Chapter 375: The Way of the World
War always breaks out faster than anyone expects.
On the eastern bank of the Fords of Isen, two armies had already clashed.
On one side was a vanguard of more than two thousand Dunlendings and Uruk-hai.
Opposing them were ten companies of Riders under Théoden's only son, Prince Théodred of Rohan, supported by more than a hundred archers and four more companies that had ridden in from the east, perhaps five hundred in all.
In numbers, they were not so unevenly matched. In quality, though, Rohan was plainly the stronger.
Théodred had inherited his father's courage. Under his command, the Riders fought with all their strength, and for a time they drove the invaders back.
Yet for all that, Théodred felt no joy in the victory.
"The situation is not good," he said quietly.
Thinking back on the reports from the rear, the prince could not help but feel troubled.
Rohan could not be called peaceful in any direction.
On one side was a vanguard of more than two thousand, made up of Dunlendings and Uruk-hai.
The West needed no further explanation. A great host of Dunlendings, Orcs, and Uruk-hai watched Rohan like wolves. This was only a vanguard, and it had already brought such pressure. Even now, Théodred did not know how many enemies waited in the main force behind it.
Nor was the east any easier. Mordor's armies had crossed the Emyn Muil and were roaming the broad grasslands of the East-mark, riding where they pleased. Their chief purpose did not seem to be a direct assault on Rohan, but to search for something in that land. Even so, they never missed a chance to harry Rohan and show their malice.
If the East-mark weakened, they would abandon their search at once and turn their full strength upon the Riddermark.
In truth, Rohan was being pressed from both sides, assailed from front and rear.
Ironically, the safer land now was the Northern Plateau, remote as it was, mostly because it lay close to the cities of the Free City-States.
Not long ago, word had come that while those cities were locked in battle with a vast host from Mordor, they had still found men to spare, enough to sweep the Uruk hai from the Northern Plateau as well.
That had spared Rohan no small trouble. Thanks to that, they could focus on the attacks from east and west, without also fretting over the far northern highlands.
Théodred turned the matter over in his mind.
At times he was tempted to urge his father to move the capital to the Northern Plateau. It lay far off, and there were only scattered villages and few folk there, yet it was truly safe.
Such was the way of the world, ever changing. Who would have thought that the Northern Waste, barren, perilous, and hard to defend only a few decades ago, would become the safest region of all, simply because the Free City-States had raised two new fortress-cities in the North and South Vales?
But there was no time to dwell on distant counsels. Only the defence before his eyes mattered now.
Though the vanguard from Isengard and Dunland had been broken, the situation at the Fords was still far from promising. The defence on the western bank was weak, hardly enough to stand against the next assault.
The sun was already low. Evening drew on. It was at this moment that Théodred made his choice. He gathered a small detachment of infantry, intending to cross the river to the western shore.
Before he could move, unexpected visitors arrived.
It was a Ranger party from the Free City-States, five in all. Their captain wore upon his shoulder a medal that looked dull and grey, yet was of pure gold beneath.
Though he had never seen it before, Théodred had heard of such a medal from his father, King Théoden.
It was said that long ago the Lord of the North had created that honour, to be awarded only to those in the army whose deeds were extraordinary.
If this man had a counsel to offer, it was worth hearing.
With that thought, Théodred halted his preparations for the crossing and went to speak with the Ranger.
"I know of your folk," he said. "I have heard that Rangers of the Free City-States patrol the lands of Enedwaith beside Dunland, guarding the roads and often sharing tidings with their allies. Such deeds are worthy of respect."
"So then, Rangers of the Free City-States, what news have you brought us this time?"
Though he received them courteously, there was an edge of urgency in Théodred's tone. He feared that if he delayed, the western bank would fall, and then they would be in grave trouble.
The Ranger captain's answer made him frown.
"We advise you to withdraw," the man said, "and recall the defenders from the western bank. Fall back."
"Why should we retreat?" Théodred asked.
He wanted an explanation. He could not give up the fight on a single word.
The Ranger laid out his reasons.
Put simply: do not go, for there are too many of them.
There was a host of Uruk-hai inside Isengard, tens of thousands strong, from who knew where, readying for a full assault on the Fords.
In addition, a picked army of Dunland's fiercest warriors and half-orcs was striking in from the east, and would likely arrive by nightfall. If they did not pull back now, not only would none on the west bank survive, but few on the east would live either.
The enemy's numbers were far beyond what Théodred had expected, at least ten thousand.
His own strength was little more than two thousand.
The scouts he himself had sent had only seen the vanguard gathering at the gates of Isengard. They had not been able to learn what lay within its walls. The place was simply too deadly.
These Rangers, though, had somehow slipped past the defences of the Isengard defile and scouted its inner secrets.
Their reach and skill were almost frightening.
"I understand," Théodred said at last. "Thank you for bringing this news."
"What, then, is your decision?" the Ranger asked.
The prince looked up. The sun was almost gone. A line of cold sweat slid down his temple.
If the Ranger spoke truth, the enemy would be upon them very soon.
"I learned this lesson some time ago," said Théodred.
"Without Isengard, the Fords do little to shield us. To stand against Isengard, the Fords themselves mean almost nothing."
"The rough defences we raised on the western bank in haste cannot possibly hold their march. The eastern bank's works are not truly firm either. We can only fall back to Helm's Deep. The high walls of the Hornburg can help us withstand this host."
"Thank you for your tidings. Rohan will remember this favour."
…
"The Fellowship is broken," Gandalf said in the Golden Wood, weighing their chances. "There is little point in chasing their trail now."
Beside him Saruman said, "The hobbits will have the aid of the Free City-States on their road. You need not fret over them so much. What we must consider now is Isengard. The Enemy has stolen my command of the host, and he will surely strike at Rohan."
"Isengard?" Gandalf prompted.
"Yes, Isengard. You must heed my counsel, Gandalf. I know that place better than any. The forces in the Westfold alone cannot withstand Isengard's Uruk-hai."
"And there are the faithless folk of Dunland as well."
"Oh, faithless, are they?" Gandalf replied, with a trace of old grievance. "I have warned you often enough."
Saruman's face tightened. He could not quite hide his embarrassment.
"Can we not keep to the matter at hand?" he said, refusing to rise to the barb and forcing the talk back on course.
Much as he hated to admit it, he knew Gandalf was no longer the Gandalf of before. In strength he was no weaker than Saruman now, whether he bore the Ring of Stars or not.
The white robe Saruman had once cast aside in discontent shone all the brighter on Gandalf's shoulders. By contrast, Saruman's own raiment, once glorious in many colours, now seemed muddied and marred, neither truly white nor truly bright, but colourless and yet stained with every hue at once.
Somewhere in him, dim and unwelcome, Saruman felt it: his place among the Istari was slipping.
Even if, in days to come, he returned to the Blessed Realm and took up again the full stature of a Maia, judgement would still await him for what he had done.
Yet for all that, Saruman, who had always thought highly of his own power, still believed that for the present he and Gandalf stood as equals.
As for what Gandalf thought of that…
He did not. He could not be bothered with Saruman's little vanities.
This Grey, no, this White Wizard now, had always been that way. Whether he spoke to a high king or to a peasant at the roadside, as long as they stood on the same side, his manner was gentle.
Likewise, though Saruman had fallen low, Gandalf still counted him a friend.
A friend who had gone astray.