The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 85

Smoke from the battlefield still lingered over the wooden keep, but the dead had been buried and the wounded tended. The men who had once despaired behind failing walls now stood tall, steel in their eyes and reverence in their hearts.

Eron, still clad in his enchanted armor, stood upon the battlements of the fortress overlooking the land he had saved. The dawn wind brushed his dark hair, and his gaze turned south—toward Isengard.

Below, the surviving soldiers gathered in the courtyard. Their captain, Derin of Westfold, a man with silver-streaked hair and eyes weathered by grief, stepped forward.

“You are no ordinary warrior,” Derin said. “What you did… no one here has seen such a thing since the days of Elendil.”

Eron offered a quiet nod. “The orcs would’ve broken your walls if I had arrived an hour later. You held longer than most would have.”

Derin looked around at his tattered force—less than thirty, where once there had been hundreds. “We were once an order sworn to protect the roads from the Grey Mountains to the Gap of Rohan. When Saruman turned to shadow, his orcs began raiding the villages. Burning farms. Slaughtering travelers. We swore oaths to stop them.”

Eron’s eyes narrowed. “Saruman the White… I’d hoped the rumors were false.”

Derin spat to the ground. “A white robe hides a black heart, it seems.”

Another soldier, a young man named Halric, spoke up. “At first, we had support—supplies, fresh swords, riders from the western holds. But the lords grew fat in their towers. They started thinking the orcs only came for other men. They stopped sending help. Said we were exaggerating.”

“Fools,” Eron muttered.

Derin nodded. “We’ve fought battle after battle, losing good men each time. Our banners used to fly at every crossroads from here to Rohan. Now we’re all that’s left.”

Silence fell.

Then Eron stepped forward, his voice calm but burning with purpose. “Then stand with me. The war is no longer at your gates—it’s inside your borders. And Isengard is the source.”

The men murmured.

“You’d march to Isengard alone?” Derin asked.

Eron looked toward the distant peaks. “I won’t be alone. Not if men of honor still draw breath.”

Derin knelt suddenly, his sword in both hands.

“Then I swear my blade to you, Eron Flamebearer. For no king and no banner—only for the light.”

One by one, the others followed—Halric, wounded Leor, gruff Captain Dareth, silent twins from the watchtowers. Weathered, weary, but unbroken, they pledged themselves anew.

“We ride for the flame,” one said.
“For the fallen,” said another.
“For vengeance,” said a third.

Eron raised his sword, and the runes along its edge glowed faintly, as though acknowledging the hearts around him.

They spent the next days reforging their purpose. Damaged armor was mended, new weapons distributed, supplies packed. Eron gave each of them one small enchantment, minor charms of protection and clarity he had learned from Sirius.

“The road to Isengard will not be easy,” Eron warned them. “Saruman breeds not only orcs, but warped things—half-beasts, monsters without mercy or soul.”

Halric looked up, his eyes now sharpened with purpose. “Then we’ll cut them down. He’ll know we’re coming.”

Eron nodded. “We’ll move fast, quiet. Strike where it hurts. Let Saruman know that the darkness he helped raise has met its flame.”

Word spread faster than Eron expected. In the villages they passed, people stepped aside in awe. They whispered of a warrior clad in silver light, who rode into the jaws of death and turned the tide with sky-born arrows and blazing steel.

More men came to join them—old scouts, broken knights, even a few dwarves from the hills who had lost kin to the orcs.

Each campfire glowed brighter. Each march step echoed louder. A new symbol began to be carved and painted: a rising flame beneath a sword, etched into shields, burned into leather, scratched into stone.

They called him the Flamebearer.

And Saruman would soon learn what fire truly meant.


The Gap of Rohan stretched wide before them—rolling hills scarred by scorched earth and battle. Smoke still lingered in the east, and the cries of crows echoed above dying trees. The wind carried the scent of blood and dust, and the sky was a pale grey canopy that offered no warmth.

Eron and his growing company rode along the ridgeline, the tattered banners of fallen strongholds behind them. They had grown from a small band into a formidable fellowship—a flame of resistance rekindled in the shadows of despair.

As they descended toward a watchtower ruin, a line of riders approached, fast and proud, cloaks trailing in the wind. Rohan horsemen, by the look of them—but not those of the royal guard. Their armor was battle-worn, and their faces grim.

Eron halted his mare and raised a hand, signaling peace.

At the front of the riders was a tall, golden-haired man, his eyes sharp and burdened. He pulled his horse to a stop before Eron.

"Strangers in the Gap—yet not orcs," he said. "Speak your names."

Eron dismounted slowly and gave a small bow. "Eron, son of Sirius Black. I ride to fight the darkness."

The man’s eyes widened. "I have heard tales of you. The Flamebearer of Arnor. You rain fire from the sky."

Eron offered a tired smile. "Sometimes. And you?"

"I am Eomer, son of Eomund. Nephew to Theoden, King of Rohan."

Eomer dismounted, his men following. Around a low fire, the two parties shared bread and stories.

Eomer’s tone grew bitter as he recounted what had befallen his people. "Saruman, once an ally of Gondor and friend to our halls, has turned against us. He has built his army in Isengard, twisted orcs into new forms—stronger, faster, crueler. And now… he has taken my uncle’s mind."

Eron’s brow furrowed. "Taken?"

"Yes," Eomer said grimly. "He speaks through a worm-tongued snake named Grima, who whispers poison into Theoden’s ear. The king is aged beyond his years, too feeble to rise from his throne. Saruman has him bound with dark magic—his will is no longer his own."

"And no one sees this?" Eron asked.

"They are afraid," Eomer replied. "Grima holds power in the court. Those who speak out are accused of treason. Many were exiled—myself among them."

Eron’s jaw clenched. "And the orcs?"

"Free to roam," Eomer spat. "Rohan’s lands burn while Theoden sleeps in shadow."

That night, under the fading light of the moon, the company gathered. Eomer revealed his plan to lead his eored, his company of loyal riders, north to track down an orc warband seen butchering settlements near the Isen river.

"I cannot sit idle," Eomer said. "I have too much of my mother in me. If the king cannot act, I shall."

Eron stood, thoughtful. Around him, Derin and Halric waited for his decision.

"You are right to fight," Eron said. "But I believe we must strike at the root. Saruman’s spell over the king must be broken. If Theoden is freed, we gain Rohan’s army. We can turn the tide."

Eomer’s brow furrowed. "It is a bold risk. You would enter Edoras, the Golden Hall itself?"

"With caution," Eron replied. "And purpose. If I can get close to the king, I may be able to dispel the enchantment. I was trained not only as a warrior—but as a healer."

Halric stepped forward. "If anyone can do it, it’s him."

Eomer regarded Eron long, then gave a nod of respect. "Then let us part ways—for now. If you succeed, Flamebearer, Rohan shall remember your name."

"And if you fall?" Derin asked.

Eron smiled faintly. "Then let my fire burn in the hearts of those who rise after me."

At dawn, the two companies clasped arms and departed—Eomer and his riders to the north, their hooves thundering across the plains; Eron and his men to the east, toward the heart of Rohan.

The road to Edoras was fraught with peril, but the Flamebearer rode with steady hands and a heart resolved.

Somewhere in the Golden Hall, a king slept beneath shadow.

And Eron intended to wake him.


The night was heavy with mist and menace.

Above the rolling plains near the River Isen, the stars had vanished behind thick clouds. A bitter wind howled from the east, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of orcs—a sour blend of blood, rot, and unwashed hide. It was the kind of night when no honest man traveled willingly.

Eomer and his riders—his eored—had tracked the orc warband for a full day, following scorched grass, trampled fields, and the twisted remains of cattle. Smoke in the distance marked yet another farmstead turned to ash.

Now, they had them.

Eomer raised his sword silently from the ridge.

His company fanned out—two flanks, fifty men to each side, armed with spears, swords, and bows. Their cloaks fluttered like black wings in the moonless dark. The horses stamped and snorted, eager and trained for war.

Across the hollow below, the orcs and goblins had made crude camp, fires glowing red in the gloom. They laughed and snarled in their foul tongue, unaware of the noose tightening around them.

Eomer spoke quietly to his captain, a scarred veteran named Hartwin. “We hit them from both sides. No horns, no signals. Only steel.”

Hartwin nodded. “They won’t know what killed them.”

Eomer leaned forward in his saddle, his voice low and steady. “Let none escape. For Rohan.”

“For Rohan,” came the whispered reply.

Then he dropped his arm.

And all hell broke loose.

From both sides, the Riders of Rohan charged, their horses thundering down the hills with terrible speed. The sound was like rolling thunder—unrelenting and close.

The orcs barely had time to scream.

The first line of horsemen slammed into the camp, swords flashing in the firelight, spears piercing through armor and flesh. Goblins were trampled, orc captains cut down before they could rally.

Eomer rode at the front, his blade already stained as he cleaved an orc’s head clean from its shoulders. He ducked under a clumsy axe and drove his sword into another’s gut. Blood sprayed across his mail, but he didn’t slow.

All around him, men fought with practiced fury. Horses reared and kicked, crashing through tents and bodies. The goblins tried to retreat, but the flanking company circled and blocked their escape.

The battlefield became a maelstrom of steel and screams, of torchlight and shadows dancing with death. Some of the orcs turned to fight—but they were disorganized, leaderless, and terrified of the Riders who came in the night like retribution given form.

A goblin lunged for Eomer with a jagged dagger, but before it could strike, a rider’s spear skewered it from behind.

“Your left, my lord!” the rider cried.

“I see him,” Eomer replied, wheeling his horse toward a knot of orcs who had formed a desperate circle. He gave no quarter. He was fire and wrath.

By the hour before dawn, it was over.

The bodies of more than one hundred and fifty orcs and goblins lay broken in the grass, their blood seeping into the earth. A few had tried to crawl away into the dark—none made it.

Eomer dismounted slowly, breathing hard, his sword heavy with gore. Around him, his men walked among the dead, checking for movement, retrieving arrows, dragging the wounded from the field.

“Collect the bodies,” Eomer commanded. “All of them. Burn them before their stench poisons the air.”

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation. Piles of orc corpses were dragged to a ditch, soaked in oil, and lit with torches. The fire roared to life, casting orange light across the grim field.

For the fallen Riders, a different fire was lit—a circle of stones, each warrior’s body placed with care, their sword resting upon their chest.

Eomer knelt at each one, whispering a farewell.

“You rode with honor,” he told one young man. “And your name will be sung in the halls of Meduseld.”

As the fires faded and the sun rose pale over the horizon, the men of the eored sat in silence, eating what rations they had. The air was quiet now, but the knowledge lingered: more orcs would come.

Captain Hartwin approached. “The trail continues east. Scouts say there may be another band near the mountains.”

Eomer stood, wiping his blade. “Then we ride. Our duty does not end in one night.”

“Aye,” Hartwin said. “How long do we keep hunting, my lord?”

Eomer looked out toward the horizon, where dark shapes moved in distant mist.

“Until there’s nothing left to hunt.”

With that, the Riders of Rohan mounted once more, banners lifted, bloodied swords sheathed—and rode off into the rising light.

The hunt continued.