a spring, but the best part is the
The ranks stirred distinctly, a rumble rose and fell, someone spat: cheated, again! Eomer raised a hand and silence fell again, broken only by the listless susurration of dead grass.
“That is to say – no chance but one. There is one loophole for losers such as ourselves. In this wonderful faith anyone killed fighting for a just cause – and who’d dare say that our cause is unjust? – has all his sins forgiven and automatically considered righteous. So if any of you guys wanna get to this Paradise by living righteously – good luck to you! As for me, I have no such hopes, so I’m gonna join the
He stood in the stirrups and yelled somewhere skyward, using his armor glove as a bullhorn:
“Ahoy, gals! Open up the Heavenly bordello, never mind the hour! Stand ready to receive three best battalions of Rohan cavalry – bet my head to a broken arrow that you won’t ever forget these customers! We’re about to attack, so we’ll join you in Heaven in about ten minutes, that should be enough for you to get ready!” And a miracle happened: the men began to stir! Laughter and elaborate cussing rose in the ranks; someone from the right flank inquired whether one could catch clap from a
“Head up, cornet! Those in the know say that there are beauties for every taste in that establishment. They must have lined up a flock of romantic maidens for you already, pining for a chance to hear you recite some verses in the moonlight!”
The young man blushed even more to booming laughter and glared angrily at the prince from under (positively girlish) thick lashes. Eomer wheeled his horse around so that dirt flew from under its hooves in a fan and called out:
“To saddle, guys! The madam up there must’ve already sent for more wine for the new customers. By the laughter of Tulkas, today every one of you will get enough Nurnen wine to drown in, be it in heaven, be it on earth! The Valar will treat the fallen, the King of Rohan will treat the living! After me!..”
He tossed his mangled helmet aside and looked back no more as he rushed the horse towards where his trained eye had spotted a tiny patch of foreign color in the unbreakable stockade of Trollish armored infantry – the dark round shields of Easterling spearmen. The wind whistled in his ears and tossed his sweaty flaxen hair; Imrahil was galloping on his right, almost nose-to-nose.
“Dammit, Prince, put on your helmet – bowmen to the right!”
“After you, fair sir!” the prince grinned at him, twirled his sword over his head, and called out in a voice hoarse from shouting orders: “Dol Amroth and the Swan!”
“Rohan and the White Horse!” echoed Eomer, while behind their backs the thunder of thousands of hooves was already building to a majestic staccato: the riders of Rohan and Dol Amroth were making their last charge, to win or die.
Chapter 9
Everybody knows that Easterling infantry is far inferior to Mordor’s; Eomer’s charge scattered them like bowling pins, and the shining edge of Western cavalry crashed through the Mordorian defensive line. A little later another force slammed into their rear – a cutting edge of Aragorn’s remaining gray warriors, encased with Gondorian armored infantry. By about six in the evening those fangs met deep in the body of the South Army, near its camp. The battle as such was over then, and slaughter began. The parked siege engines were set ablaze, and the dancing flames highlighted now an Orocuen hospital wagon stuck in the mud, then an arrow-studded
“Eowyn!” was all Eomer could say. “What the hell!..”
The shield-maiden stuck her tongue out at him, tossed him the Haradi cape in passing – he was left standing, stunned, clutching his sister’s trophy – and stopped in front of Aragorn.
“Greetings, Ari!” she said calmly; Nienna only knew the price of that calmness. “Congratulations on the victory. As I see it, the wartime excuses are now void. So if you don’t need me any more, say so now and, by the stars of Varda, I will immediately stop bothering you!”
“How can you say that, my Amazon!” and there she was in his saddle, looking at him with shining eyes, prattling nonsense, and then kissing him in front of everybody – the girls of Rohan are not big on southern ceremony, and a heroine of Pelennor could not care less… All Eomer could do was look at this idyllic picture and get more upset by the minute, thinking: “Fool! Open your eyes and look at his face, it’s all written plainly there – what he is to you and what you are to him! Why, why do the idiot girls always fall for scoundrels – this one isn’t even handsome…” not that he was the first or the last such in that World, or any other…
He said none of that aloud, of course, only asked: “Show me your arm.” Only when Eowyn protested that she was adult enough to handle it and that it wasn’t even a scratch did he let out some of his frustration by yelling loudly and profanely enough to curl ears, describing to the heroine of Pelennor, in graphic detail, what he was going to do to her if she didn’t report to the medics by the count of three. Eowyn laughed and saluted: “Yes, my general!” and only the unusual care with which she mounted his horse told him that much more than a scratch was involved here. But the girl had already leaned on her brother’s shoulder: “Eom, dear, please don’t sulk, spank me if you want, just don’t tell Auntie, please?” and rubbed her nose on his cheek, just like in their childhood… Aragorn was watching them with a smile, and Eomer shuddered when he caught his look: it was the look in the eye of an archer right before he lets fly.
He only fully grasped the import of that look the next day, when it was too late. There was a council of war in Aragorn’s tent that day, attended by Imrahil, Gandalf-Mithrandir, and a few Elvish lords (whose army had arrived the night before, when it was all over). There, the Dunadan explained to the heir of Rohan (the king now, really) without any pleasantries that
