Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. The authors of this piece are merely borrowing them and derive no financial benefit from the exercise.
Echoes of the White Horn Chapter 5: Friend or Foe
The horseman had had no trouble reacting instantly when he realised the man he had found by the river now had company. Never in any of his earlier forays here had these lonely paths been so frequented. First, one, and now here had come another. He had foreseen more stoppage ahead for him.
To locate the source of the cries had been an easy task and a natural wariness had enjoined him to ensure whether the newcomer was a friend or a foe. He had pulled of his cloak and left it with his pack on his horse's saddle. Silence and efficiency were as second nature to him so that it was not until he was right behind his quarry that he had come to be noticed. Ignoring the nip of the chilly breeze, he unsheathed a knife. The other man had seemed to be in anything but an alert state, which made it all the more easier for the horseman, even though his opponent was as well armed as he himself was.
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The smooth curvature of the bow and the leather strap pf the quiver he held in his hand slipped out of Faramir's nerveless fingers as a heavy grip encircled his wrists. The bow hit the ground with a soft sound, its fall cushioned by the grass, followed by the arrows as they fell out of the quiver which in turn joined them on the ground. He heard a scraping sound as the weapons were nudged away by a booted foot. But that was not all the trouble he found he had to cope with.
The sensation of cold steel against flesh was not one unknown to the younger son of the Steward of Gondor, but the intent behind this one blade was. To have a sparring partner's sword or his brother's blade at his throat amounted to the loss of a contest. To have this particular piece of metal poised over a throbbing vein in his neck could mean the loss of much more than just that. He stood very still at first, ignoring the dull ache running through his hands as the grip on them tightened and a tall shape loomed over him. He tried to turn his head around and take a look, hoping almost irrationally that it would be Boromir, even though he knew it was not.
"Do not move," the words spoken in his ear helped nullify that tiny flicker of hope. He had, for a while, in all his worry, forgotten that all forms of unknown danger could lurk in these areas. But he did realise with some little relief that he was atleast not dealing with an Orc or any other foul creature. It was just a man. He had heard of people who used to try and attack travelers and rob them of their belongings but had never expected to actually encounter one.
Faramir might, under normal circumstances, have reacted in a manner different from what he did then. But he was worried for his brother and wearied by the sudden chain of events that had occurred. He felt he had little time for such interruptions, being convinced by now that Boromir must be lying somewhere, badly injured, and that he should aim towards finding him as soon as possible.
And he was annoyed with himself for letting his guard slip so badly that he had not even heard someone step up behind him until it was too late. He found himself reacting purely by reflex and doing anything but not moving. He fought back in a manner that would have probably have made his instructors wince, trying to bend away from the blade and simultaneously kick his foot backwards, while attempting to wrench his arms away from the vise-like hold. He wanted to try and get hold of his sword or even the hunting knife he always carried in his belt.
The other man seemed to be taken aback by his resistance at first, for he felt his feet encounter bone, heard a few muffled words and then felt the knife hand move away from his throat.
Any thoughts of overpowering the other man, however, remained short-lived. The grip on his wrists was still being maintained, even as his assailant tried to hold him down while he in turn tried to tear himself away. They overbalanced in their efforts, and Faramir found himself falling heavily onto the grassy surface and pulling the other man down with him. In the background he could hear the animals sound out their worry.
The fall left him winded and to his annoyance he found that the other man had recovered faster than he had. The momentary distraction had been enough to give his opponent the upper hand.
He found himself pinned face down to the ground by someone who obviously had greater strength than he did. And was probably taller than him given the way he seemed to tower over Faramir. The surface under him was cold and damp and strewn with small, sharp stones that poked at him through his clothes. His hands were being held behind his back. The grip was not rough, but it was not gentle either, and he had no doubt that if need be, it could become rough.
The wind continued to blow unabated even as Faramir gritted his teeth angrily. He could feel the sword he carried being pulled out of its scabbard and then he heard it being dropped on the grassy bank. He was completely unarmed now unless he could grab hold of one of the arrows that had fallen out of his quiver. A couple of them lay scattered around him; long, thin pieces of wood that had been polished till they shone, their tips sharpened with expert care. His hunting knife too lay tucked in his belt. It was small and not of much use in combat, but it was still something. He had weapons enough around him to defend himself, but to his increasing irritation, no means of reaching them.
"Who are you?" the stranger asked, his grim tone, breaking in through Faramir's reflections.
He stiffened angrily at the hard edge to the voice; "I could ask you that!" he lashed out, trying to free his wrists.
"You could?" came the reply with what might have been a slight inflexion of amusement to it.
If only he could reach for his sword, or even one of the arrows... if he could just get his hands free, he could try and reach them. He could not. The grip was too strong; stronger even than he had known Boromir's to be.
But his feet were unrestricted. So he kicked out once again, in the direction he felt his assailant stood. He hit what might have been an ankle encased in a supple, leather boot, heard another set of muffled words, and realised with dismay that he had made the stranger trip over his own feet and land on top of him. The man let go of his hands in an effort to balance himself, so Faramir tried to sidle away and sit up. Instead he was hit by the weight of his falling opponent and then found that he was rolling on the mud trying to overpower the stranger, who had no intention of giving up all that easily.
The river flowed incessantly on by them, continuing to pound through the valley. An instinct for self-preservation manifested itself in both men as they ensured they rolled away from it. The wind rushed through Faramir's ears noisily, and he felt the mud underneath sink beneath their combined weights as he and his unknown opponent fought it out. Above them the sky remained a moody grey.
They hit a small shrub, squashing it flat even as its sharps twigs scratched them. The other man was taller and hardier, and armed. And moreover, Faramir realised that his cloak kept coming in his way. It obstructed his hand from reaching for his belt and pulling out his knife.
So he struck out a hand and groped around for the arrows instead, until he felt his fingers close around smooth wood. He grabbed the projectile and brought it up, lashing out at the other man's face. Unfortunately, the man's reflexes were not found wanting either. He ducked the pointed edge with alacrity and threw himself backwards. The otherwise fruitless exercise did, however, give Faramir a chance to get away from his opponent's hold. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and stumbled backwards, still holding the arrow in one hand. Leveraging his hands against the sodden ground for balance, he felt steel under his palm instead of grass and clutched at his sword in relief. He dropped the arrow and swatted away his bothersome cloak. Then he picked up the sword, and clenching his fingers tight around its hilt, stood up slowly and steadily as he took in his first view of his attacker, who too had managed to stand up now.
He had not been sure what to expect, but to find one who looked so much unlike a complete fiend was a little unexpected. The man in front of him was, as Faramir had guessed, tall in height but looked much like any ordinary person. Although, perhaps he might not have been entirely ordinary for he still maintained the stance of a fighting man. And ordinary men did not often rove these mountains alone and atop such a fine horse as the one that stood by the water, patiently nibbling at grass. The clothes he wore were not dissimilar to the clothes Faramir wore, but they were not similar either. The man himself could easily have passed as one from Gondor. In fact, he looked almost like a ranger. He appeared to have traveled a long way and his general mien was that of one accustomed to long, uncomfortable journeys.
He had now pulled out his sword too, the hold on it displaying the expertise of a seasoned warrior. His face held a stern expression that soon turned to one of some degree of surprise.
"You are just a child!" he exclaimed.
Faramir nearly dropped his sword when he heard that. He did not lose his composure often but the words he heard were not words he cared to hear. He might not be as tall as Boromir and he was by all means younger than this man, but he was no child. He was, after all, a ranger. He moved forward a little, his fingers clenched around his sword hilt, giving the stranger a hard stare, daring him to stop him.
"What do you want?" he asked, unable to hide the anger he felt. The man in front of him hardly looked like a common highwayman.
"What do you want here?" the other man countered.
Faramir glanced at him warily, instinctively taking up a half-crouching position so he could defend himself from a sudden attack. And then he realised, with horror that he had, in all the fuss, more or less forgotten about Boromir. Anything could have happened in all this time. He was not even sure how much time had elapsed. It had seemed like a matter of a few seconds but now, he was not sure. Every moment he spent tarrying here was a moment wasted. He could not afford to delay any longer. As a further reminder that things could get worse, the skies rumbled ominously.
He took a step forward, towards the ponies that still stood nervously by the riverside as the thunder died away slowly.
The horseman watched cautiously as the boy stepped forward, holding the sword in his hand. He might have been just a boy, but the stranger had seen much of the world. Mere youth was no guarantee that the boy had no ulterior motive in searching for the man from the river. He seemed to have no qualms over fighting back or over displaying a little belligerence. Very calmly, the man moved till he was blocking the other's path.
"Let me go," the younger one said, grasping the hilt of his sword tight.
"Who are you and what do you want here?" the horseman repeated, intentionally adopting a sterner tone of voice.
It did not seem to impact the youth, however.
"You are not from here," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "Might I ask you what it is you do here, kind sir?"
"What are you searching for here?" the stranger asked, ignoring Faramir's words.
"I am not searching for anything," came the prompt reply, a very prompt reply, too soon and too abrupt.
Faramir had had no intention of revealing to this man that his brother was around somewhere, possibly injured. That was a risk he was unwilling to take.
"You seem to be in great haste," the man remarked in a smooth tone.
"I am in great haste. I have far to go yet and you stand in my way. I do not know what you want but I have nothing save these weapons and those ponies but I need them in my travel," Faramir said trying desperately to quell the increasing disquiet he felt rearing up inside him.
"Are you not searching for somebody, then?" the stranger asked ominously, "Or do you often travel with two mounts?"
"And if I am searching for someone, what of it?" he countered mutinously, noting with worry that the weather seemed to be worsening.
"Why do you search for him?" the stranger asked infuriatingly. He continued to block Faramir's path but made no move to attack him making him wonder whether he might not have been correct in assessing him as an ordinary man riding in the mountains.
Faramir took a deep breath, "I have spent too much time here already. Would you make way for me, or would you have me fight you?" he asked, indicating the sword.
"Is that how the boy fell?" the stranger asked, his eyes hard, "Did you fight him or did you perhaps push him down?" He pointed his own sword at Faramir, who had moved forward.
A streak of lightning lit up the dull expanse above almost in accompaniment to the sharp words.
To be continued...
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Shlee Verde – glad you like it;-)
Susan – Still not very nice, is he? Not yet unfortunately;-)
Rose – Well, then hope you keep enjoying it!;-)
