Boromir knew that men were capable of great evil, each meal he ever took reminded him of that fact. But to see men hurt a child in such a way – he briefly thought about the Fall, and how deserved it must have been if the men were half so evil. Were it just orcs, that would have eased him somewhat, but the fact he was against other men, and not Easterlings by their look, gave him brief pause. Not enough to give an opening to either child he now had to defend, he would never let orc-work like that continue unpunished. But orc work did not explain the child clinging to him.
Having a boy cling to him made the brief skirmish more difficult that Boromir was used to. But the boy weighed less than the full ceremonial armour of the guard, and Boromir had held that weight proudly, he could likewise not call himself a man of Gondor should he cast aside the child, so it was another weight he bore as a Man of Gondor.
His shield rang long, and his sword-arm twisted in no form of Númenor , but the foul beasts fell as any orc, if with the weight of men. But the song of war was ever loud and its tune had drawn unwelcome attention.
He heard a shout, and saw a dozen move from their slaver-positions around the ragged convoy to attack him, and the children he now defended. Unprepared and unskilled, they were ill-suited to an immediate attack, the brief confusion was all the Captain of the West needed. His voice rang with command, but the beasts had never known the songs of the fair, nor the light of the West, so his shout brooked no response. A few of the enslaved trembled and flinched, but Boromir son of Denethor settled his shield arm, with the extra child-weight making the motion less smooth, and placed himself more securely between the half maimed girl and her still living captors. Two of the orc-men heedlessly charged him, their poor armament and ill-used blades caused near pity to swell in Boromir's chest.
The attackers fell on him with the fury of the wind. And were brushed aside just as easily. The Valar smiled on him, with the first two men falling quickly to Naclim, the rest holding back, none few looking at him with more than fear. It was curious, but few men could withstand the wrath of Númenor at its height, even though diminished as the kingdoms were, it could still hold lesser men at bay. And these were far below the least of men Boromir had encountered. A third man, looking more wary that his erstwhile fellows, charged him with sword and dagger.
The maimed girl groaned and sobbed, most like she had just realised the scent of death now surrounding the air – a difficult mien to become accustomed, but cleaner than the foulness of the orc-men still living. Her desperate sobs, the shouts of orc-men, the gasps of the enslaved were mere chorus to the refrain of steel and gasping breaths of the fighting men. This battle was by far the more difficult if only for the need to protect the boy clinging to him from careless blows. Soon the orc-man joined the others in death, but in that time, the other men had moved closer to the fray.
Another ragged attack fell upon him, three swords at once, but this time a fourth man, Boromir nearly missed him, drew a bow. Fortunately its wielder was no Ranger, or even a bowman, as the first shot sailed wide by a hand, gouging bark rather than flesh, worrying his own men and the enslaved far more than the Captain of the Tower.
Shouts and cries in tongues unknown to the son of Denethor rang out, but he heeded them not, for orc-work was a blight on the face of Iluvatar, and it was the solemn duty of the Realms of Men to keep it at bay.
Again the clash of steel rang out, the chorus of swordplay enlivening the forest. And again the lesser blades fell before the blood of Númenor. A dance it could not be called, it lacked the grace of true swordplay, but the song of battle, short or long, rang out nonetheless. Blood and death now littered the once clear woodland, and now the thralls looked on Boromir with as much fear as the orc-men. But there was no time to reassure them, now the bowman, such as he was, aimed a second shot, and Boromir knew it could be his last, raised his shield to cover the child clinging to him, which left his proud face exposed.
But the shot never hit, one of the thralls, a larger boy than the rest, cried in the glutaral tongue and fell upon the man just as the shot was released, sending it wide by a fair armlength. But regardless of the distance, Boromir had to check his surroundings – no matter the foulness of these orc-men, only the truly foolish moved in the forests of Middle-earth so openly without scouts checking for mischief. It could well be that the apparent missed arrows were a signal to alert the more skilled archers and scouts of a problem close at hand.
It was a relief that these orc-men had no other bows amongst them, for Boromir was allowed to take in his surroundings undisturbed for a moment – the other men were still too far off to be an immediate threat. What he did see though worried him greatly.
These were not the great trees of Ithilien, old even as the realm of Gondor was begun. Nor were they the great oaks and willows of Fangorn, ancient beyond count mixed with the youth and greenery of Rochan. No these trees were altogether different.
Eregion mayhap, or Arnor of old was possible, for the Captain of the Guard nor any man of Gondor had ever travelled to the Lost Kingdom in living memory, and the orc-work was surely due to Angmar's foul influence. But lost or not, overran and misused it may be, but it was once part of the ancient Kingdom birthed out of the Fall, and with hope in his chest, Boromir raised the great horn of Gondor, and bellowed its song.
Upon hearing the horn of Gondor, the orcish servants of the Enemy would quail, but the malevolence of their master would drive them onward, and keep them strong and fighting ever onward.
These orc-men had no such master.
Outside his vision, Boromir heard the crash of running feet, and a bellow from the half troll. It mattered not, mere trolls were less than nothing to the vile grasp of the Enemy, and even a legion of full grown trolls could not hold back the fleeing sea without their master's will.
Boromir knew that soon he would be joined, if not by his brother, or his men, then at least by those friendly to Gondor – of all the men of old Arnor, some would still harken to the call for aid. The bellows of the armoured half troll drew forth ever close however, and the thralls all flinched back, some skulking to the largest of trees to hide behind. The half troll, for such a being was too foul to be a man, drew a greatsword and moved upon him, frightening the remaining thralls to the trees.
But the boy on his chest, and the maimed girl moved not, and Boromir knew that his heart and sword both would ere sing of battle, and it may be his last.