The Last Othellan

Dunharrow

Our ride to the Camp of Rohan was tedious and quiet. Aragorn rode in front with the king, while Legolas, Gimli and I rode behind them. All who rode with us seemed to be filled with a grim sense of purpose. I could feel the fear of the men in the air, but what use was it trying to alleviate their tension? Whether afraid or not, they would be in battle soon.

Fighting Saruman to defend their home was one thing. Riding to another land to fight the forces of Mordor was entirely different. No man could know whether he would return to this rugged, lonely land again.

Finally, we reached Dunharrow and slowed our tired horses. Men called out greetings to the king as he rode past, to which he nodded. On each side of our riders, there were tents set up, men peeking out of them, sitting beside them sharpening swords, and all looking around at the sound of horses, with their king riding past at the front.

Cries of "My Lord!" surrounded us, to which Théoden responded with a nod and a wave. Spotting one of his commanders, Théoden called out a greeting of his own.

"Grimbold, how many?"

"About five hundred men from the Westfold, my lord!" Grimbold called back.

"We have three hundred more from Fenmarch, Théoden King", another voice called out.

"Where are the riders from Snowborn?" Théoden enquired.

"None have come my lord." A soldier offered up the information regrettably, and though I could not see the face of the king, I could tell he was disappointed by his growing silence. I exchanged a fleeting, grim look with Legolas and Gimli.

The situation didn't look good. There were too few men here to break the lines of the enemy. If more men did not come, or if Minas Tirith was already beyond help before the arrival of the Rohirrim, we would lose the most crucial of battles in this war. Gondor was the gateway to many kingdoms. If it came under the control of the enemy, resistance of Sauron would be as good as finished.

I pulled myself out of my gloomy thoughts as we turned our horses to a thin, snaking path, moving up the rocks of a high mountain. I could not think this way. This war was too far gone, and I too involved in it, to give up. Minas Tirith would hold – I put any other possibility out of my mind.

Aelfen was nervous beneath me as we climbed the thin strip of rock, moving slowly away from the secure ground below. Under my breath, I muttered an endless stream of words in my native tongue, and the animal eventually fell calm. Even so, I kept my hands in her mane as we rose higher. To me, the camp below seemed a thing of beauty among the rugged grasses of Rohan, a representation of all we could hope for, but to Aelfen this might well be a place of terror. We were climbing higher by the second, and not many horses came undamaged from war.

I was well used to seeing a muster of men spread out like a makeshift town. More times than I could count over the long years of my exile from Othella, I had walked among the good soldiers of many kingdoms just like this one. In recent years Gandalf had walked by my side often, but now it was not so. I hoped he and Pippin would be safe.

We reached the top of the mountain path and came to a smaller camp, clearly set out for the king and his closest military advisors. There were fewer men here and fewer tents, the biggest in the centre being readied for the king as we arrived.

It was with relief that we finally dismounted and could stretch our legs again. Looking around, I spotted some screaming horses at the foot of an imposing mountain, which had a small, black path running through it to who knew where.

Legolas seemed to have noticed the same thing. We made our way over to Éomer with Gimli.

"The horses are restless, and the men are quiet", Legolas commented.