Disclaimer:
The background world in which this story is set belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprises. This story is © Nadine Thompson and Greg Mussio 2001. Rhain, Grimbold and the other characters are our own creations. This story is strictly non-profit, and was written purely for pleasure.
(Author: Rhain)
The fort of Caer Goruchel was silent in the dusk, save for the measured tread of a pair of watchmen pacing the palisade. Their fellows huddled in the gate towers, sheltering from the wind’s icy blasts. All was still in the township below; few dared break the imposed curfew. Four centuries ago, the place had been little more than a small fort on a rocky knoll, huddled at the foot of Ban Diwethaf, the Last Peak of the Misty Mountains. However, when Dunland had come under the rule of the Forgoil the fort itself had been enlarged, workshops and stabling had been added outside the original walls, and soon a small town had sprung up. The relationship between rulers and ruled was never a warm one, and a garrison of Forgoil was stationed in Caer Goruchel permanently, their presence a reminder and a warning to the conquered Dunlendings. Little escaped the watchful eyes of the Forgoil.
In the gloom below, a small band of a few dozen men or so crept stealthily forward, making use of the gathering shadows to hide them from prying eyes. They had done this sort of thing before, but their usual target would have been an isolated village or township, not an armed fortress.
"How much longer?," muttered one man uneasily, glancing around him.
"Hsssh," hissed another, his voice the faintest of murmurs barely audible above the whistling wind. "There’s time enough. The Lord Bledri’s orders were to wait for the signal, and then enter by the main gates after he has them open."
"And how will ’e do that, I’d like to know?" grumbled the first man, more quietly this time. "‘Lord’ indeed! He won’t find airs and graces much help ’ere. Unless he plans on bidin’ in the Forgoil prison."
"Oh, he’s already there," smirked the other.
The first man’s hastily muffled ejaculation was cut short as a flame sprang up on the south-eastern horizon.
"The beacon at Dol Thin," another murmured.
As if on cue, the hinged gate creaked slowly open. Shouts arose within the stockade. To most, the beacon was only a prearranged signal for attack, but at least one among them knew what it actually signified. Brac had been with his leader, Rhain Bledri, when the latest meeting with a representative from Harondor had taken place. A strange man he had been, with that odd tattoo … But once the two parties had decided they could trust each other, at least to some extent, an exchange of information had taken place. Brac knew that the beacons were a sign that an attack on the Southlands had taken place – they were a cry for aid from the citizens of Gondor to their Forgoil friends. Little aid they would receive.
"On your feet, lads," he ordered. "And remember our leader’s commands. We’re on show here – no killing unless they try to resist."
A few of the men looked sulky – this was not their usual way. As the party ran forward, spears, swords or knives and darts at the ready, the speaker added, as if to himself, "Seems our ‘Lord’ has friends among the Forgoil."
It was all over rather quickly, Rhain thought to himself. Thankfully his men had followed orders and dispatched their foes cleanly, and had not questioned those from among the fair-headed soldiers who fought on their side. The castle servants, though they had initially been hard to rouse, had fought for the cause readily enough once battle had started, as had the common townspeople. ’Twas they who would carry tidings of the victory to other settlements – it was necessary that these tidings be untainted by reports of foul play. He hoped that those engaging the garrisons at Cantynn and Morfeth had done as well. Theirs was the harder task, reliant almost wholly on untrained peasants to make up their forces. Now his own men … they were a completely different proposition. Their methods might not be universally appreciated, but at least they knew their job. He glanced round, checking that all were present. Brac, Ulbar, Anwar, … Meic had caught a Forgoil sword-thrust, the fool. Well, he was still alive; he could be tended to later. A number of the Forgoil had surrendered; his men would deal with them afterwards, once they were alone. Rhain strode forward to address the crowd now gathered before the gates of the fort, many looking unsure of what to do next.
"Let us rejoice, my fellow countrymen," he began, "for victory is ours this day. We stand at the dawn of a new age of freedom for Dunland." He noticed with amusement that some of his own men stood agape to hear these fine words coming from the mouth of their leader. Well, they were not the ones he must stir now. Ignoring them, he continued to direct his flow of words to the others there, the common people of Dunland and those of the Forgoil he had managed to sway to join his cause by promise of lands in the Dyffryn, the fertile floodplain between the Rivers Isen and Adorn. That land, at least, they needed to win; for the last few years the harvests in the uplands where most of the people of Dunland lived had been poor. The refusal of the Forgoil to send extra food supplies to their most recently acquired province of Dunland, and the fact that they continued to send the harvests from Dyffrin eastwards, to feed horses rather than men, had turned the people against them. That, and the bitter reprisals for a series of unexplained attacks on Forgoil towns over the past few years. The perpetrators had never been identified, but the Forgoil had (rightly) blamed the Dunlendings. It had been easy to recruit support for the cause. "For almost four hundred years, our land has not been our own," Rhain continued. "It has been unlawfully occupied by those ba– those known to us as the Forgoil." He caught himself quickly – it would not do to make the wrong impression here. Fortunately, his little slip had endeared him to the peasant onlookers, rather than alienating them. In truth, long speeches meant little to them, but here was something they could understand. A murmur rose within the crowd, growing quickly to a chant. "Death! Death to the Forgoil!" Rhain held out a hand, noting the looks of alarm on the faces of those few fair-haired soldiers who had fought on their side. "Peace, my friends. It is not indiscriminate death that we seek, but an end to four centuries of wrongful oppression. For there are some not of our blood who have also suffered injustice at the hands of Rohan." He held the eyes of one of those of fair-haired Forgoil stock. He knew that Folca was here because his father had been cast out from the court of King Thunor, and the family lands seized. Rhain himself was of mixed blood, although it did not show in his features. His family, who had formerly held much land by the Adorn, had retained a vestige of their former power under the Forgoil administration. Only when he was outlawed had the last of those lands become forfeit. Drawing breath, Rhain resumed, "This is only the first step – we have a long road ahead before we can reclaim our land forever. That only you can accomplish. Weapons we have, yet our greatest need is for men of stout heart, men who are not afraid to stand up for their homeland…" He continued his rhetoric, hoping to move the majority of them to join the fight.
The next stage would be to march southwards, to join the peasant armies mustering by the Isen. Others would meet them, mercenaries from Harondor and Umbar who had landed at Isenmouth. Although many within the resistance in Dunland objected to the use of foreign soldiers, Rhain had managed to convince them that they could not win back Dunland alone. He had recruited fewer than he would have liked, but Harondor had its own problems. The main army would march eastwards, towards the Fords of Isen. These must be fortified to withstand Forgoil attacks. A smaller band of men would cross the Isen and enter Dyffryn, the region known to the Forgoil as ‘Westmarch’, driving out the Forgoil there. It was in Dyffryn that his own lands would lie if all went well. His own lands… Rhain, son of Waljan, son of Freca, smiled. It amused him to think that his nickname Bledri, once an epithet for one outlawed and reviled, might soon be the founding name of a great house of the people.
(Author: Rhain)
The people’s army of free Dunland marched east, towards the Gap which in olden days had been a boundary of sorts between their land and that of the Forgoil. The majority of the ‘soldiers’ were simple herdsfolk and hunters, unused to fighting, but they held their hastily distributed spears with pride, and there was a fierce glint of desperation in their eyes. For four hundred years they had been downtrodden, regarded as little more than slaves by the Forgoil, yet they had never forgotten that they had held this land long before the ursurpers had come, long before even the arrival of the Kings of Westernesse from over the sea. Every child of Dunland, as he or she grew, learned the tales of their ancient heritage.
In those tales battle with the Forgoil featured prominently. The invaders had first entered their land almost a thousand years past, in response to an invitation from the King of the Southlands. These foreigners, a tribe of semi-nomadic horsemen, had driven the people of Dunland from their homes, claiming for themselves the rich grasslands and leaving the Dunlendings with only barren moors. Over time the hatred between the two peoples had faded, so that there was intermarriage, and many Dunlendings settled on the marges of the Forgoil land. However, eventually the old hostilities erupted once more and the Forgoil drove out the Dunlendings in a brutal pogrom. Twice this cycle was repeated.
Then, four hundred years ago, a great war had been fought, about which the Dunlendings knew little. They only knew that at the conclusion of that war the Southlands had risen in power once more, and the King of the Southlands had gifted Dunland to the King of the Forgoil, Éomer Eadig. Although the Southlands had long laid claim to Dunland and all the surrounding territories, they had left its inhabitants alone. Now, with the transfer of power to the Forgoil, the Dunlendings were no longer left to themselves. Forgoil thains ruled over them with a strict hand, applying a system of tithes and service much harsher than anything the Dunlendings were used to. Failure to meet the exacting standards resulted in swift punishment, imprisonment and seizure of lands for debts that could not be paid. This strict regime made the Forgoil many enemies. In the reign of Elfwine son of Eomer, Edmyg led the Dunlendings in a series of violent protests against their unwanted rulers. The rebellion was easily quashed, and Forgoil troops were brought in to occupy the ‘seditious’ province of Dunland. Since that time the region had remained in a volatile state, although few Dunlendings dared challenge their oppressors openly.
The most recent attempt to stage a revolt had occurred just over twenty years ago, when Thunor succeeded his father Éodred as King of the Forgoil. A few of the old noble houses of Dunland had plotted to murder the newly appointed king, believing that this would throw Rohan into chaos and pave the way for Dunland to break free from the Forgoil. However, the whole affair was hastily planned and poorly executed. The would-be assassins were captured and, after one of their fellows had confessed all, beheaded for treason, while the hoped-for support from the general populace had not materialized. Nevertheless, it was from the ashes of this failed uprising that the current movement to free Dunland had arisen. The brutal retribution taken by the Forgoil against the families of those involved in the rebellion had done what the plotters themselves had failed to – hardened the hearts of the people of Dunland against their oppressors. Many began to believe that the only hope for the future lay in throwing off the yoke imposed by the Forgoil.
A group of patriots began working together to devise a means to free their land. They realized that they were not strong enough yet to best the Forgoil in open warfare, and that in any case little could be achieved in haste. So a new approach was adopted, one of stealth. Small bands of raiders, many of them men outlawed by the Forgoil and bitterly seeking revenge, began to harass Forgoil settlements, burning and looting. These raids struck even at the Forgoil heartland. At the same time, the Dunlending resistance began to build up a stockpile of weapons, mainly spearheads, which could be affixed to makeshift poles adapted from a variety of other uses. They also made contact with a group in the Southlands whose aims seemed similar to their own, and the two formed a loose alliance. It was through contact with the Southlanders that their years of scheming had at last come to fruition. Now the time for battle was nigh, and a people bitter of heart and weighted down by the burden of bondage flocked to join the cause. Hope bloomed once more in the eyes of the men, and in a few cases women (for not all households could send a man to join the fight), who marched towards the Isen. Hope and desperation – would they be enough to win the day?
(Author: Rhain)
Rhain pushed the pace as much as possible, hoping to have the Dunlending army in position at the Fords of Isen before Forgoil troops reached them. The Isen flowed swiftly from its upwelling in the Misty Mountains, and after it had turned westwards the river remained deep, with treacherous currents, for much of its length. Only at the Fords, where the river divided in two about a small islet, flowing over a shallow and stony bed, could the Forgoil cross the Isen in great numbers. Here, then, the people of Dunland must make a stand. Rhain had sent their small cavalry force on ahead under the command of Gwalch, to harry any Forgoil still on this side of the river. None had escaped from Caer Goruchel, of that he was certain, but doubtless a few had fled from Cantynn and Morfeth to bring the news to their fellows. As the Dunlendings neared the Fords, Rhain mentally reviewed his forces and how best to deploy them.
The bulk of the army was made up of untrained peasants, many armed with long spears that would enable them to face the Forgoil cavalry whilst staying out of the reach of their lances, others with flails that would enable them to unhorse a mounted opponent from close range. They had no swords for hand-to-hand fighting, but had brought whatever weapons they could lay hands on – knives, small hand axes and in some cases simple farm implements. Added to these unskilled fighters were those who had some training in weaponry, much of it in secret. In occupied Dunland it had been a crime for a Dunlending to carry a weapon, but many of noble blood had swords that had been passed down through the family for generations. Others had trained to use the traditional two-handed long-handled axe. In the hands of a skilled wielder, this was a formidable weapon indeed. Swung in a double arc, its slashing blade would make short work of any unarmoured opponent, and it had been known to burst even through the strongest chainmail.
There were few amongst the Dunlendings skilled at fighting from horseback, so their cavalry was a token force only. There were also few archers, mainly huntsmen whose blunt arrowheads would be of little use against an armoured opponent. However, to this Rhain could add mercenary support in the form of a contingent of skilled archers from Umbar. The Dunlendings looked askance at these foreigners. Their bows were strange in form, being bent and curled rather than shaped in a clean arc as was customary. Their construction was strange also – instead of using sapwood for the back of the bow and heartwood for the belly, which as any man knew produced the best result, the bows of the mercenaries were made up of many different layers. Why, these foreigners did not even know how to draw properly! Rhain smiled and said nothing as he listened to the complaints of the Dunlending captain of archers. He had seen the archers of Umbar in action during the years when he had served as a mercenary in Gondor, and knew of the deadly power and accuracy of their weapons. His own men would learn this soon enough.
Finding the Fords as yet unmanned, many of the Dunlendings might have pushed across and on into Forgoil territory. However, Rhain held them back, knowing that the Fords, a natural barrier, would restrict the severity of any Forgoil attack. Best to await the Forgoil here, and secure the east bank only once the enemy’s numbers were sufficiently reduced. He placed his forces in a gently curving arc, with the spearmen in the centre under the command of Trahern, and the axemen on the flanks. He would have preferred his second-in-command Brac to lead the foot-soldiers, but he had not travelled southwards from Caer Goruchel. Rhain had sent him and a band of his own men across the mountains by hidden ways, for they had another task. As Trahern finished relaying Rhain’s orders to the men, the mounted scouts who had been sent across the river came galloping back. As predicted, the Forgoil stationed at Helm’s Deep had reacted to the news of events in Dunland. Now Rhain could only hope that in his haste the Forgoil commander would make the fatal mistake of pressing an attack.
A small force had been deployed to guard the islet in the middle of the Fords – Rhain’s own men, the mercenaries of Harondor, and some of the archers. The Forgoil reached the river bank, arrayed in a series of formidable-looking wedge formations, their lances glittering like gems as the sun caught them. As they halted, the Dunlending force on the islet, foolishly as it seemed, crossed the eastern arm of the fords to press an attack. Rhain watched and waited, mentally cataloguing each move as the Dunlendings, hopelessly outnumbered, regrouped and began to retreat. Their allies from Harondor withdrew more swiftly, leaving the Dunlendings to bear the brunt of the losses. Rhain felt taut as a bowstring – this inaction grated on his nerves. He should be there, leading his own men in battle, but ’twas the curse of a leader ever to send others in his stead. He must remain aloof for now if this battle were to be won.
Seeing the Dunlendings in disarray and their ‘allies’ fleeing, Guthwine, commander of the garrison at Helm’s Deep, sent his Riders across the Fords after them, hoping to turn the retreat into a rout. However, the main Dunlending army, whose ranks had parted smoothly to allow the men of Harondor passage, stood its ground. When he judged that the horsemen were close enough, Rhain gave a signal and the people of Dunland raised their spears. Despite their lack of training, the peasants stood firm against the Forgoil attack. The Forgoil found that instead of harrying an unorganized rabble, they faced the wrath of a people hardened by centuries of oppression, who cared little about their own deaths in a battle that they perceived as for the greater good of their nation. The Riders’ lances were of little advantage against spears of equal length, and their own armour availed them not against the attacks on their horses. The situation quickly degenerated into a melée.
Rhain watched dispassionately the patterns formed as the two forces split and regrouped. He saw only swirling blobs of motion, and not the individual men who were bleeding and dying on the field today. Noting a breakaway group of Forgoil, he signalled for the axemen to press forward an attack. Lances splintered under the impact of the blows, and riders and animals were hacked down or driven into the deeper water downriver. The heavy mail of the Forgoil became a hindrance in such conditions, and many of them drowned. The swordsmen of Harondor had united with the Dunlending cavalry to prevent any retreat upriver, towards Isengard. One company of Forgoil, better led or more skilled than the rest, had penetrated the front ranks of the Dunlendings and looked likely to win through to attack them from behind. Seeing what was happening, Rhain himself spurred his horse forward to engage the enemy, spear at the ready. Others followed, and the Forgoil were soon parrying the blows of spear, axe and flail. Rhain drove his spear deep into the side of their leader’s horse, fending off the Rider’s lance with his shield as he did so. The iron-studded wood splintered under the impact. Dropping the now useless shield, Rhain leapt from his horse and drew his sword to meet the enemy face-to-face. The Rider, although obviously a skilled fighter, was no match for Rhain’s fury. A vicious side-swing caught the Forgoil between helm and mailshirt, and the man collapsed, blood pooling from the gash in his neck. Rhain barely noticed; he had already discounted the downed man and was seeking a new opponent. Seeing that their commander had joined in the fray, the Dunlendings fought on with renewed vigour.
Suddenly one of the Forgoil looked upriver and gave a cry, which was echoed by many of his fellows. To the north, far in the distance, a thin thread of smoke rose above the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Isengard was burning! And from the southern side of the Isen, beyond the westward bend, marched a company of Dunlending foot-soldiers. A smaller army had secretly crossed the swift-flowing lower Isen by boat to enter the land of Dyffryn between the Isen and Adorn. Meeting little resistance from the unprepared Forgoil settlers, they had slain all who could not flee. Guthwine, realizing belatedly that the unthinkable had happened and a rabble of untrained savages had bested the Riders of Rohan, issued the call to retreat. As he waited for the Riders to regroup, he gave orders for messengers to be sent to Edoras, and also to Aglarond, to tell them of what had befallen. He might have failed, but others would act to ensure that justice was delivered to these wild hillmen. The events of this day would be neither forgotten or forgiven.
Rhain Bledri gazed on the aftermath of the battle. He should have felt elated that Dunland had won such a victory, but he knew that this was only the beginning of what would be a long, bitter struggle. His people might have overcome the Forgoil this time, but they had sustained heavy losses. Men moved amongst the bodies in the field, seeking Dunlending wounded who could be brought to the healers and Forgoil wounded who could be slain. The Dunlending fallen were gathered into a huge mound, which would be set alight as had been the custom of their ancestors. The Forgoil dead were despoiled of their weapons and armour, then dragged away from the Fords and left for the wild beasts. Rhain had sent some of the men across to fortify the east bank of the Isen, but they would advance no further – not yet. Perhaps he would allow a few bands of raiders to enter Forgoil territory and work off some of their blood-lust, but no concerted attack could be attempted until they consolidated their current gains.
(Author: Rhain)
Almost a week had passed since the Battle of the Fords. As yet, King Thunor had made no move against the Dunlendings. Rhain Bledri, ever mindful of the tenuousness of their current position, continued to keep the bulk of his men at the Fords. He had sent a company north to Isengard to aid Brac, and Anwar had returned with news of events there. The fires had died down now, and Brac had been able to take possession of the Ring of Isengard with little trouble. South of the Isen, a defensive trench manned by pikemen had been set up in the narrow gap between the river and the northern spur of the White Mountains. Secure in the knowledge that the Forgoil could not reach Dunland without great difficulty, Rhain and his captains debated what to do next. Perhaps a sortie into Rohan? someone suggested. But no, the land of the Forgoil was raised against them now. Rhain argued that it would be wisest for the army to maintain their present position. However, he could see that in time the men would grow restless with inaction. How long could he hold them here? he wondered.
Hearing the sounds of a commotion at the Fords themselves, the Dunlending captains halted their discussion and left their tent to investigate. A group of horsemen were attempting the crossing from the Forgoil lands. The Dunlending foot-soldiers fought back valiantly: they had already killed a number of intruders, and several horses had bolted, riderless. Making a mental note to discipline whoever had been on watch – for the enemy should not have managed to make it so far undetected – Rhain strained his eyes as he peered into the evening gloom, trying to discern anything he could about these riders. They did not look like Forgoil, that was certain. Many of the intruders were dark-haired, and as for the device they bore on their shields – why, that was the emblem of Gondor. Gondor! Rhain had been relying on the information obtained from his friends in Harondor, that Gondor itself was under attack. If this were not true, and if Gondor decided to send aid to her neighbour Rohan … Cursing, Rhain turned to Gwalch.
"Fools! These are no Forgoil, but spies of Gondor. We need to take some of them alive for questioning."
The group mounted and followed their leader towards the Fords, Rhain hoping desperately that his foot-soldiers’ enthusiasm would not prove the undoing of all Dunland.
As they reached the Fords, Rhain could see that most of the foreigners had been downed now, though two fought on. One, a striking-looking woman, had managed to retrieve their mounts. Parrying a blow from one of the Dunlending spearmen, she turned and with a quick thrust ducked beneath the spear-haft to strike a blow to the soldier’s exposed side, one that would probably prove fatal. She was good, Rhain granted her that. He had long ago learned to judge his opponents by their skill alone, and not by race, sex or age, but there was something about that face … He couldn’t quite pin it down. The woman helped her companion to his saddle before mounting her own steed. The dark-haired man was wounded; that should slow them down, thought Rhain. Seeing that the horses of the strangers had already outdistanced his foot-soldiers, Rhain spurred forward his own mount to intercept them.
"What are your orders, Bledri?" asked Gwalch from behind him. "Do you want them both alive?"
"Aye," Rhain answered, drawing his sword and preparing to strike with the flat of the blade. Gwalch had moved to confront the red-haired woman – what was it about that face? – and Rhain himself faced the dark-haired man. His first blow was skilfully parried. With surprising agility for one wounded, the other man reached forward and somehow – he was never sure afterwards quite how it had happened – the sword twisted out of Rhain’s grasp, a fist swung towards him and he found himself lying on the ground, winded, blood dripping from his nose, as the two strangers galloped off into the distance. As he gasped for breath, vainly wishing that his men had not witnessed this loss of dignity, Rhain suddenly realized why the woman’s face seemed familiar. A memory floated to the surface of his mind, of the time when he had been serving in the Southlands, down in Poros, and King Eldarion had come to inspect his mercenary troops. And hadn’t he heard that the King’s daughter had red hair?
"By Yffern’s fires," he swore, instantly recognizing the woman’s value as a hostage and bargaining point.
Gwalch reached out to help him to his feet. Irritably brushing away the other man’s offer of a cloth, Rhain ordered, "Send a group of mounted men after them. They must be captured at all cost. It is imperative that the woman at least is kept alive, and preferably unharmed." Such a prize should not be allowed to escape.
(Author: Rhain)
The days passed, and still there was no word from the horsemen sent to capture the fugitives from Gondor. If Rhain Bledri seemed more surly than usual, many put it down to the fact that a foreigner had managed to outsmart him. Much to Rhain’s chagrin, the story of how the stranger had managed to unhorse him had spread far and wide, although thankfully most felt sympathy for their leader rather than contempt. Only Rhain himself and his most trusted captains knew the true identity of the female fugitive. While they waited for news from those pursuing the Gondorian pair, Rhain refused to send his forces into battle with the Forgoil. Indeed, he even went so far as to send a messenger to King Thunor offering to discuss terms. Rhain was a fighter, not a statesman, but he would be a fool not to at least try diplomacy. Predictably, his gesture was not appreciated by the Forgoil. King Thunor’s reply was that he would not treat with outlaws and murderers; only when the people of Dunland had surrendered their weapons and those responsible for the uprising had been brought to justice could there be peace in the turbulent province of Dunland.
Ten days later, the horsemen finally returned, but with no captives. The fugitives from Gondor had managed to stay ahead of their pursuers all the way to Dunland’s border. They had forded the Greyflood and been picked up by a patrol from an Arnorian border fort. Recognizing the folly of assailing the fort, the Dunlendings had returned south to bring the news to their leader. Rhain was furious, railing at the men for their incompetence and at the same time cursing inwardly that his position as leader of the army had prevented him from heading north to take care of the matter himself. The opportunity to achieve their aims through negotiation rather than open warfare was gone forever. Now he must once more attack the technically superior Forgoil forces, knowing that Dunland could less afford to lose one man than Rohan ten. Anwar, who tried to divert his leader’s ire from the poor unfortunate who had brought the news, reflected that not since that failed attack on Edoras two years ago, when Meic had left a Forgoil sentry alive to raise the alarm, nearly getting them all killed, had he seen Bledri like this.
It was with deep foreboding that Rhain Bledri finally authorized an attack on Forgoil territory. He knew that once across the Fords of Isen his men would be at a disadvantage, for on the wide plains the cavalry forces of the Forgoil would have the upper hand. Yet if he continued to do nothing, his army would melt away like snow in spring, leaving too few men to defend the Fords themselves. No, he must give his troops the action they desired. In this waiting game, Thunor, King of the Forgoil, had won. Rhain could not help feeling, however, that there was more to Thunor’s tactics than a simple wish to force the Dunlendings into making the first move. There was some piece of the puzzle he was missing, something else … Rhain continued to ponder the matter long into the night, yet by daybreak no new wisdom had come to him. The next morn, he led part of the Dunlending army across the Fords of Isen into the Forgoil region of Westfold, their target the fertile farmlands east of the Isen.
(Author: Rhain)
If nothing else, the Dunlendings’ eastward sortie had certainly spurred the Forgoil into a brief flurry of action. Rhain and his men had penetrated perhaps ten leagues eastward into the region known as the West Emnet, cutting a swathe of devastation, before the Forgoil éoreds under the command of Penda, marshal of the Westmarch, had reacted. The Dunlendings were driven back westwards with losses, yet the Forgoil made no attempt to follow them across the Fords; neither did they move northwards against occupied Isengard. It was almost as if Thunor was playing with them, Rhain reflected, bitterly aware that he could not defeat the Forgoil on their own territory but must wait for them to come to him. The promised aid from their allies had not materialized, nor would it, Rhain was beginning to suspect. The peasants who made up the bulk of the Dunlending army had hoped for an easy victory, not a long, drawn-out series of skirmishes. Now, faced with the prospect of perhaps many weeks of inaction, their numbers began to dwindle. Was this what Thunor had been hoping for?
Some ten days later, Rhain found out the real reason that the Forgoil had held back so long. One of the scouts he had sent out eastwards returned with ill news. It seemed that the Forgoil had allies, the like of whom the Dunlendings could not have guessed at. For a huge army of the dwarrow, the Stunted Folk, was even now marching westwards from the Forest of Fangorn. This must have been the aid that Thunor had been awaiting. Worse was still to come, however. Riders from the west arrived with dread tidings. A huge force from Arnor, numbering at least five thousand men, together with more of the Stunted Folk, had crossed the Greyflood and was heading south. They would reach the Fords within a few days.1
When he heard these tidings, Rhain knew that he could not win against such odds. It was a classic manoeuvre – should he give battle, his untrained, although dedicated, army would be caught between the two tactically superior opposing forces and be crushed utterly. Yet the thought of surrender to the Forgoil could not be borne. He must take the only option left – retreat to Isengard. From there, the Dunlending foot-soldiers could take to the hills, where the enemy cavalry could not follow. The simple herdsfolk and farmers could return to their homes by hidden paths, while his own men could take up their old methods of fighting. As to the Ring of Isengard itself, Rhain was not minded to give that up without a fight. A determined force could hold out in Isengard for many months – if they had the supplies, that was. But the Forgoil and their allies would not know that the defenders of Isengard had little food, and at least he could buy some time for his people to flee to safety.
Rhain issued orders to his men to put his plan for retreat into action. Gwalch and his cavalry would cross the Isen and hold a position just north of the Fords as long as possible. This task was a dangerous one, yet mounted men would have the best chance of winning back to Isengard from that side of the river. At the Fords themselves, Rhain placed several companies of foot-soldiers. Their task was to draw the Forgoil out on to the crossing, before that way was temporarily sealed. Once the westward advance of the Forgoil was halted, Rhain and his army would have a chance to retreat northwards before the fearsome forces of Arnor reached them.
A scant few hours later, a dust cloud was seen on the eastern horizon. This rapidly resolved into the shapes of many companies of horsemen, éored upon éored. The setting sun shone on their green- and white-painted shields, and gleamed red off their shining lances, as if they were tipped in blood. To the Dunlendings this seemed an ominous sign indeed. Beside the horsemen marched shorter forms in regimented array. These were the Stunted Folk. Each dwarf was armed with axe or war-hammer, and as they marched they chanted in deep voices in the ancient tongue of their people. The Forgoil army split in two as it neared the Fords, some heading for the Fords themselves, others heading northwards towards the deep dike where Gwalch and all that remained of the Dunlending cavalry awaited them.
As those Dunlending foot-soldiers on the east side of the Fords prepared for battle, preparations of a different sort were going on behind them. Rhain watched from a vantage point on the west bank of the Isen as a group of men on the barren islet at the centre of the Fords carefully rolled barrels into position and discharged their precious contents upon mats of reeds. These had been spread across the water, the serried rows of stepping stones acting as a restraint to hold them in position against the currents. A similar liquid had been scattered over the ground just east of the Ford. On the islet itself, branches, reeds and other combustible materials had been piled. The origin of the strange liquid was a jealously guarded secret. The lightest form of this rare substance could be found floating on the surface of a few of Dunland’s bogs, while the heavier, more viscous form that would be used here must be drawn forth from the very rocks themselves using great heat. If ignited, the liquid burned with a fierce flame – it would be as if the river itself spewed forth fire. The brisk west wind would drive the flames away from the Dunlendings and towards the Rohirrim. And it was a fine evening; in this much, at least, fortune favoured them, Rhain thought. The trick would only work under the right conditions.
The Dunlendings on the east side of the Fords were sustaining heavy losses, for the Forgoil had brought with them companies of bowmen, and the unarmoured Dunlendings proved easy targets. Seeing that all was in readiness, Rhain dipped the standard of Dunland in the signal for retreat. Hearing the shouts of their commanders, the Dunlendings began to fall back. Too slowly – although some men had already reached the relative safety of the west bank of the Isen, others were being overrun by the Forgoil horsemen. With gritted teeth, Rhain passed an order to the leader of his own archers. The Dunlending bowmen obeyed the order unquestioningly, moving forward to the river’s edge to release a volley of flaming arrows. Aided by the wind, many of these found their mark in the reed-mats. Where they fell, a wall of flame sprang up. Shouts of fear and dismay rose amongst the Forgoil attackers – they had not expected anything like this. Rhain gazed on impassively, his face betraying no sign of the horror he felt at hearing the cries of those Dunlendings who had been caught in the blast of flame along with their Forgoil pursuers. Such a death had little honour, he reflected, yet the sacrifice had been required, in order that as many Dunlending lives as possible be saved. It had been necessary to halt the advance of the Forgoil, to prevent them from crossing the Isen. The flames would hold them back awhile, and with luck the wind might carry the fire to Rohan’s grasslands.
Rhain had already sent some companies of Dunlendings northwards; now, with no further ado, the last remnants of the once-proud Dunlending army followed. Their pace was swift, for they knew that, in addition to the Forgoil and their strange allies, an army of Northerners was hastening towards the Isen. Yet they were not devoid of hope. The Dunlendings would reach Glyn Dewin, the Wizard’s Vale, before the Northerners did; perhaps a day in advance. Those who remained in Isengard would at least have time to prepare their last defence.
(Author: Grimbold)
Grimbold, Marshal of Westfold, viewed the dwimmerlaik sorcery of the Dunlenders with anger and dismay. That part of his éored was caught in the conflagration on the Isen caused him to seethe like the roiling water of the river. He spurred his steed and flew down from his vantage point atop a ridge overlooking the Isen and came to the very edge of the water. He drove back and forth along the banks directing his horsemen to pull the bodies of the fallen from the water. At the sight of so many brave men burned alive, Grimbold’s anger burst forth unhindered.
"Take no prisoners," he bellowed above the confusion, "For the enemy is craven and cannot defeat us in fair fight! Throw them into the flames as they would have done us!"
Grimbold gazed at the unrelenting fire in the river and suddenly realized that this was no Dwimmerlaik spell. Indeed it was not the water set aflame at all, but mats burning from some foul substance poured upon them. He had seen wood alcohol burn in much the same way as it soaked into straw.
He rode back quickly to where Penda, Marshal of Westmarch, held council with the Dwarvish chiefs. Grimbold quickly explained the river fire’s origin, and one of the dwarves named Balan bade his kinsmen follow. The contingent of dwarves came to the shores of the Isen and to Grimbold’s surprise, waded into the water. To the Rohirrim’s shock, the dwarves grabbed hold of the burning mats as if fire had no effect on them and pulled them off their moorings. Within an hour, many of the burning mats were floating harmlessly down the Isen’s swift course and the Fords were now open enough to allow the Riders of Rohan through.
Grimbold drove his éored through the gap in the flames and on into the open lands west of the Isen. He had a savage grin and laughed aloud. "The cowards think they have bought time," Grimbold cried to his men, "All they have bought is the wrath of Rohan down upon their heads. Remember the Isen!"
"Remember the Isen!" The Riders of Rohan replied in one angry voice, and galloped full tilt into the gathering darkness, following the trail of discarded weapons, wounded horses and heavy packs left behind by the fleeing Dunlenders. The Rohirrim could follow this trail easily, even in the dead of night.
(Author: Rhain)
The Dunlending retreat was as swift as it might be, yet Rhain spurred them on, fearing that the enemy might be only hours rather than days behind them. All through the night and into the next day they marched, knowing that the Forgoil must surely have crossed the Fords by now. At last they were within the shadowing arms of the Misty Mountains. At intervals, Rhain sent companies of foot-soldiers into the hills, where the Forgoil horses could not follow. Once both groups were on foot, the Dunlendings would have the advantage, for they knew this region well. At one time the southern Misty Mountains had been occupied by tribes of Orcs, and there had been an uneasy relationship between the two races – sometimes cooperation, at other times raiding and outright hostility. But four hundred years ago, after the Great War, the Forgoil had driven the remnants of the Orcs from these lands. Now the Dunlendings alone remembered the long-forgotten mountain paths. And there were caves deep within the mountains where a band of men might lie hidden for months, providing they could find enough game in the surrounding region. Yes, the hills would provide a safe refuge for those lucky enough to reach them.
At last the mouth of the Wizard’s Vale was in sight. The valley ahead of them was still empty – Rhain had feared that the last of his cavalry forces east of the river would have capitulated long ago, allowing the Forgoil to reach Isengard ahead of the Dunlendings. However, it seemed that Gwalch and his men had proved of sterner stuff than the Forgoil had expected. The shapes of horsemen and foot-soldiers could be seen in the distance to the east, heading towards the valley, but they were still far away. A much more immediate peril lay directly behind the Dunlendings. For the Forgoil, their hearts angered by the use of fire at the Isen and what they perceived as the desecration of the grave of their hero Theodred, were close upon their heels. There was no way the Dunlendings could reach the safety of the Ring of Isengard before the Forgoil forces were upon them.
Rhain halted at the mouth of the Wizard’s Vale. Here he and his men must turn and make a stand. Most of the untrained peasant soldiers already had fled to the hills; those who were left were trained warriors, their hearts hardened by years of pitiless struggle against the Forgoil. Now the companies of axemen, needing no commands, began to form into a series of ranks across the valley. At least they had the advantage of a slight slope to the ground; the Forgoil must charge uphill to meet them. Rhain looked with pride on his men. They knew that there was little chance they could repel the tide of Forgoil this time, yet still they stood firm. And all was not lost. Brac would still hold the Ring of Isengard, even if none of them should win through to it, and some of those who had fled to the hills would sow the seeds for a new rebellion. Though he and all about him might perish, Dunland would survive. As the Forgoil approached, Rhain addressed his men for what might possibly be the last time, trying to inspire strength in their hearts.
"We have fought to liberate Dunland, and I tell you that, no matter the outcome of our battle, Dunland will indeed one day be free from the Forgoil marauders. As long as there are but a handful of us left, we will never yield to their dominion. For we fight not for glory, nor riches, nor honour, but for freedom, which no good man gives up except with his life."
(Author: Grimbold)
As the sun rose in the eastern skies, the Rohirrim at last saw the lines of retreating rebels. For Dwimmerberg the fleeing Dunlender’s made, but in his wrath Grimbold still managed to laugh a hard laugh. "The rebels shall not reach the ring of Isen," he boomed, "We must keep them on the open plain!"
Grimbold perceived that the Dunlendish infantry was setting up in defensive positions on a rise on the outer ring of the valley. His burning fury cooled to vengeful ice, and he held up the headlong charge of the Rohirrim. He ordered his riders into three groups. Two of these groups would attack at Dunland’s left and right flanks, while the central contingent would contain only archers, and these bowmen would drive their horses to the very perimeter of the Dunlendish defenses and fire their arrows, wheel about and continue unabated, for Grimbold knew well that Dunland had no more archers, only axes and spears which they would not be allowed to use.
(Author: Rhain)
Rhain Bledri and his men stood firm to meet the advance of the Forgoil cavalry. As he awaited their attack, Rhain thought of his homeland: the heather-clad moors filled with the sound of curlew and plover, the craggy mountainsides, with their rushing streams and narrow glens, and the wide green meadows of the Dyffryn. He thought of how the Forgoil had claimed that land for their own, treating the native Dunlendings as little more than savages. Four hundred years of occupation they had endured; four hundred years of wrongful oppression. Hatred for the Forgoil usurpers rose in him then, anger like a white-hot flame. Others too felt this anger. From the Dunlending soldiers came a chant of defiance. United, the cry arose:
"Death to the Forgoil!"
Forward they came, the feared and hated horsemen of the North. Their pale faces were grim and fell, their straw-coloured hair streamed in the wind, and the sound of their horses’ hooves was like thunder. Into three companies they split. Two swung left and right to harass the flanks of the Dunlending forces. These the brave warriors of Dunland fought with axe and spear. But the third group of Forgoil was more deadly, for these were archers. Close they came, yet not close enough to be within reach of the weapons of the Dunlendings. As their horses wheeled about, with practised skill each man released the reins for a few moments to turn and loose at the Dunlendings, releasing a lethal hail of arrows with devastating results. The long-handled war-axe required two hands, so those Dunlendings who were axemen could not use their shields to defend themselves. The majority of the Dunlending soldiers had no armour, or must rely only on leather. Only a scant few of the nobility, Rhain himself included, possessed mailshirts or hauberks. Many a mighty warrior was struck down in that first assault.
Rhain shouted an urgent series of orders and the Dunlending front line reformed, with those who wielded sword and spear forming a shield-wall. The Forgoil archers returned for a second assault, but this time few Dunlendings fell. The remaining Dunlending axemen had moved outwards to repel the flanking cavalry, where the archers could not loose for fear of killing their own men. For now, at least, the Dunlendings were holding their own. Yet what was that, away to the south? Between the Isen and the mountains, a new force was approaching. Ranks of dwarven infantry ran forward at a steady jog, and with them were a number of horsemen, garbed all in black. The army of the north, that huge force of which the scouts had brought warning only a few days ago, had arrived. Despair fell on Rhain then. Even if they could hold their position against the Forgoil assault, they would be defeated by sheer numbers when the greater army drew near. Yet even now no thought of surrender entered his mind. If they were to end in Yffern this day, then they would take the Forgoil with them.
"Forward," he cried. "We will engage the enemy for one last time. Let the Forgoil remember this day with anguish. Let sword and axe run red with their blood. Though we cannot conquer, yet one thing those swine cannot take from us – we shall die as free men. It was a fair dawn, and a glorious noon; now will come a red sunset."
Caring little for their own deaths, and maddened by the Forgoil attacks, the Dunlendings surged forward as one to meet their sworn enemies.
(Author: Grimbold)
Grimbold’s battle plans worked well. The Dunlenders’ centre, though no longer decimated by Rohirrim arrows, was reduced to mere defensive action hiding behind a shield wall. The left and right flanks, where the heaviest fighting took place, were beginning to waver. Suddenly and unseen, swarms of Orcs began filtering down from the mountain range and large packs of wolf-riders came from the direction of Dunland.
Grimbold cursed under his breath. The foul horde undoubtedly had come roving from Moria gate southward. There had been grim rumour of just such a gathering of Misty Mountain Orcs, but the Rohirrim had been unable to verify this due to the conflict with Dunland. Had his riders in their haste been drawn into a trap by the accursed Bledri? Strange as it seemed, the Dunlendish line looked on in as much dismay as the Riddermark.
Grimbold could espy Lord Rhain driving back and forth behind the rebel lines, stopping ever and anon and gazing westward at the oncoming Orcs. He did not seem relieved, nor were there cheers from his forces. With a sudden shock, Grimbold watched as the Orcs crashed headlong into the weary Dunlenders, crushing their right side under a massive assault. A second line of Orcs was now heading for the Rohirrim, and just in time Grimbold had the horns blow for a retreat. His riders needed to regroup. Even still, wolf-riders brought down many of the Rohirrim rearguard, the wargs ferociously mauling the horses’ flanks.
As the riders reassembled, Grimbold sent his swiftest riders back to the Isen with an urgent message for aid. He then watched as the Dunlenders desperately fought the oncoming Orcish invasion.
(Author: Rhain)
The Dunlendings’ charge against the Rohirrim halted, for suddenly a new foe became apparent. From the mountains a horde of dark shapes came speeding – a contingent of Orcs mounted on wolves. Almost before the Dunlendings became aware of the danger, the Orcs were upon them. Cursing, Rhain desperately tried to regroup his men to face this new peril. Had the Forgoil stooped so low as to make common cause with Orcs? Despite their arrogance and cruelty, nothing had led him to expect this. Rage seethed within him at this perfidy.
The Dunlending centre managed to reorganize successfully into a massive schiltron, spears bristling outward like the spines of a hedgehog. One of the flanking groups of axemen had also managed to form into a circular arrangement, and were doing their best to fend off the Orcish attacks. However, the other flanking group had been decimated by the charge of the wolf-riders. Rhain watched, powerless to help, as the last few men on that side fell one by one under the unexpected assault. The Orcs continued their advance towards the Forgoil cavalry. These were not allies of the northern usurpers, then. The Forgoil retreated, the wolf-riders harrying them as they fled.
A new wave of Orcs was already upon the men of Dunland. Unstoppable, they seemed, like a vast dark tide pouring down from the valley slopes. But the Dunlendings had nothing left to lose. They had already resigned themselves to their own deaths; now, despite their rapidly dwindling numbers, they fought back with a ferocity that the Orcs had not expected. Grabbing the spear of a fallen warrior, Rhain Bledri moved forward to fill a gap in the defensive wall. The time for leadership was over; it mattered little whether he died before or after his men, since they could not hope to overcome the Orcish forces. Savage as the wolf of his nickname, he faced the oncoming foe.
(Author: Grimbold)
Grimbold could no longer wait for aid from the army encamped along the Isen. His route of retreat, though still slim, would soon close, and the resultant loss of men in a general retreat and continuous rear guard actions might well prove disastrous. From a tactical standpoint the only reasonable thing to do would be to aid the Dunlenders, who had the strongest position on the bluff leading to Isengard. Then there was Isengard the stronghold itself. He could not take his men to safety there, for the Dunlenders held the Ring and would obviously rejoice at the hated Forgoil mowed down like grass before the gates which they refused to open. Grimbold bit his lip, then made his decision.
Calling his captains forward, Grimbold ordered that the Rohirrim left wing attack the Orcs that had decimated the Dunlendish flank. After that manoeuvre, the archers of his centre were to dismount in front of the Dunlenders and assure that the bluff was held. The remainder of the riders would follow Grimbold in direct assault on the Orcish lines. His captains glared at Grimbold as if he were mad and rose as one voice against the orders, but Grimbold bellowed above them all, "Fools! Know you that reinforcements shall not reach us in time? The rebels are in the same straits as we, and if we do not unite we shall be crushed! Put aside your hatred and vengeance for now! Believe me, I hold more of it in store than any of thee, yet I for one am not ready to die in defeat. Forth riders of Rohan!"
And the Rohirrim wheeled about and did as Grimbold ordered. And the Dunlenders, sore tired and at the point of utter collapse, saw the strange turn of the tide. To the rebels’ amaze the Rohirrim were fighting in their stead, and for a moment the Dunlenders stood in unsure silence. Then through their ragged regiments and battered battalions ran a weary cheer that built one soldier at a time, into a throaty song of bloody defiance. Then the rebel leaders let blow their horns and the rejuvenated Dunlenders sprang forth and filled the gaps between the Rohirrim lines. The archers of Rohan, who only hours before had rained death upon the rebels, were allowed up on the slopes and strengthened the Dunlenders’ harried centre.
At this sudden change of fortune, the Orcs wavered in uncertainty. Their lord had promised them easy victory and much spoil. For divided the Orcs were to have easily crushed both Strawheads and Goat-men and then headed to Rohan in a leisurely march. Now this was not to be. But still the Orcish horde had the weight of numbers and their hatred for the Strawheads burned brightly. After a brief period of flagging will, the Orcs renewed their massive attack.
(Author: Rhain)
Caught up in the more immediate task of felling Orcs, Rhain had little time to observe the Forgoil forces. It therefore came as a complete surprise when the Forgoil appeared to be aiding the Dunlendings against their Orcish foes. Mind racing, Rhain debated what the best response would be. Tactically it made sense for the two beleaguered forces to unite – neither could hope to win this battle alone. But what if the Forgoil were using the Dunlendings as mere fodder to repel the Orcs, only to turn on them again once danger was past? No, he certainly did not trust the Forgoil’s sudden change of strategy.
Yet in reality the Dunlendings had little choice but to unite with the usurpers of the North. Seeing the actions of their hated enemies in the face of this new common foe, some of the Dunlending soldiers began to cheer. Rhain barked out a series of orders, and the Dunlendings allowed the Forgoil to fill the gaps in their ranks. Rhain Bledri himself then moved forward to speak with the Forgoil commander. Despite their apparent gesture of peace, he felt that in the presence of these long-time enemies he could not relax his guard for one instant.
(Author: Rhain)
Together, Dunlending and Forgoil fought against the onslaught of the Orcs. The archers of the Rohirrim felled many an Orc, and their lancemen too brought down many of the dark horde. The axes and spears of the Dunlendings made short work of warg and rider alike. Rhain fought on foot now, directing his men to hem the foe in from one side when it became clear that Forgoil reinforcements had arrived.2 He limped slightly; one great brutish warg had marked him, though the beast would never stir again. The tide of war was turning in their favour, yet the battle had not been without price. Many lay slain on the trampled grass: soldiers of Dunland who would return no more to their mountain homes; riders of the Forgoil who would never again roam their grassy plains.
Finally, every last Orc in the valley had been slain. The former enemies drew apart, nervously glancing at each other. Particularly strange to the Dunlendings seemed those short, heavy-built folk known as the Stunted People. Small of stature they might be, yet they were fearless warriors. In the heat of battle, Rhain had seen them fight like men possessed, hatred for the Orcish hordes gleaming in their eyes. And there were other riders there who did not look like the Forgoil. Their dark garb made their appearance forbidding indeed, and the Orcs had found to their cost just how deadly these strangers were.
Rhain realized that the time had come to parley with the Forgoil. His men could not survive against the combined might of the Forgoil and their allies. Now it was his duty as their commander to try to ensure their safety. Absently wiping his sword on the grass, he sheathed it and stepped forward to face the one whom he recognized as the Forgoil King Thunor, across the wide space between their forces. His mouth felt dry as he uttered the words he had hoped never to speak.
"We are prepared to negotiate a surrender. Are you willing to discuss terms?"
(Author: Grimbold)
Thunor gazed hard at Rhain for quite some time, seemingly weighing Lord Bledri’s surrender terms, but then rather matter-of-factly the King replied, "I shall not accept your surrender."
Rhain, abashed, opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, utterly flabbergasted. At that moment Grimbold rode up and quickly dismounted. He looked with some trepidation at Bledri, gave a stiffly formal nod to the Dunlender, then spoke to the King. "Milord, the Orcs are in complete rout. Some have taken to the mountains, but our archers have been hunting them wherever they scurry."
The King smiled sadly. "Tis good, Grim," he replied, then looking at Rhain, he said, "Lord Bledri of Dunland, may I formally introduce you to Grimbold of Westfold."
Again Grimbold bowed and said, "I have seen much of my worthy adversary all this day. He fights."
Rhain smiled and bowed in turn. Knowing much of Rohirrim custom, the simple epitaph, "He fights", spoke volumes. No higher compliment could a Rider of Rohan bestow on an enemy. "And as for my part," Rhain said, "I owe my life and those of my men to Grimbold’s noble efforts. Your name befits your character, for truly you are bold."
But Rhain turned again to the King with a look of consternation and said, "King of Rohan, you say you will not accept my surrender. If that be the case, will you allow me to withdraw and draw my men unto me for one last time? For, as Grimbold said, I fight, and shall do so to the death for honour and Dunland."
The King in his earlier days would have smote Bledri dead where he stood for such impertinence, but with age comes wisdom, and before him stood a man of worth, one who could pull together a motley group of goat-herds and rag-tag knights and breath into them a fire unquenchable. And he had fought the vaunted Rohirrim with more success than any could imagine, or that the King would ever admit.
"I will not accept your surrender," Thunor replied, "because I have not asked it of you, nor shall I. Bledri, our folk have fought incessantly from the days of Eorl the Young, and where has it got us? Have you gained a homeland? Have I peace on my borders? Nay, all either of has received is death in the bargain. A surrender? And how long will the peace hold? A day, a year, a generation? Will I be able to sleep in peace knowing my farmer folk shall not ever again have to fear raids along the Isen? I think not. I seek a more lasting solution."
Rhain gazed deeply into the steel blue eyes of Thunor and saw no deceit, and he was amazed at the King’s candor. "What then is your proposition?" Bledri asked incredulously.
(Author: Rhain)
King Thunor appeared thoughtful as he gazed at the leader of the Men of Dunland.
"Tell me, Bledri," he asked eventually, "why do your people continually fight against my rule? It is because of that very stubbornness that a firm hand is needed to control them."
Rhain replied, choosing his words carefully, "My people resent being ruled by an outsider, from a nation of outsiders. For four hundred years we have been held in bondage, subject to laws and customs not our own. King of Rohan you are – is that not enough? Surely to one who has a realm as wide and rich as yours, poor little Dunland is of no consequence? We wish only our freedom."
Despite the Dunlending’s attempt to tone down his answer, he could see anger flash in the eyes of the Forgoil King.
"Dunland was gifted to us by King Elessar of Gondor, who in his wisdom knew that we would be better rulers than those who had allied themselves with evil. We do not choose to repudiate that gift, nor to abdicate that responsibility. Our two lands should stand united, not fall separately. However," he continued more gently, "the King does not wish to impose his will by force, nor to ignore the wishes of those subjects under his care. I believe that the internal affairs of Dunland would be better managed by one from within its borders, one who is trusted by the people."
He paused to give his next words more weight. "I propose to make Dunland a separate fiefdom, its lord owing fealty to the King of Rohan and Dunland alone. In return for the loyal support of the people of Dunland, we will provide aid to them in times of need, and fight in their defence in times of war. And we acknowledge that the laws and customs of Dunland are different from those of Rohan. We will grant the nobles of Dunland leave to govern their own people in the way they believe best, in accordance with their traditions. A new ruling council of Dunland shall be formed, a Witan consisting of representatives from all the noble houses, presided over by a Thain who will act in my name. Bledri, you have led your people against us in war. Will you now lead them as my vassal in a time of peace?"
Rhain was speechless at this. When his offer of surrender had been rejected, his first thought had been that at least he and his men could die with honour. And now this? He knew that if he and his people accepted this compromise, they would have to give up their dreams of independence. An oath of fealty was not to be taken lightly. Rhain considered himself an honourable man, as the Dunlendings judged such things – if he swore allegiance to this Forgoil King, then he would have to abide by it. And ‘loyal support’ – no doubt in the form of both men and goods – would cost Dunland dear. But what choice did they really have? The rebellion had taken its toll on his countrymen. Alone, they were weak, and vulnerable to any further Orc attacks. If they agreed to Thunor’s terms, the Forgoil King would have to protect and support his subject people. If they did not agree, the Forgoil would seize Dunland again anyway, and its people would suffer. Rhain made his decision.
"King of Rohan," he replied, "the fate of a land cannot be decided by one man alone. Will you grant me leave to discuss this matter with my captains? I believe that they will see the great wisdom and generosity in your words this day." Although he felt that it was only right that others should have a say in this matter, in accordance with his people’s traditions, Rhain doubted that any would argue against accepting Thunor’s terms. In truth, the leader of the Forgoil had been extremely generous. Rather than penalizing the Dunlendings harshly for their disobedience, he had made an offer that, whilst not giving them their desired freedom, would at least bring them much closer to autonomy.
Thus it was that, later that day, representatives of the Dunlending nobility pledged fealty to Thunor, King of Rohan and Dunland. They took an oath never again to bear arms against their King, and, as his loyal subjects, to provide whatever support the King deemed necessary to maintain their joint lands. In return, Thunor swore to be a faithful sovereign to the people of Dunland, to act in their best interests and to provide succour in their hour of need. And Rhain Bledri, once an outlaw and rebel, was invested as Thain of Dunland, to govern and guide his people in the King’s name and in accordance with the King’s wishes.
There were still strong undercurrents of hatred on both sides; that Thunor knew well. It was agreed that a contingent of Dunlendings, led by Bledri himself, would accompany the Rohirrim on their campaign in Gondor, whilst some companies of Rohirrim would protect the land of Dunland in their absence. For Thunor, this had the joint advantage of maintaining a presence in Dunland and keeping the dangerous Bledri under his eye. He hoped that there would at last be peace between the two peoples under his care – he was prepared to take whatever steps were necessary to ensure that.
Notes
1In fact, the march of the army of Arnor southward was a ruse; the majority of their forces turned aside and took ship from Lond Daer to Gondor, to aid in the war effort there. Only the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, together with a small force of Moriquendi cavalry, continued down the Greenway towards Rohan. However, the Dunlendings did not know this.
2These reinforcements consisted of Rohirrim, led by their King Thunor, Dwarves of Erebor and Aglarond, led by the High King Thorin, and the forces who had marched down the Greenway from Arnor.