew, alone, into the evanescent darkness of pre-dawn morning.

***

	  
   Ceorl had taken his place among the other riders as they prepared to make their final charge in a last, desperate gambit to break out from the surrounding army.  Weary and battered after long days of fighting, he had found new strength as the word of the plan was passed from man to man.  Now he looked eagerly toward the moment when he might exact his share of vengeance upon the waiting army of Saruman.  Sword in hand, Ceorl felt the familiar slackening of the beat of his heart; he marveled yet again at the way time began to slow in his mind's eye until it seemed that all else scarcely moved, or even breathed.  He smiled.  Even the quickest stroke of an Uruk or one of the hillmen would seem clumsy and slow to him.  Many would fall before his singing blade and the earth would darken with the blood of his enemies.  The lust of battle was upon him.

          Ceorl reached down and patted his mount's shoulder.  Blackmane, who had been Ceorl's horse and partner throughout these battles, felt it too. He was one of the few remaining midnight colored stallions for which Rohan was renown.  Tall, strong and utterly fearless, the horses were prized by friend and enemy alike.  The thieves of Mordor had stolen many of his kind to be broken and bent to the will of the Dark Lord.   While many of the other mounts pranced in place, stamping nervously, waiting and eager for the fight they knew was about to begin, Blackmane stood calm and relaxed, his breathing slow and regular.  There was not a single twitch or tremor throughout his entire, taut, muscled body.  He was ready.  They both were.

	"Ceorl!"  Came a shout and the normal passing of time resumed.  It was Grimbold.  The Captain of the Westfold muster rode up alongside of Ceorl and gave both man and horse an appraising look.  Both were at attention as their commander surveyed them.   Grimbold nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with what he saw.  His eyes fastened upon Ceorl's.

	"You will not go out with the others."  He stated.

	"Lord?"  Ceorl said, completely taken by surprise.  There were many things Ceorl might have expected his commander to say to him, words of encouragement, warnings, a wish for luck.  But of all the possible words that Ceorl could have thought Grimbold would speak, those were the furthest from his mind.

	"Someone needs must go to Edoras, to carry word of our fail... of our...” Grimbold paused, he could not say the word.  "Of our deeds."  He finished.  "Someone must take the warning to the city."

	"But Commander, me? Surely one of the others, one of the younger ones would..."

	"No."  Grimbold said.  He was unequivocal and resolute.  "I have decided.  You will go."

	Ceorl shook his head.  He could not believe what he was hearing.  Certainly there were other riders who could do this, younger men whose swords could be more easily spared.  Ceorl was a soldier of the Mark, a veteran whose job it was to kill the enemy, not run messages like a common errand boy. 

	"But Lord..." He protested again.  Grimbold cut him off.

	"This is an order Ceorl."  The commander barked.  "And you will carry it out.  Am I clear?"

	Oh yes, he was clear.  Ceorl's face burned with the clarity of his understanding.  He was to be sent away from the battle, to flee to safety while others fought, and possibly, even probably, died in his place.  Blackmane snorted and shook his head as if in protest.  Grimbold looked on for a moment and then, surprising Ceorl once more, he chuckled.  

	"You two are of a kind." He said, shaking his head.  "Horse and rider, Rohirrim both."  It was high praise Ceorl knew, but it did not help.

	"Days upon days of fighting with almost no rest or food and still it is not enough for either of you.  Many men would thank me for this chance to escape.  But not Ceorl of Westfold, nor his mount it would seem."  Blackmane snorted again and whinnied.  This time, it appeared, in agreement.  

	"It will never be enough, Lord," Ceorl said in a voice that was low and hard and full of wrath, "until the last of the Isengarders are piled high and burning."

	Grimbold took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  

	"Aye."  He said.  "You are right of course.  Nothing less will ever be enough for any of us.  And you are also right to think that I cannot spare your sword.  For I cannot.  But neither can I trust one of these young ones to carry the word to the Golden Hall.  I do not know who or what of the enemy has slipped behind us.  Like as not there are Uruks and Wargs and who-knows-what-else that has passed by in the darkness.  The truth be told Ceorl, I fear for you now more than I would were I to keep you here, but I cannot trust this task to a lesser man."

	Ceorl said nothing, for there was nothing to say.  Grimbold had, as always, spoken the truth.  Ceorl probably would not survive the trip.  But a younger man certainly would not.  And word did need to be carried to Edoras, to the King.

	"The King?"  Grimbold said.  Ceorl had not realized he was speaking aloud.

	"Aye."  The commander continued, "Take word to the King, but..." here Grimbold's speech faltered, his shoulders sagged and he winced as if he were suddenly placed under the weight of a burden too great for him to bear. 

	"Yes, take word to the King of course, but seek for Eomer first.  Make sure he is informed before you go before the King and ... Wormtongue."  Grimbold fairly choked on the name. 

	"If news of his son's death was insufficient to rouse the King, I doubt that the message you carry shall fare any better.  If Eomer is appraised of our situation here, some help may come. If not he will at the least make sure the city is prepared for the defense."

	Ceorl's blood chilled at his commander’s words.  He too had heard the rumors of the King's infirmity, but in his heart had believed that rumors were all that they were.  Now he knew that there was something more, and his hope faltered.

	"Commander!" A voice called out of the darkness, "All is ready!"

	Grimbold placed a strong hand on Ceorl's shoulder.  "You have your orders."  He said.

	"Yes, Lord."  Ceorl replied.

	"You will carry them out."

	"Yes, Lord."

	"Good, I'm counting on you."  Grimbold gave Ceorl a final thump on his armor then he wheeled his horse and rode away to the front of the column.

	"Riders!"  The commander's voice called out of the darkness.  Swords were raised and spears were lowered.  "CHARGE!"  Horns blared as the Rohirrim thundered out of the camp and into the ranks of men and orcs while behind them a lone rider broke away and galloped south for Edoras.

Chapter Two

	Blackmane's hooves pounded down the road and Ceorl bent close, his head nearly touching the neck of his horse.  Behind them the singing of the Rohirrim and the din of battle faded into the distance.  That was just as well, for the sound of it, without his being a part of it, burned his ears. In the east the red of dawn arose and cast its fiery rays upon the peaks of the mountains to Ceorl's right.  The smell of smoke was heavy in the air.  Outward across the wide, rolling plains great black columns of soot and ash rose high into the morning sky, carrying evil tidings to all who could see. The enemy had been hard at work this night in the land of Rohan.  Ceorl looked around him, searching for any sign of an enemy, any target upon which to vent his wrath.  But he found none.  Only the towering black banners of murder and ruin that soared high above the plains gave any hint as to what had befallen his beloved home.  He rode on.

	"You! Rider, HOLD!"  Came a cry and from out of the trees to his left came a tall man on horseback.  A red shield he carried and with him followed a troop of horsemen.  Ceorl gave out a cry of joy as he reigned in Blackmane and stopped.  It was Erkenbrand, Lord of Westfold and Master of the Deeping Coomb.  He had come at last!  But his joy turned to despair as he saw how many riders Erkenbrand had brought with him.  There were less than a hundred, hardly enough to make a difference now.

	As he approached, Ceorl removed his helm and dismounted, kneeling before his Lord.

	"On your feet Ceorl."  Erkenbrand said, his face grim as he looked at the battered and worn rider before him.  "Give me news of the Fords."

	Ceorl rose and looked up, but could not meet his master’s gaze.

	"It is dark news Lord."  He said.  "We were driven back from the fords yesterday.  Many were lost.  More of the enemy fell than our own, but his strength was greater than ours, much greater."  
	
	The men of Erkenbrand's group exchanged worried glances as Ceorl continued to speak.

	"We withdrew to the camps and tried to make a stand.  We were successful for a time, Lord Grimbold is a strong man and led us well, but we were too few and with no help...” Ceorl spread his arms helplessly and shrugged.  "Grimbold determined that we should break the shield wall and attempt an escape.  I was sent to Edoras, to bring word to Eomer or the King.  And it is there that I ride now."

	Erkenbrand sat unmoving, his face grim and set as he listened to all that Ceorl had to say.  He told him of the absence of Elfhelm and of the army of Uruk-hai that marched down the east side of the river from the north, the route Elfhelm had gone to hold.  He spoke of Grimbold's plan of escape, where the men were to gather if they could not make it to the Deep.  He described the battle at the fords, the last stand and, finally, the breaking of the shield wall.  From time to time Erkenbrand would utter an oath or a curse and Ceorl was glad that the man's helm covered most of his face, for he did not wish to behold the expression that he was certain his Lord now wore.  When he had finished Erkenbrand was silent for a moment and then he spoke.

	"You have done well Ceorl.  Grimbold was right to send you out, Eomer must hear this news."  Ceorl noticed that Erkenbrand made no mention of the King.  "When you reach him," he continued, "tell him that I will gather as many of those who have escaped as I can and take them into Helm's Deep.  There we shall hold as long as we may.  Tell him to come if he can, and if he cannot, then tell him that I shall look for him in the halls of our fathers.   Be careful along the way, warg riders have been seen going to and fro over the plains."

	"Yes Lord"

	"Now go, I have held you here too long already and time is wasting.   Good luck to you"

	"And to you Lord” Ceorl said, and with a bow, he re-mounted his horse and galloped away down the road to Edoras.	 

	Ceorl awoke only a little before noon.  Blackmane, tired from the days of fighting and the hard mornings ride and fearful of losing his rider, had slowed to a gentle walk.  Ceorl sat up in his saddle and cast around with his eyes, looking for an indication of just how far he had come.  He stopped his horse and studied the land.  The soft sound of trickling water reached his ears.  A short distance from the road a small creek meandered casually past, taking no heed of horse, rider or great battles.  Ceorl dismounted and led Blackmane to the water.  Both bent down to drink.  Ceorl removed his helm and was surprised at the face of the stranger who stared back at him out of the creek.  Ceorl was not an old man, but the face that wavered among the ripples reminded him more of his father than of himself.  His face was thin and gaunt and pale. His eyes were hollow and dark crescents hung below them like bruises.  His once golden hair was now shot through with streaks of grey.  He wondered if his even his wife would recognize him now.  

	He drank.  The water was clear and cold and clean and the man of Rohan thought he had never tasted anything so sweet.  The sun stood high above him and the grass was soft and warm.  Ceorl's weary body cried out for rest and for a space he closed his tired eyes and felt sleep come rushing headlong upon him.  And in that moment he saw first the face of his wife, and then those of his two small children.  They were smiling.  It was a memory of a happier time, a time not so long ago.  Overhead a carrion bird cried out and the vision faded, replaced instead by one of the great tower of Orthanc, its black pinnacle rising high into the sky, casting its foul shadow across all of Rohan, and with it came the sound of laughter.  Ceorl banished the vision and splashed cold water on his face.  The image departed, but the laughter remained, cold, harsh and cruel. 

	Blackmane snorted and the rider swung himself into his saddle, all trace of exhaustion momentarily fading away.  Out amidst the tall grass of the plains a rider on a horse galloped hard, a pair of warg riders following close behind.

	"Finally."  Ceorl thought to himself and, spurring Blackmane into battle, drew forth his sword and charged.

	The rider, he saw, was a woman, unarmed and with a small child on her lap.  Both were crying hysterically as they fled for their very lives, the orcs taunting them as they ran.  The horse she rode was old and Ceorl could see at once that it would not last much longer at such a pace.  The wolves of Isengard however, showed no sign of weariness at all.  Indeed, they seemed to be moving at an almost leisurely pace, taking delight in the terror of their quarry as they pursued them across the plains.  

	Anger and black hate rose in Ceorl's heart. "How dare they!"  He thought to himself.  "What power on earth, below or above, gives them the right?"  This was a free woman of Rohan, and with a child!  Was there nothing that was below the servants of the enemy? 

Blackmane could feel his master's wrath and, with ears flat and teeth bared, seized upon it and raced ever harder toward the fleeing victim of Isengard's treachery.  
	
	They were closing upon her, Ceorl could see, and though Blackmane fairly flew over the plains of Rohan, it would not be enough, not enough.  Raising his sword high, the soldier of the Mark sat up in the saddle and cried in a loud voice, "Rohan! Rohan!  Ceorl for Rohan!"  And then, though the words came unbidden to his lips he added, "Ceorl for Rohan and Theoden King!"  

	The warg riders suddenly swerved and veered away from their prey as if they had been struck a hard blow from an unseen hand.   The woman, her pursuers now breaking off the chase, rode ever harder toward the west.  "Helm's Deep," Ceorl thought, "She's making for Helm's Deep."  The urge to follow her there was almost unendurable, but even as he thought it, the warg riders made a wide circle and, their fear forgotten, the surprise of Ceorl's arrival lost, they moved to the attack.

	The wind in his hair, his sword in his hand, his horse beneath him and an enemy ahead.  Life was good.  Singing a song of battle, Ceorl rode straight at the charging wargs and their riders, and as he did, the world began to slow.  "First one, and then the other." he thought calmly, "Just like in practice."  "Practice" had been at the Fords of Isen when he and the rest of the riders had charged down into a formation of Black Uruks as they tried to force the river crossing.  The first two Blackmane had simply ridden down, leaving them to be trampled by the thundering hooves of those who followed behind him; the next two had fallen to the edge of Ceorl's sword, first one, and then the other.  One to the left, another to the right.  A pair of armored heads rolled away from their owner’s necks and disappeared beneath the shallow water.  It was a scene that was to be repeated over and over again that day.

	To anyone watching, the distance between the three riders closed rapidly, but to Ceorl it seemed an eternity.  The closer the wargs drew, the slower things seemed to move.  All of his senses seemed to have heightened the level of their perception.  He could see the each blade of grass as he passed over the ground, count every hoof beat as Blackmane pounded relentlessly toward the enemy.  He could read the expressions, even at this distance, of the warg riders as they shifted from rage to uncertainty while he bore fearlessly down upon them.  A wind was rising out of the east and on it he could smell fear. Not a fear of defeat, though that was there.  Nor the fear of death, though that was present as well.  It was the fear of Him.  Fear of Ceorl himself as he rode down hard upon the warg riders and it filled him with joy.  He stopped singing and began to laugh in rich, pealing tones.  The lust of battle was upon him and few joys are there among the Rohirrim that are so fulfilling or complete.

	And then, in the blink of an eye, they were past, or rather one of them was past, and most of another, that part from the neck down.  The body toppled from the warg some few seconds later while the head was still tumbling through the tall grass.  Ceorl cursed himself for not getting them both then uttered a command and Blackmane smoothly made a wide arcing turn, never breaking stride, and charged back upon the remaining rider and the pair of wargs.  But the three of them had had enough, and raced away to the north in the direction from which they had come.  Ceorl's heart burned with the desire to give chase and finish the job, but he was appointed to another task.  In the west, slowing her mount to a walk, the woman rider continued to move in the direction of Helm's Deep.  Ceorl wondered who she was and why was she so late in making for the safety of the mountain keep.  He supposed he would never know, for he had an errand to run.  A mission to accomplish.  And so it was that he turned Blackmane back toward the road south and Edoras.  On the eastern horizon clouds began to gather.

	The sun was westering but still high when at last Ceorl stopped to give Blackmane a rest.  He dismounted and walked beside his horse.  The air was hot and oppressive, as if the very weight of it were trying to bear him down.  The rush of battle long over, Ceorl struggled ahead, his eyes wandering here and there, but seeing little, his weariness was so great.  Days of incessant battle with no sleep and only a little food had taken its toll.  His body throbbed in a hundred places from bruises and minor wounds. Sometimes, in his mind, he could hear the voice of his father, long dead now, talking to him as though he were still alive.  At other times he fancied that old friends had joined him and were walking along side as he moved on down the road.  But with a shake of his head the visions would depart, his eyes would clear, for the moment, and then he would begin the entire process all over again.

	Blackmane fared little better.  His proud head, normally held high, hung down and his steps were sluggish instead of crisp.  Ceorl talked to him and stroked his dusty black coat, making promises of cool water, fresh carrots, a barrel of oats and a full stable of fillies just for him.  Blackmane made a half-hearted snort and continued plodding along.  

	"Yes, I know.  I'm tired too."  Ceorl said.  Then, taking a look at the sun added, "But I suppose it's time we were moving again."  Blackmane turned his wide, dark, accusing eyes upon Ceorl and delivered an expression so full of pleading that it almost broke Ceorl's heart to behold it.  He felt as if he were betraying an old, dear friend. 

	"We ride until dark, then we stop, I promise."  He said, patting Blackmane on his flank.  

	"Then we can rest before tomorrow, if tomorrow ever comes."  Ceorl said and climbed into the saddle, wondering if indeed, tomorrow ever would come.

Chapter Three

	"How could this happen?" Ceorl thought to himself as Blackmane carried him as fast as the haggard beast could manage.  They had pushed hard all day and made good time, still they had not yet covered half the distance to Edoras and Ceorl feared for the health of his horse come tomorrow, for there would be no time for rest then.  "What kind of King would sit idly by, listening to the worthless chattering of some parlor knave while his own son lay dying defending his realm?  What kind of song would they sing of Theoden?  Who would there be left to sing it?  Orcs?  Uruk-hai?  Wildmen?"  Well, come what may, when he reached Edoras and after he had spoken to Eomer, Ceorl would have some words to say to Wormtongue and, perhaps, if he could muster the courage, even his King.  They were words that deserved to be spoken.  Too many good people had died, too many homes were burned, too many battles had been fought...and lost...while the Lord of the Mark sat feebly on his throne.  Ceorl rode hard, but death followed close behind and he would not willingly pass his last days in this world until he had at least had the chance to speak his peace.  Ever he ran through in his mind what he might say to King and Privy Councilor upon his arrival at the Golden Hall.  Yet ever and again he found his thoughts turning to his wife and children whom he felt sure he would never see again and cursed the day that Grima had come to Edoras.

	The sun was lowering now and the sky was becoming red as horse and rider trotted along the road to the capital.  Storm clouds continued to build and move westward across the plains.  Ceorl looked at them and cursed.  Ordinarily such clouds would be a welcome sight.  It was still early spring and the rain would be needed for the newly planted crops, if any still remained.  But harvest was far away both in time and in the thoughts of the weary Rohirrim as he struggled along the road.  Blackmane slowed to a walk, his breathing labored, his great heart pounding like the beat of a mighty drum.  And though Ceorl knew that if he commanded it, Blackmane would take up the gallop yet again, though it meant his death.  But he had not the heart to push him further.  They had done what they could, none could have asked for more.  

	And for the first time since he had left his home in the Westfold and gone with the others to the fords, Ceorl truly began to despair.  What had gone wrong?  How had things become so bad so quickly?  What had happened to Elfhelm?  Worse, where were Eomer and the King?  Was it true that the treachery of Isengard had reached clear into the Capitol of Rohan?  Into the Golden Hall itself?  Were Edoras and the King truly under the thumb of Saruman?  Ceorl tried not to believe it, though his heart told him otherwise.  He wondered if Grimbold and the others had made it safely away.  And if they had, how many, or few, had managed to make it back to Helm's deep.  In his tired mind he saw the seemingly endless ranks of the enemy's soldiers marching along the road, un-hindered, from the fords to the deep, burning and slaying all, warrior and innocent alike.  Who would stop them now?

	"SARUMAN!" The warrior of Rohan thundered into the night and followed the word with a withering string of curses that would have made even old Gamling shrink away.

	It was gone then.  All lost, all of it.  The land of his fathers, the land that they had fought for and struggled over and worked so long and so hard to build was fallen in the space of a few days.  And to have done it with such treachery!  There was a time, Ceorl knew, when Isengard had been the friend and ally of not only Rohan, but of all the West.  No longer.  Saruman had turned against them.  Why?  Ceorl did not know, but he feared that Isengard was not alone.  He turned his eyes to the east and shuddered.  It no longer mattered now.  Even if help were to come, it would be too little and too late.  He would not see his family or friends again.  Of his home, he had little doubt that it was now nothing more than a smoking ruin.  All that was remained for him to do was to reach Edoras and deliver his news and then wait for the end to come.  He would have wept if he had still had the strength.

	They plodded along, Blackmane and Ceorl, and as they did the sun settled slowly behind a red, smoking horizon.  Even here, this far to the south they could still smell the fires of Isengard, the ruined farms and the burning crops.  

	Suddenly Blackmane snorted.  Ceorl raised his weary eyes and saw, far down the road before him, a company of men.  And behind them, the tips of their spears glittering in the last, red rays of the setting sun, rode an army.

From "The Two Towers" (Chapter 7, "Helm's Deep" continued.)

"Théoden had sat silent, hidden from the man’s sight behind his guards; now he urged his horse forward. ‘Come, stand before me, Ceorl!’ he said. ‘I am here. The last host of the Eorlingas has ridden forth. It will not return without battle.’

	The man’s face lightened with joy and wonder. He drew himself up.  Then he knelt, offering his notched sword to the king. ‘Command me, lord!’ he cried. ‘And pardon me! I thought-'

‘You thought I remained in Meduseld bent like an old tree under winter snow. So it was when you rode to war, But a west wind has shaken the boughs,’ said Théoden. ‘Give this man a fresh horse! Let us ride to the help of Erkenbrand!’

And the rest of the story you know.