Four days later, Boromir reached a place where a smaller river branched off from the Anduin.
Boromir did not trouble himself to check the map he had brought. He had travelled along the Anduin enough times to realize that this smaller body of water was one of the several branches of the Entwash River.
Alcarin nickered softly, waiting for Boromir to make clear the road they would take.
Boromir cast a glance down the trail he had just left, and then looked back at the new river. He tugged slightly on the left side of Alcarin's reins.
The horse continued walking, his hooves leaving faint imprints in the damp bank of the Entwash River.
Idly, Boromir found himself wishing that other Gondorian men were sent on journeys more often. It was…well, as much as he despised admitting it, it was lonely. Especially for someone who had spent his whole life surrounded by servants and soldiers.
The irony in it was that sometimes Boromir was glad to be alone.
You are confusing yourself again, Boromir, he told himself. You had best stop doing so. It will do you no good to continue on with this journey if you are too perplexed to speak clearly when you reach Rivendell.
The sun was rising high in the sky a few minutes later. Boromir briefly considered taking off the black leather tabard he wore.
A startled snort from Alcarin made him decide against it.
Alcarin stopped abruptly, standing stock still. His ears twitched and swiveled around, and he stared at the path ahead.
Boromir slid off his horse's back and landed on the ground. Despite his efforts to remain silent, a few leaves rustled under his feet. Boromir froze, waiting for something to crash out of the undergrowth.
Don't be foolish; no one could have heard a few leaves rustling over the rush of the river, Boromir thought, shaking his head slightly.
He took Alcarin's reins. "Come along, Alcarin." He led the horse into a stand of trees, still persisting to be as quiet as possible.
Boromir left Alcarin behind a thick-trunked tree, and then crept forward. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, while the other carefully pushed stray branches out of the way.
As he prowled through the woods, faint voices reached Boromir. He stopped and strained to hear.
He was too far away. He either had to get closer, or wait for the voices to come to him. That could take several minutes, if at all.
Boromir began to walk forward again, keeping to the shadows and struggling to avoid disturbing any leaves or pebbles underfoot.
Finally, he came within hearing range of the voices. He stopped, gripping the hilt of his sword with one hand, ready to draw it at the first sign of trouble.
"Oi, gimme some o' that meat. You've 'ad enough already!" snarled one voice.
"Catch somethin' else fer yerself," snapped another. "I caught this, fair an' square."
Intrigued, Boromir moved forward. Perhaps, if he stayed in the trees, he could see the speakers without being seen himself…
When he could see who was talking, Boromir almost wished he would have stayed back in the shadows.
Three—no, five—hulking creatures were standing in the middle of the path. The same path that Boromir would have continued riding down if Alcarin had not alerted him to the sounds ahead.
The monsters appeared to be half-man and half something else. Four out of the five of them had rings hanging from the ears or piercing the skin along the bridge of their noses.
A flash of recognition struck Boromir. These were Orcs. The creatures that Saruman—Sauron's henchman—used as his minions, spies, and fighters.
Two of the Orcs were arguing with each other, apparently over a few scraps of meat. It had been mutilated so badly, it was past the point of where anyone could tell what animal it had come from.
The other Orcs were either laughing or grumbling under their breath.
Boromir suppressed a shudder as he thought about just what the Orcs would have done to him if he had kept riding.
The only options I have are to either wait until they pass, or hope I can defeat all of them before they defeat me, Boromir thought.
Neither of the ideas truly appealed to him.
Boromir paused. He debated silently with himself for a long minute, and then made his decision. It would be best to return to where he had hidden Alcarin and wait until the Orcs passed by.
Somewhat satisfied, Boromir turned to go. Then disaster struck.
A twig snapped underneath his boot.
Boromir froze, and then spun around.
The Orcs were now staring straight at him from their positions on the path. At first, Boromir harbored hopes that they couldn't actually see him and merely thought it was some sort of animal.
But then one of the Orcs—the one with the bloody bit of meat in its hand—bellowed, "Get 'im!"
Boromir drew in a sharp intake of breath. The Orcs began to scramble up the slope towards the stand of trees.
Boromir turned and ran. He did not care about the branches or bushes in his way—now he barreled heedlessly through them.
He could hear the shouts and predatory growls of the Orcs following close behind him. He could also hear a couple on the path below, cutting off any chance of escape.
Of course, he could always race deeper into the woods, but even he knew that that was a foolish notion.
I must turn and fight.
Just as Alcarin came into sight, Boromir skidded to a stop and whirled around. He unsheathed his sword, holding it in front of him almost as though he was clutching a torch.
The Orcs rapidly gained on him, leaping over any logs or rocks in their way.
One of them let out a roar and brought their sword down in a swift arc. Boromir brought his own blade up just in time to block the attack. The clashing blades elicited a shower of sparks.
Boromir sprang back, dodging a blow that the Orc aimed at his ribcage.
Then the rest of the Orcs arrived.
With savage bellows, the creatures scrambled the rest of the way up the slope, their weapons raised.
Boromir turned back in time to block yet another attack from the first Orc. It seemed determined to use as much force and power in its blows as possible, instead of speed.
Ducking underneath a blow directed at his head, Boromir lunged forward, driving his blade through the Orc's abdomen. A rumbling growl escaped its throat, and it had just enough time to sneer at Boromir before falling down dead.
Boromir yanked his blade out, spattering black blood, and then whirled around to face the rest of the Orcs.
They had reached him much faster than he had anticipated. In fact, one of them was right in front of him.
The Orc backhanded Boromir across the face. It was even more painful than a normal punch, seeing as the creature clutched its sword tightly in one hand, and the hilt—which had struck the side of Boromir's head—was made of iron.
Boromir jerked sideways with the impact, and he lost his balance, hitting the ground hard.
Dazed though he was, Boromir managed to bring his sword up. He weakly batted away one of the Orc's attempts to pin him to the ground with their blade. Then he pulled his legs underneath him in an effort to stand.
He had only managed to get into a kneeling position before two of the Orcs came at him.
Boromir lashed out at the nearest one. He got a lucky hit; his blade cut across the Orc's neck. It shrieked and stumbled back.
Boromir staggered to his feet to defend himself against the remaining three Orcs. Four, if the one that I sliced just now is still alive, Boromir thought wryly, keeping his eyes on the Orcs.
"Don't make this 'arder on yerself than it is already, wretch," growled one of the Orcs. "Submit, and we won't kill you as painfully."
The harsh words—as well as the complaints they registered from the other Orcs—sent a slight shiver down Boromir's spine. By way of answer, he let out a wordless yell, and rushed forward, swinging his sword in a vicious slice.
The blade swished past the broad chest of the nearest Orc, drawing a thin line of black blood. The hulking creature hardly flinched, and stabbed at Boromir with its own weapon.
Boromir leapt back, but not before the Orc's blade slashed across his right hand, drawing blood. Boromir bit back a curse—now both of his hands were injured, and possibly poisoned or infected.
He heard a sharp whinny from Alcarin, but paid little attention to it. At the moment, he was focused on the Orcs, trying to detect their next moves.
All three moved slowly forward, surrounding him. The fourth Orc was still slumped lifelessly over a tree stump—apparently, Boromir's lucky strike had slit the Orc's throat beyond survival.
Boromir instinctively took a step back, before realizing that that was merely taking him even closer to one of the Orcs.
All he could do was stand there, motionless in the center of the circle of Orcs. Watching them and hoping that he could dispatch at least one of the brutes before…
He broke the thought off there.
The leader of the group hissed something in the Black Speech. The other two Orcs gave slight nods.
Boromir, in one last act of desperation, lunged for the leader, his sword arm outstretched.
The Orc easily sidestepped the blow. Boromir fell to the ground. A powerful blaze of agony exploded in the back of his head.
And he succumbed to the darkness that rushed to meet him.