After 2 months in the making (my inevitable timetable, apparently), here's the next installment. Enjoy!
Chapter 21: The Hidden Name
"Ah, that is Gríma Gálmódsson. You have met him?"
"In the library. Did he strike you as. . .?" Myrhil stopped, unable to articulate her thought.
"Yes, very unlike the Rohirrim," Laenilas finished. She put two plates onto the small table and went over to the small hearth to inspect the contents of the small pot that hung over the fire. "I suspect Rohan may not run in his veins as strongly as it does in others, but he seems an admirable scribe. He certainly takes pride in his accomplishments. If his birth is low, he does not let it hinder him."
She took a rag and used it to protect her hand as she lifted the hot kettle from the iron bar bolted across the width of the hearth. Though it was brimming, she did not spill a drop as she carried it to the table. "Did you not like him?" she asked.
Myrhil sat down and waited for Laenilas to ladle some of the stew onto her plate. She had divested herself from her gown as soon as she had entered the cottage, all the while assailed by dismayed exclamations at the dusty state of the garment. The unfortunate item had been beaten and brushed clean and was now stashed safely among Laenilas' belongings, to wait until the next required occasion. "And you shall not wear it again out of my sight," came the irritated edict, an arrangement which Myrhil found agreeable, for she had no wish to suffer it again until necessary. Now she was clad in greater comfort and she lightly drummed the soles of her boots against the floor. Such a friendlier fit than those miserable slippers.
"His impression was not slight," Myrhil replied, "for all that I did not ask his name and knew nothing particular, apart from his skill at unsheathing knives. He knew more of me than I of him." She sniffed at the steaming stew on the plate and picked up her spoon eagerly.
"The unfortunate position of petitioners," Laenilas commented, sitting down. Drawing up a heaping spoon of stew, she blew on it and spoke between puffs. "We must declare. . .everything about ourselves. . .and know nothing. . .in return." In went the stew, followed by a pleased smile as she chewed it slowly. "Shall I expect you to not return until afternoon tomorrow as well?" she asked as the last of the stew slid comfortably into her belly.
"If I do not spend the night here, I shall be knocking on the door by sunrise."
"I waited breakfast for you and heated it several times," Laenilas said, "but it was fortunate that I was very hungry. Not a bit went to waste."
Myrhil smiled. Her mother, through the rich foods of Minas Tirith and enforced leisure, had become somewhat plumper since their arrival. She still possessed the lean look of a plains wife with noble blood, but the harsh edge of endless work nourished by coarse staples had been softened noticeably. Myrhil remembered her mother inspecting herself in the mirror before the reception and recalled she had looked worn and pale. Now here she was, flushed and hearty. What tricks she was capable of!
But her smile faded when she recalled her own breakfast in Denethor's presence, and how it had turned Boromir's mood somber. "I wish I had come to eat with you." She fell silent, but when she looked up from her plate and saw her mother's eyes sharp with concern, she shook her head. "It is not Boromir."
"What, then?"
The scene at the Steward's table came rushing forth from her lips, followed by Myrhil wondering aloud why she had even put herself in such a horrible position. "What kind of man is the Steward?" she finished. "To thrive so on vinegar and thorns, it seems a sorry way to pass through life."
"You have no doubt thought the same of me, once or twice," Laenilas said quietly, but without malice in her voice. She glanced at her daughter and smiled slightly. "I have been caustic and dour in my day. I readily admit it. I had much to bear on my shoulders, but most of my burden has passed, and all within a very short time. Denethor still bears his, a greater weight than what most men will ever encounter, and it will remain until he draws his last breath." She filled her spoon and paused it before her lips. "Do not judge him, Myrhil. He is a fine man who has been dealt an unenviable task, that of protecting us all from Shadow. That It is still behind those ash-ridden mountains is a jewel in a crown he can never wear."
Her mother had indeed been caustic and dour, but neither of those qualities were present as she spoke. The words were infused with quiet passion and conviction in the man she defended. Myrhil did not press further, or defy Laenilas' assertion. It was no doubt true. Her mother had rarely been wrong when reading the tale that lay behind one's eyes. She recalled her own words to Boromir that morning, her stumbling apology that his father was a fine man. Perhaps he was. No doubt he was. And so had her father been no less admirable. But Gorhend's bristles, sharp as they were at times, seemed as paltry as a stray stinging drop of rain against her cheek when compared to the Steward's spiny nature.
But Laenilas, who had known Denethor nearly forty years past, was in a better position to judge him than she. Understood, but unspoken, was the implication that the Steward's son might change through the years as well.
And Myrhil knew that her own defense of Boromir would come to her lips no less readily.
* * *
Yet there will be many long years before the Captain of Gondor reaches such a point of seemingly irretrievable ill humor, Myrhil thought as she lay beside Boromir that night.
It had been a relief to discover that Boromir's temper had improved over the course of the day. Before she could seek him out to measure his mood, he found her and the night began early. Little was said at first; there seemed no need to dwell on words when actions spoke so much more clearly. But when exhaustion had taken hold, idle conversation emerged.
"So the day passed well for you?" Boromir asked.
"I was in the library. Tell that to Faramir, but be certain to catch his jaw before it hits the floor." Boromir chuckled softly and Myrhil's heart was gladdened to hear the sound. "I encountered one of the Rohirrim as well," she added.
"In the library? How encouraging to hear that, to know they might pursue interests other than laying their full weight on Father."
Myrhil turned, her own story forgotten. "It went ill today? I did not see you at all, so what you have done is still a mystery."
"That Elfléda is a hard bastard," Boromir replied, and Myrhil could not tell if the low tone was indicative of anger or reluctant admiration. She judged that it was somewhat a mixture of both. "Clever and stubborn, he is. I have never seen two opponents more aptly matched than he and Father." He reached over and patted her leg. "But on with this lone man you found in the library. What was his name? I am unfortunately very familiar with many of those icy faces at the moment."
"Mother told me his name, for she has spoken with him, but it has vanished." She played her fingers against one another in thought. "Gel. . .Gar. . .Gel. . .a. . .Gal. . .Gala--"
"Remind me never to include you on negotiations. You would not remember a thing."
Myrhil paused in her pained attempts to recollect and slapped his arm. Then she brightened. "The scribe! No need to remember anything when there is a scribe. It was him. The dark-haired one. Very pale."
"Ah, we have progress," he commented wryly. "Yes, I know the fellow. Remember his name now?"
"No. Do you?"
"Gríma. . .Gálmódsson. You had somewhat of a grasp on his father's name."
"It seemed to be familiar," she explained.
"As does the face." He turned to her and said, "When I saw this man Gríma, Belaród immediately came to mind."
Myrhil had heard only the slightest hesitation in his voice before the name passed his lips.
"Did he you?" Boromir finished softly.
She tried to affect a careless shrug, but she dreaded that it was transparently artificial. In truth, Belaród's face had not appeared in her thoughts upon sight of the pallid scribe. She remembered feeling as if she should have known him as soon as he had stepped from the shadows in the library alcove, but it had ended there. Belaród was gone, buried on an endless plain with but a small marker to note the presence of his crumbling body. Whatever he had done and everything about him that was now uncertain was buried with him. There was nothing to be done to uncover it. It belonged buried. Boromir's call for vengeance -- and her promise to carry it out if the opportunity arose -- seemed too painful an endeavor, the reward a grim one. Let it all rest. Forever.
She brought a hand to her eyes and rubbed at them insistently as though trying to drive the two faces from her mind. Gríma of Rohan and Belaród, their faces wheeling and fading onto and through one another, until they slowly merged into one. Belaród drawing a knife in the quickness of a heartbeat. Belaród lurking in the shadows of his deceit, biding his time to emerge and watch as her father and all he had built was openly his for the taking in the confusing aftermath of slaughter.
It was not until she felt Boromir's hand grip her shoulder and shake her roughly that she realized he was speaking her name.
"It is nothing," she said, letting her hand fall from her eyes.
"A heavy thing, your 'nothing,'" he commented. "Like a stone." He was silent, and the pause lengthened as neither spoke. Myrhil was unsure if he expected her to say anything further. How could she find the words to express feelings that she did not even wish to dwell on?
Just as Boromir turned onto his side, his back now facing her, Myrhil interrupted the pall that had descended over the room. "I am not mourning him, Boromir," she said. "That is all past."
"I would not presume anything," he replied, not moving. "It is a matter that was never mine to involve myself." Myrhil sensed no anger, sorrow, or jealousy in his words, no pretense that he was speaking against his true feelings.
"Just as well, for it was of no consequence." The words pained her as she spoke them, feeling as though she had shoveled the final spade of earth over that grave in Lebennin. She pulled herself tight against Boromir's back and sought his hands. As he allowed her fingers to twine through his, she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the nape of his neck. A squeeze of her hand prompted a like reply, and a smile came easily to her lips. No, he was of no consequence, she thought. But you, Captain…
* * *
Father needs support, Faramir thought. Even if it is mine.
He stood in the stables, his horse half-laden with tack. The saddle lay cradled over his arms as he contemplated whether to proceed or begin stripping his mount of the gear he had only just buckled. "What is your considered opinion?" he asked the horse.
The equine turned his head, one ear flattening in annoyance, the large brown eyes demanding a decision.
"That settles it," Faramir continued. "Were I to return, I would get the same look from Father. I would rather receive it from you."
The Steward had deputed his youngest son to lead the lower-ranking Rohirrim on an excursion beyond the Pelennor walls and seize the opportunity of a hunt should any game present itself. The ambassador and a select few would remain behind with Steward and heir to continue discussion. That was where Faramir wished he could remain, lending silent support to his father during the ordeal of constant negotiation. But other business had been planned for him.
As Faramir left with his father's orders, he had caught the unmistakably envious expression on his brother's face. The memory of it made him smile as he tossed the saddle over the horse's back and tightened the girth. Though the truth was that Faramir's enthusiasm for hunting paled significantly beside his brother's.
From further down the stables came the general commotion of the Rohirrim readying their own mounts and Faramir hastened his movements so that he would not lag behind those skilled horsemen. As the younger son of their ally, his status was already diminished and he did not wish to suffer further. Denethor's youngest would not go badly-attended, however; two of Faramir's most-prized subordinates would accompany him on this gesture of Gondorian hospitality.
He tugged the girth securely, prompting the bay to grunt as the last extraneous puff in its lungs was expelled. "There will be no rolling of saddles today, my friend," he chided.
"They always have their tricks, don't they?"
Faramir looked up to see Myrhil approaching with a saddle over her arms and a pair of well-tooled leather saddlebags draped over a shoulder. The silver inlay and attached decorations jingled softly as she walked. Her garments were the well-worn breeches and shirt that she seemed to prefer over all other clothes. A sword belt was slung about her waist and the scabbard thumped softly against the leather of her tall boot.
"I see you take advantage of the fine weather today as well," Faramir said.
"Only a fool would let the opportunity pass," she replied. Then she added with a smile, "And devoted Stewards and their eldest sons. The rest of us can enjoy it."
"I hear no sorrow in your voice about Boromir's predicament," Faramir commented, taking the bridle from a hook on the wall. He slid the bit through the bay's teeth and made certain its tongue would not be pinched.
"I will have enough pleasure for myself and him," she said, setting down her burdens. She picked up a grooming brush and entered the stall where her horse had begun to strike the wall impatiently. "He will hear about it in painfully vivid detail."
"And what has my dear brother done to deserve this treatment?" Faramir laughed. Before she could reply, the rising sound of jovial Rohirrim echoed up the wide, hay-strewn corridor. Faramir turned at the sound. "My charge is calling," he explained. "Have a pleasant ride, Myrhil." Quiver already slung across his back, he took up his bow from where he had rested it against the wall. One of Myrhil's arms appeared through the barred window of the stall and waved in silent farewell.
"If any straggling Rohirrim pass by," he added, "tell them to ride to the North Gate. We will be skirting the Grey Wood." A sound of acknowledgement drifted from the stall and Faramir led his horse to the forefront of the stables. Gathered and waiting in the courtyard were the Rohirrim and his own lieutenants. He was indeed the last to arrive, but the derision he had feared did not seem present.
Mounting swiftly, he smiled broadly at the assembled company. Twelve armored warriors, bearing spears and tight-strung bows of strong, supple wood, watched him avidly, their blue eyes and golden hair bright beneath their helms. Eagerly they awaited the command to follow their host's son into the woodlands of Gondor. After remaining idle for several days in the barracks while their superiors went about the diplomatic mission, this day would be theirs.
Faramir let forth a cry he knew these robust warriors would appreciate. Though he usually rallied his own men in a more restrained manner, Boromir's calls to advance were lusty and vigorous. He thought he had not successfully mimicked his brother until the answering cheer met his ears. He seized upon their enthusiasm and poured his own into it.
"Friends of Rohan!" he cried. "Today we hunt!"
* * *
Myrhil heard a strident cheer rumble from the courtyard and she sighed softly. Boromir was buried in documents and diplomacy, Faramir was surrounded by hale warriors who sought respite from boredom, and she was going to alleviate her own.
Hooves clattered on the cobblestones in a sudden burst as the men set out, the hollow clips and clops soon receding into the distance. As she had waved to Faramir, a request to join them hung on her lips but as soon as she thought of it, she stifled the impulse. The only answer she could imagine Faramir giving was "no." More gently put than his brother's wont, but "no" all the same.
The strokes of the brush increased in length and pressure. The dust mingled in the sunlight with the shed hair and Myrhil turned away to sneeze. A hoof stamped impatiently, followed by a twitch of the tail.
"I am anxious to get outside as well," she told the animal. A final swipe of the brush. "There. You look almost presentable."
She knocked the brush against her palm and absently ruffled the bristles with her fingers as she again opened the door of the stall. She started at the sight of a figure bent over her saddle and bags, inspecting them closely.
"Eh!" she exclaimed. "Those are mine!"
The figure straightened with some alarm. Considering she had not been exactly quiet as she groomed her horse, she thought him a bold creature to prowl around another's possessions in such proximity. Myrhil marked the slight frame and, when he turned, the pale face of Gríma Gálmódsson held an unrepentant expression, coupled with interest.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked with some incredulity.
"Simply admiring the handiwork," he replied smoothly.
Myrhil continued to sweep the bristles of the brush against her palm as she regarded him silently.
"There is no reason to mistrust me," he said. "I have no intention of stealing anything from you."
"An encouraging thing to hear from a man who drew a knife and held it before my eyes."
Amusement flickered lightly at his lips. "As I recall, you inquired about my skill with that self-same thing. I merely complied with a demonstration."
"Which I thank you for. It was most effective."
"An effect I regret if it has colored your perception wrongly."
"My perception means nothing," she said briskly, walking past him and taking a rope halter and small, thick blanket from the wall. She brushed at a patch of dried, sweat-encrusted dirt and retraced her steps. As she passed him again, she afforded him a brief glance. "I have certainly been wrong about folk before." She did not pause, but continued in her task and disappeared into the stall once more. Within seconds, she reemerged leading the horse, and tied the rope to a large iron ring bolted to a sturdy beam.
"As have I." This reply to her remark was so late in coming that Myrhil had brief difficulty recalling what he meant by it. "It is nothing you ever learn to do unerringly," he added, stepping to the side when Myrhil returned for the saddle.
"Is it anything you can learn with frequent success?" she asked, hauling the item to her chest. "I would like to think I have managed to compensate for one folly with a more shrewd assessment."
"The study of Man holds the answer to that. Yes, I believe it possible to learn." He watched her sling the saddle over the horse's blanketed back and she noticed he also looked somewhat anxiously down the wide alley of the stables. She remembered Faramir's parting words about straggling Rohirrim.
"Were you to ride to the hunt with the others?" she asked.
"I was." The lack of fervor in his voice could not have been more apparent. She thought it unfair that one who had no impediment to ride forth in sport wished to forego the pleasure.
"Then you must hurry," she said, smothering her own frustration. "They left eagerly, so I would guess they are halfway to the North Gate by now. Once they reach the land beyond, the scattered woodlands may make spying them difficult."
Gríma listened, but Myrhil sensed he cared little if he was unable to overtake the other Rohirrim. He had, however, made some effort at interest and intent. Gone was the unimpressive dark woolen tunic of a chair-bound servant; in its place were the clothes of a horseman for an informal hunt. The leather seemed somewhat worn, though not to such a degree that would suggest he donned them often. It was conceivable that he only borrowed them when the need arose. The leather and laces ill-suited him to her eyes, though he himself did not appear too discomfited. He has also, in the manner of the other Rohirrim she had seen, gathered his hair around the crown of his head and drawn it back with a leather thong.
"If your horse is not readied," she pressed, as she went about tightening the buckles on her tack, "I shall do it gladly. If there are any other preparations you must do, go about them and return here."
"Yes, my lady."
Myrhil bent and looked at him from under her horse's chin. His head was inclined slightly, as though meekly acquiescing to an order, but that perpetual knowing air was still about him. She wondered if such a manner had brought about this reluctance to join the other Rohirrim. And the others had not gone to any lengths to wait for him. She could not imagine he was terribly ingratiating. His somewhat exalted position as a transcriber of words among the mighty had apparently been achieved by other skills.
"And what shall be the price of this kindness?" he asked.
"I will escort you," she said without hesitation. "That is my price."
"And my price for that will be any number of angry faces -- from Gondor and Rohan both."
"No doubt."
The amused twitch of the lips returned. He bent down and retrieved the saddlebags from the floor. Wordlessly, he put them over the horse's back and secured them to the saddle by a small buckled strap. Ink-stained fingers tapped the leather briefly in fleeting consideration.
"Come," he said. "You have a horse to meet."
* * *
Though this Gríma did not seem to relish the robust pursuits embraced by his fellow countrymen or, indeed, of the average man of Gondor, Myrhil mused, he seemed to sit a horse well enough. That was no doubt the one skill every man, woman and child of Rohan possessed, even if they lacked others. The relationship all good riders have with their mounts seemed present and amiable between the slender scribe and the dappled grey gelding. The Horse-lords, being devoted to the perfection of the breed and all the elements surrounding it, certainly matched horse and rider with as much, if not more, care than they matched themselves with a husband or wife.
The other preparations that Gríma had taken included assuming the rest of his hunting gear. In addition to a sword at his side, a full quiver now nestled between his shoulder blades and a bow rested across his thighs, gripped lightly in one hand. Both had distinctly Rohirric ornamentation; the quiver was decorated with interlacing knots of dizzying endlessness and each end of the bow was a horse's head, the string disappearing between its teeth. Despite their grand appearance to eyes such as hers, unused to the armament of Rohan, she had seen the Rohirrim soldiers at practice the previous day and their equipment was of staggering brilliance. Each piece looked as though it had newly come of a master worker's shop, but she knew that every bow, sword, and shield had seen service countless times over and only retained such polish through devoted care. Gríma's attire saw the care that would not allow it to fall into uselessness, but nothing beyond that. She had seen it before. Some of the men her father had hired were former soldiers; the state of their own gear always spoke of their interest, or lack of it.
"Have you food in those handsome bags of yours?" he asked.
"Some. Not much."
"If the hunt is unsuccessful, you may have some hungry men to fend off."
Myrhil smiled. "There is naught but some tough meat and cheese. The bread is fresh, however. But the meat is no better eating than chewing on leather. Still, I am used to it, so I pay it little mind."
"From what I have learned, you came to Minas Tirith under uncommon circumstances."
Myrhil was quiet as she debated how forthcoming she should be. She was uncertain exactly how much her mother had revealed in the course of her petition. An orc attack seemed a safe assumption.
"There is nothing of interest beyond what you already know, I fear," she replied. "Orc attacks are sadly frequent, and we had the ill-luck to suffer one so far from their borders."
"The entire dwelling was destroyed?" he asked. "Home, barn, and stock?"
"No, that remained, less most of the stock. There was enough to rebuild the herd, with some aid. Our hired men perished to the last. Captain Boromir assisted us by sending battle-weary soldiers to replace them."
"All of them perished?"
"To a man, save one. An old friend of my father's." She saw Gríma shift in his saddle and switch his bow from one hand to the other. "It was a terrible night. I do not wish to speak of it."
"I apologize," he said, and his voice was somber, but Myrhil thought he sounded so more for himself than for her. "We are beyond the North Gate," he added, as though to diffuse the melancholy, "so it is best our concentration be on finding the others."
Myrhil nodded. She reached behind her into one of the bags and retrieved two pieces of tough, dried meat. She put one in her mouth and let the flavor slowly flow from it over her tongue. The other she handed to Gríma, who took it and did the same as she.
They rode at a leisurely pace for what to Myrhil felt like an hour, or even more. Conversation, when it occurred, was brief. The landscape gradually became more dotted with trees, the grasses greener from the flow of glacial water seeping down from Mindolluin. They were approaching the region in the lee of the Ered Nimrais, protected from the hot, dry winds that swept from the south. Here, the air seemed fresh and clean compared to that of the dusty Pelennor. Myrhil inhaled deeply as they progressed. Even if they never encountered the other Rohirrim, this journey would not be a wasted one.
"Do you think we will find them by crossing their path or hearing hunting bellows?" she asked.
When Gríma did not reply, she turned to see if her question had fallen on deaf ears. When she began to repeat it, his hand signaled to her impatiently to be quiet. He tilted one ear northward and his posture in the saddle became rigid and strained, his expression troubled.
"Can you not hear it?" he asked. "Have you ever known a stag or boar to fight back with the weapons of Men?"
Myrhil could hear nothing, and she was about to tell him so when a stray echo of metal clashing desperately against metal winged its way to her waiting ears. She felt her chest gripped by a familiar fear, a known dread. And the urge to assist, even blindly, pulled at her once more. Fortune had favored her once before. Whether it would do so again was yet to be seen.
She turned to Gríma and she saw her own alarm mirrored in his countenance. His ever-present pallor had deepened and he regarded her warily. "We have no shields," he began. "No armor."
"Then we must always be the ones to strike."
"It is not possible to always be the one on the offensive," he argued. "It does not take a warrior to recognize that."
"We will do what we can, then. Do you think I wish to die? I hope it is a simple matter completely different from what I fear, as much as you do."
She spurred her horse forward and observed that Gríma, despite his argument and seeming hesitation, did not let her advance far before he urged his mount to match Myrhil's swift pace.
They followed what she hoped was the direction of the echoes. There was no way to know if the mountainsides were manipulating their path. She had to trust to Luck. The woodlands intensified and faded, forcing them to alter their gait and pause periodically to regain their bearings, the continuing echoes of steel their guide.
Gríma's eyes were the first to descry the object of their search. Before them, a short distance to the east, was a mad skirmish between mounted warriors and perhaps twenty-five crouching creatures. Unmoving lumps lay on the ground, but it was impossible to tell if they were Rohirrim or Orc. Behind the pinned Men stood the outskirts of the Grey Wood and Myrhil wondered why they had not fallen into its protection.
It was as though Gríma had read her thoughts. "My people have heard stories of the folk that inhabit those woods. They would rather face orcs." Myrhil heard the disbelief, the disdain of some superstition she had no knowledge of.
But this was not the time to ask for explanations of tales. Battle lay ahead, and it was entirely possible that the night in Lebennin would be repeated, only with different men taking part. But in essence it was the same. The Rohirrim and Faramir and his men seemed to currently possess the advantage, for they would wheel and form line to charge each successive onrush of orcs. By doing so, they had whittled the enemy's numbers down, bit by bit. It was a patient and determined strategy.
She could wait no longer, and her parting glance at Gríma said as much. As before, the gap between them was brief and narrowed quickly. Myrhil drew her sword, her grip as strong as her fear. Gríma nocked an arrow with indifferent grace, trying to time his movements with his steed's gait. But neither could foresee their effort being anything more than temporarily successful.
Some narrow fingers of forest from the Grey Wood, itself an extension from the larger and fell Drúadan Forest to the west, lay across their path and it took some effort to avoid the various obstacles. Debris and low-hanging branches threatened to unhorse both of them on several occasions. But the site of battle was coming ever closer each time they emerged from a copse.
Myrhil heard the twang of a bow and her first thought was that it had come from Gríma's. But only a brief moment of reconsideration located the sound as coming from above. She looked up in time to see an orc on an overarching branch before her ready another arrow and aim towards the group of Men only a short distance away. They were being attacked from both sides, but Faramir and the Rohirrim showed no signs of awareness of this new problem.
She shouted at him to divert his attention and the orc spun around on his small perch. Seeing prey at much shorter range, he fired at her instead. Myrhil slipped to the side of her saddle, relieved that it did not roll dangerously with her movement. She felt the coarse fletching of the arrow as it grazed her shoulder.
She was about to right herself when a full, crushing weight came down on her leg, still draped over the seat of the saddle, and she cried out in pain. It was not excruciating enough to make her think it was broken, but the orc that continued to pin it beneath him would not move. Her sword arm was closest to the orc that now rode with her and she looked up to see clawed hands grip themselves around her fist to pry the sword from her. She slashed her arm backwards, hoping the sword would at least come dangerously close to unbalance him. She knew it would not be anything remotely like a killing stroke.
A twang sounded from behind and the orc reared backwards. This missile was not from an archer overhead, but from Gríma's bow, and in his spasm, the orc fell to the opposite side of the saddle. Myrhil took advantage of this and pushed against her left stirrup to propel herself upright. Yet the orc's grip did not slacken and, as he went tumbling to the ground, Myrhil was dragged with him. She screamed in panic, terrified at the possibility of her ankles becoming twisted in the stirrups. Kicking frantically, she managed to disengage one foot. Just then, her horse stumbled in a snarled thicket and the three collapsed into a sprawling, thrashing heap.
The orc had fallen on his back and Gríma's arrow passed through the creature's body, back to front, and a bloody head and shaft now protruded from his chest. He was stunned, and his grip on her hand had now completely slackened, but he was quickly recovering. Myrhil summoned as much strength as she could and delivered a blow to the side of his head with the hilt of her sword, followed by another, weaker one. The orc fell still.
The whizzing sound of other arrows fell about her ears and she flinched as her horse squealed in dismay as one or more of the orcs' aim found its mark. It thrashed about and Myrhil pulled at her leg that was still trapped under the animal, hoping some movement would allow her to free it.
Time felt as though it dragged, that she should have long ago succumbed to the onslaught from above. She jerked her leg free, doing her best to ignore the pain, and scrambled away from her dying horse and the dead orc. Staggering to her feet, she sheathed her sword as she sought shelter behind the nearest tree, peering around it for sight of Gríma.
He was beside her, still on his horse and unwounded, though another arrow was nocked and ready. She barely had time to register his presence before his hand was around her wrist, prompting her to swing up onto the saddle behind him. She gripped the grey's flanks as tightly as she could and clasped her arms around his chest, not caring that the quiver jabbed her sorely. As another arrow sailed past them, Gríma dug his heels into the grey's sides and they bolted from the copse.
From behind her, Myrhil heard the shriek of pained orcs and she whipped her head around to see a few dark shapes tumble from the trees and crash onto the leafy forest floor. What was happening?
She returned her attention to the scene before her, seeing a jouncing view over Gríma's shoulder. As he slowed the heaving gelding, his elbow poked her in the ribs and she realized he wished to let another arrow fly. She leaned to the opposite side of the draw of his bow and, from beneath his extended arm, she saw Belaród's saddlebags draped over the pommel of the saddle. She had forgotten about them, but he had possessed more presence of mind than she. Still, why would they be of any concern when the danger of pausing to collect them was greater?
Faramir and the Rohirrim were in the process of wheeling once more to meet the next assault. The orcs before them had dwindled to less than fifteen, and Myrhil saw that every single Rohirrim was still ahorse, though some had suffered more injury than others. She saw bloody stains, both red and black, on many of them. Faramir, flanked on either side by his lieutenants, nearly halted in alarm upon seeing a stray rider behind them and his surprise was heightened when he caught sight of her seated behind the lone man. But he followed through on the maneuver and led the charge.
"We must join them," Myrhil said.
"You have lost your horse. I will not risk mine," was his reply, altering his aim slightly at a distant, advancing orc. "Have you ever heard of soldiers charging with two riders on one mount?"
"No."
His bow sang as the arrow was loosed. An orc stumbled, but did not fall. It was not a mortal hit. "There is a reason why."
The charge had been followed through, but as Faramir and the others returned, Myrhil saw that another one was not to take place. He gestured to the dense trees and commanded the Rohirrim to seek its shelter once more. Myrhil saw reluctant yet weary expressions, but grudgingly they gave over to necessity rather than the superstition Gríma had previously mentioned. As one, they formed square and bolted headlong towards the Wood. As Faramir drew close, Myrhil gestured wildly to the forest from behind Gríma.
"There were orcs in the trees down there!" she said, pointing in the direction from which they had come. "Archers in the trees!"
Faramir looked up at the leafy canopy before them, total resignation threatening to overcome him. "We shall have to take our chances," he said grimly. "If we press on far enough past any volleys, we will have the same advantage as they, should they come after us." A quick gesture of his arm indicated for Gríma to follow.
As they entered the outer reaches of the Wood, some arrows indeed rained down upon them and Faramir gave a command to quicken pace as fast as was possible, given the obstructions that lay nearly everywhere. Myrhil held onto Gríma even tighter and when he commanded her to duck, she did not question why. The whoosh of a large branch passed overhead, its bark snagging some stray strands of her hair and ripping them from her scalp.
The path he took was at the mercy of the vagaries of nature. Myrhil looked to her right to see that some of the others were still somewhat together, while a few -- her and Gríma among them -- were forced to take a route that zigged and zagged crazily around felled trees, dense brush and anything else that was impossible to go through without injury.
Though it was the height of day, the light had grown dim as they progressed inward, and Myrhil jounced madly as Gríma quickly brought the grey's pace to a trot, then a walk. There were no whistles of arrows overhead and Gríma felt it safe to come to a halt. Myrhil cared not if he would walk away and leave her; she slid clumsily off the horse's back and landed on her own. She needed rest, but something else begged attention.
She crouched and pushed herself to her feet, taking the few steps to stand unsteadily by his leg. Her hand flew to the pommel of the saddle, but when her fingers went to grasp the leather strap of the saddlebags, she found that his hand was already securely around it. She looked up at him and saw him regarding her intently, his blue eyes icy and unyielding. His other hand went around her wrist and his grip did not cease as he shed himself of the stirrups and dismounted. The movement wrenched her arms slightly. The saddlebags now dangled between them. He let go of her wrists and Myrhil took immediate advantage to try to pry the bags from his hands.
"Those are not yours to take!" she hissed between clenched teeth.
"Nor are they yours!"
The sharp growl that embodied those words made her pause in her attempts to wrest them from him. Gríma twisted the strap so that the underside was exposed, and he jabbed at a series of letters etched into the leather. The letters he had seen in the stable before she had disturbed his inspection.
"Now," he said, struggling to calm himself, "tell me how you got these from my brother."
To be continued…I was going to write a note detailing why I have done what I have with Gríma -- riding a horse, wearing something other than skanky black velvet, and knowing how to use a bow and arrow, but decided not to. It's just boring justification. :-) So, in short, I hope you found something to like about this chapter, even if you think I have gone horribly astray with Gríma. But, really, isn't Gríma in leather a nice thing to contemplate?