This story is written for Casey Toh in honor of her 18th birthday. The story is about Boromir and events that happen to him the winter of his 18th year. A young Mablung serves under a famous captain. The Atlas of Middle-earth describes Stonewain Valley in Gondor as being possibly stream-cut. Although the stream had dried up by the Third Age, I have resurrected it for my story.
Please note that I am writing this strictly for my own (and Casey's) enjoyment. None of the characters are mine and I certainly am not making any money off my efforts.
First Love/The Fates Can Be Cruel
"Only one more hour before the sun rises."
Two soldiers dressed in wintry colors that blended well with the surrounding landscape stood stoically in the freezing winds of late January in the year 2996 of the Third Age. Those who lived beneath the shadow of the White Mountains were all too aware of how bitterly cold the weather could become during the winter months. On this frigid night, a small contingent of Gondor's army was tracking orcs. They were led by a young, but highly respected, captain.
Reports had come to Minas Tirith several weeks before that the small orc band was holed up within Stonewain, a long and narrow valley running through Druadan Forest from near the Rammas Echor to stone quarries in the Ered Nimrais. The men of Gondor had built a great road through the Stonewain Valley many lifetimes ago; however, it had fallen into disrepair over the past century and was now a perfect place for orcs to shelter from the bright winter sun. Although the road was rarely used anymore, it was still a link to the watchtowers of the Beacon Hills, running behind Minrimmon and down to Amon Din, site of the first of the northern beacon towers of Gondor. A man on foot could walk from the beacon tower of Eilenach to Din in the period between sunrise and noon. Orcs could make the journey in almost half that time, burning and looting farms and homesteads as they marched.
"Valar, it's cold out. As much as I value my Brindle, I'd gladly trade him for a warm bed."
The other man snorted. "You'd sooner trade your wife than that horse."
The first soldier had just opened his mouth to reply when the shrill cry of a screech owl silenced him. Both men peered anxiously into the early morning gloom, searching for whatever had startled the owl. "There, by the stream. Do you see them?" whispered the first soldier.
"Aye, I see 'em. Should have been able to hear them a mile off. Not like orcs to be so quiet. You'd best get back to camp and warn the Captain." The first soldier, whose name was Ingold, disappeared soundlessly. The other, Mablung, remained at his post and watched the orcs as they moved cautiously toward the icy stream. One of them, an orc almost man-high, stopped and began sniffing loudly. His small, yellow eyes caught the faint light of the moon and glowed cat-like in the thinning darkness.
Mablung shivered. No matter how many times he saw them, orc eyes always made him feel queasy, like he'd eaten something spoiled. Nothing else he'd yet seen in Middle-earth personified such evil. Mablung hunkered down even lower and prayed that the wind would not shift and carry his scent to the quarry. The Captain would post him to Osgiliath if he gave away their presence.
The lilting song of a lark filtered through the trees behind him. Mablung watched the orcs closely. Although they halted their progress toward the stream, they did not appear to be alarmed. As they moved forward again, the soldier realized he had been holding his breath. Letting it out softly, he became aware of others coming up silently to his position. A male voice whispered, "How many are there?"
Mablung mutely answered his captain's question by signing the number 23. The other nodded and gave non-verbal commands to the rest of the company. Bows were nocked with arrows and swords were drawn quietly from leather scabbards. All stood ready, waiting for their captain's signal to attack. Just as the Captain was about to give the command, the wind shifted and began blowing against their backs, carrying their scent to the orcs. With the element of surprise gone, the Captain shouted orders for the archers to fire a volley into the enemy. Because orcs rarely persist against well-armed opponents, the Gondorian captain expected that he and his men would be forced to give chase. He was, therefore, completely unprepared for their bold and somewhat suicidal attack. What little of the orc band that remained after the first flurry of arrows rushed the company's position with no thoughts for their fallen companions.
The young captain barely had time to order his men to hand-to-hand combat before the orcs were upon them. "Valar, have you ever seen them move that fast?" Mablung asked breathlessly as he strode forward to meet an unusually large, and ugly, speciman. Ingold only grunted in reply, far too busy keeping two orcs from separating his head from his neck to reply.
Mablung saw a large opening in his opponent's defense and quickly thrust his sword deep into its guts. Black blood gushed from the wound as the blade was withdrawn. The orc's look of surprise would have been comical if the creature had simply fallen to the ground as expected. Instead, it threw back its head and howled loudly enough to wake the dead. Surprised by the unearthly cry, the soldier was at first unaware that the creature was moving. By the time he did notice, it was too late to react; the orc was rushing toward him like a catapult and only two feet away.
A strong shove caused Mablung to lose his balance and he hit the ground hard. The impact left him shaken but alive. Mablung looked up to see whom he had to thank for his life and saw the Captain meet the orc's blade with his own. The two fought fiercely, steel meeting steel, as they engaged in an intricate dance of death. The Captain's skillfully intense and fierce, but graceful, style of fighting kept the orc off balance. The creature was desperately looking for a way to escape from the fierce warrior when it noticed a much smaller orc coming toward them, its long, curved blade propelled in a downward arc. The Captain saw a brutal smile spread across the creature's face only seconds before he heard the sound of a weapon slicing through air.
Mablung shouted a warning, but it was too late to stop the saw-toothed blade from chewing its way through the Captain's hauberk. The force of the strike drove the chainmail rings deep into the Captain's flesh, even as the blade tore a ragged wound in his side. The larger orc howled victoriously and moved forward to claim his prize. The Captain, who had been knocked to the ground, looked upward just as the orc raised its weapon to deliver the killing strike. He would have called out for help, but the pain in his side was so severe he could not gather the breath to speak. The orc sneered triumphantly, raised its weapon over its head -- and was hit squarely between the eyes by an arrow from Ingold's bow. Mablung scrambled to his feet and rushed to the captain's side; he barked orders and soon a shield wall of human flesh protected the injured captain. The remaining orcs continued their doomed battle against Gondor's soldiers.
Although the foe's numbers had been whittled down to a mere half dozen, there was still plenty of fight left in the survivors. The young captain managed to struggle to a kneeling position. He shoved his long sword into the tightly packed snow and leaned heavily upon it. Though he could not see the battle, he could hear it. He looked at the men surrounding him. This is not right, he thought. I should be leading them. Determined to reenter the fray, the young captain attempted to regain his feet.
"Stay down, my lord," shouted Mablung. "You dare not risk any more injuries. Let us finish those that are left."
The Captain frowned his displeasure, but nodded his consent all the same. He watched as his men brought down the last of the unusually large creatures. Strange, he thought. I do not remember encountering such a breed as this. They almost are as tall as my shortest men and nearly tireless. What new devilry is this? Seeing that the battle was over, the Captain again attempted to rise. He was halfway to his feet when a white-hot pain seared through his flesh, causing him to cry out. He looked down and saw blood spouting from a gaping wound. In the fading moonlight, it looked as black as orc's blood. The sudden loss of blood made his head pound, and he seemed to be seeing through a red veil. The young captain would have fallen if not for the quick action of his men, who grabbed him and eased him to the ground.
Mablung started to remove the man's hauberk, saw how deeply the chainmail links had been driven into the flesh, and began shouting orders to the others. "Ingold, fetch some water from that spring; the rest of you make a litter for the Captain. We ride to Minas Tirith as soon as it is ready. The Lord Denethor will boil us alive if we allow his heir to die."
Please See Chapter Two
