Hytbold is now the site of the Witan, the gathering of the Thanes and Reeves of the Eastemnet of Rohan that will decide the course of the battle for the Riddermark. The gathering is anything but civil, as words both heated and hateful fill the hall. Voices call for action, and restraint; accusations fly of ambitions and suspicion; loyalties are declared and questioned. The Witan is divided down the center with one faction calling for blood and battle, the other for obedience and inaction.
Aldor Harding, who called the Witan to meet, leads the faction which calls for waging war in defiance of Edoras. But it is Reeve Athelward who argues smoothly for staying the hands of the Eorlingas and doing nothing to disobey the King. During the debate, as voices swirl and spin in ever-mounting rage, Athelward makes his excuse to leave the hall, just as the call rings out that the town is under attack!
Harding calls the thanes to arms and leads them to the gates of the town, to see Athelward gloating, exulting at the treachery revealed: war has come to Rohan and his hand helped to bring it about, with the reward of lordship over the surviving lands as its king. With a cohort of uruks at his call, he at last makes the lies of Saruman plain for all to see.
“Burn it all!” he shouts to the onrushing orcs. “Tear Hytbold stone from beam! Spare only my daughter but slay all who stand!”
Battle is joined harsh and sharp as the orcs throw themselves at the town, the thanes wielding blade and axe to meet the invaders head on. From inside the gate of Hytbold comes the ringing shout, “Forth Eorlingas!” as the Riders Four join the fray; Burnoth and Leofdag with swords swinging, Hutha’s bow striking a deadly tune with each arrow, and Ulf the Reaver with whirling axes threshing a deadly harvest.
But the battle bodes ill for the thanes of Rohan. Béortnoth is the first to fall, striking in vain to avenge the fallen of Thornhope. Brave young Radwig is slain, screaming curses at Athelward as he is overborn. Old Gisil gives his last measure as the pikes fasten him to the ground. Burnoth and the others charge to the center of the line, hoping to stem the assault before it begins anew.
“Things go ill for us, brothers,” he gasps, his sword almost touching the ground in weariness but still at the ready. Hutha stands at his side, his arrows spent, his sword notched. Leofdag and Ulf are somewhere close but not to be seen. The orcs are massing for another charge, when Hutha suddenly laughs.
“Hearken! Hear that? Bema’s beard, that’s more welcome than any war-horn!” For high above the din of battle can be heard the piercing howl of a wolf’s cry, followed by an equally high scream from a familiar voice: Man aníra gurdh minui!! (Who wants to die first!)
“Run, you curs,” shouts Leofdag, “Blodcwyn has come upon you!” Cutting into the press of arms comes Leofdag and Ulf, and Seregrían with Warfrost close beside her, sparking fires flying from her staff, her sword glittering in the lights. With a whooshing sweep of her staff, all the orcs close at hand are struck by lightnings and howl in terror and pain, their attack shattered, breaking in every direction to run from the wrath of the she-Elf who shrieks wordlessly in pursuit.
“Now is our time! Victory is at hand!” Burnoth shouts. “Forth the Lady and the Riders!” The Riders Four throw themselves into the breach that Seregrían has made, and charge forward to the open land before the gate, only to pull up short. For stalking towards them comes a mountain-troll, and all give way at its coming save for Ides, Athelward’s daughter; her heart is broken at her father’s betrayal, but still she stands for Rohan, proud and defiant in the face of terror.
“Father, help me! Please!” she cries out to Athelward.
“Hold, beast,” Athelward calls out to the troll, who halts before them. “She is my child, I told you she was to be spared! That was the White Wizard’s word!”
The troll laughs in answer. “You fool. The White Hand says ALL shall die. And your child shall be for the pot, that is my word!” The troll reaches a clutching claw to Ides but is met by Athelward’s desperate sword thrust. The troll howls in anger, and bats Athelward flying like a stinging fly; he crashes onto the stones, falls and does not rise again.
Ides valiantly raises her sword for one last effort. The troll bears down on her, only to freeze in agony with arms stretched out as lights and fire envelop it head to foot, accompanied by a shriek in Elvish: Torog, bo mad deleth nin!! For Seregrían has thrust Dondangol like a spear, blazing fires leaping. Her fair face is a twisted mask of hate, her hat lost in the fight, her black hair disheveled and flying free. The troll topples backwards, crashing to the ground and not moving.
“Blodcwyn, help us!” Seregrían turns as Hutha calls to her, a note of panic in his voice. “The enemy is routed, but Ulf fights on – he is in a battle-rage and is striking friend and foe alike! We can’t stay his axes, please come!” She follows quickly and there is Ulf, his axes whirling at anything that moves, even others of the Rohirrim who seek only to parry his blows.
Seregrían rushes towards Ulf, who sees her approach and turns his axes to meet her as well. She does not wish to hurt him but closes without thought and steps into his oncoming blow, blocking his axe-swing with the arm that holds her staff. There the two stand, locked together; close enough to look in each other’s eyes; and what is seen holds them both fast. Seregrían’s eyes are white with the fury of the power of Dondangol; but Ulf’s eyes are red, unblinking, and devoid of mercy. For a long moment, the two are locked in a silent struggle. Hutha, Leofdag and Burnoth can only watch as the two are held in a violent embrace until, slowly, their faces change, falling from rage through shock to bewilderment. And each speaks to the other, in hushed and astonished voices, each only one word:
“Wigelm!?”
“Nauthira!?”
