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 6: Metal and Water
Faramir clutched at the hilt of his sword, feeling his heart clench at the words he had just heard. A clap of thunder followed the brilliant streak of lightning making a storm seem even more imminent. He ignored it. So did the stranger. A stiff breeze blew his hair onto his face, but he ignored that too. The sharp point of a sword glinted unwaveringly in front of his chest. That too went unheeded. So did the soft snorting of the three mounts nearby.
The stranger had mentioned a boy. A boy who had fallen down? Boromir was no child either but he was younger than the stranger. Boromir had been found, apparently. But the short burst of elation that that thought induced was promptly replaced by wariness. He still had no inkling of the other man's intentions.
"Where is he?" the words came out of his mouth almost immediately.
The sword remained where it was, unmoving, and he realised abstractedly that whoever the stranger was, he was certainly an experienced swordsman, for the hand on the hilt was absolutely still.
"He? Did you not say you were travelling alone?" there seemed to be a faint mocking tone underlying the words, though Faramir wondered whether he might not have imagined it.
He blinked in annoyance. He had inadvertently let the words slip. It was not something he was normally in the habit of doing. But he was worried.
And he was afraid, for Boromir.
"How did he fall?" the stranger asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Where is he?" Faramir repeated, clenching his teeth.
"How did he fall?" the other man repeated annoyingly.
"What have you done to him?" he could not keep the raw edge out of his voice.
The stranger's eyes continued to bore down at him mercilessly, "You seem very worried," he remarked.
"I am," came the markedly level reply.
"Are you worried that he might have survived after you pushed him down?" the hold on the sword remained steadfast.
Faramir nearly backed away at the words. The sword followed his movements.
"You think I pushed him down?"
"It could be a possibility," the stranger mused.
Faramir was usually not lacking in patience, or in holding his own during a conversation. But at that moment he seemed to have lost both abilities. It seemed to him that he had been standing there at sword point for almost an eternity. And that the man in front of him seemed to be playing some sort of a deliberately slow moving game. Either he actually thought he had harmed Boromir or the stranger himself had some other ulterior motive. Whatever the reality might have been, Faramir found his normally clear and precise mind in disarray. There appeared to be only one way to end this strange predicament. It was not a method he would have normally opted for, but his circumstances could hardly have been called normal.
He swung his own sword up to swipe away the offending piece of metal pointed at him.
"I would never do that!" he grunted, as he put his full strength behind the blow, in his anger.
His thrust was neatly and skillfully parried away in a seemingly effortless manner. Metal hit metal with frightening force. The harsh impact jarred Faramir's wrist and traveled all the way up his arm painfully. It was not an unfamiliar sensation but such a magnitude of force behind it certainly was. He found himself struggling to maintain his balance on the wet grass underneath his feet, while at the same time hold onto the hilt of his sword.
The swinging arc of steel kissed the air perilously close to his neck. It had a sobering effort on him. He tried to calm down. Perhaps he had been stupid in starting off this fight, but start it off he had and he might as well continue with it, he reasoned to himself, even as his feet scrabbled on the soft surface underneath. He lunged with his sword once again, this time relying less on instinct and more on thoughtful planning.
He did, however, have a formidable opponent.
The lunge was dealt with as effectively as the earlier thrust. The impact jarred his arm yet again, but he ignored the continued pain.
The skies chose that moment to burst. And they did so with spectacular effect. Faramir had heard of these sudden, heavy storms in the mountains. He just wished he could have observed them in their complete glory at some other time. The man in front of him did not seem unduly bothered. They regarded each other warily through the endless stream of water. A little distance away, three impatient animals reared up noisily, and stamped around fitfully.
"You waste my time," Faramir ground out. He found the situation getting more and more desperate.
It was evident his brother was somewhere in the vicinity and it just as evident that he was unaware that Faramir was nearby. That, in itself, was enough to worry Faramir. That he was embroiled in a swordfight with a complete stranger who seemed to somehow have entangled himself in the entire affair was an added concern. And now the rain seemed intent on causing more trouble, not just for him but also, he was sure, for Boromir wherever he was.
"And you, child, waste mine," was the only response.
Faramir felt the other man's sword swing past his shoulder, missing the flesh and cutting through the soft cloth of his cloak instead. The action seemed almost deliberate to him for he was sure from what he had seen of his opponent's skill, that he would not make such a miss, but he had little time to think about that. Instinctively backing away, he found the sword had caught onto the cloth of the cloak. He felt a tugging motion as the wet fabric tore away. He tried to attack while the cloaked figure disentangled his weapon, but found that even then he was not quick enough.
He found himself being pushed back as the metal repeatedly swung dangerously close to him, each time coming close enough to strike him, but then just missing out, for some reason he could not understand. It was almost as though the man were trying not to hurt him but perhaps to just disarm him. It was something Faramir himself had often done during his lessons. He had invariably tended to disarm rather than injure whomever he had fought. It was, however, not a tactic he had found he could use while fighting in a real battleground.
They were nearing closer to the water's edge and he found himself leaping backwards on the pebble-strewn shoreline. The rain continued to fall incessantly, and he could feel wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead and neck. The sensation was annoying but he could not allow it to disturb his concentration, especially since the stranger was totally unaffected by it.
It was when he leaned too far backwards to avoid a thrust at his shoulder that he found himself slipping. He twisted desperately, trying to avoid falling into the water and at the same time keeping a lookout on his opponent while simultaneously hanging on to his weapon. His balance was the first to give way.
He fell flat on his back, hitting the grassy bank at the water's edge, and the back of his head came in contact with the dampening ground in a sudden and swift motion. He grunted at the stab of pain induced by the contact but managed to retain his sword in his hand. The tiny, sharp-edged stones lying among the fronds of grass bit into his back and shoulders as he tried to regain his breath, and clear his half-dazed mind. The rain splattered down on his face relentlessly.
The stranger stepped forward quickly and for the second time in such a short while, Faramir found himself facing a steady, unmoving piece of shining, pointed metal.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The man in the grey cloak had not been entirely sure what course of action to follow once he had confirmed the new arrival did indeed know of the man he had found in the river. It did, however, take a while for him to realise that the young man opposite him seemed to consider him in the same light as he considered him – possibly dangerous.
By the time he had figured that out however, he found himself parrying off the boy's attacking sword. The rain fell steadily around him and he remembered the other man lying under the shade of the trees. He was probably getting soaked and that could not possibly be good for him. The best thing to do, he decided, was to end this little skirmish. He was after all, the better swordsman between them from all appearances.
The young man was trained in swordsmanship. He was sure of that from the way he gripped his weapons, but he decided, he was still learning. The thrusts were skillful but they did not have the comfortable ease that came either naturally or after long months of usage. Perhaps, he preferred to use a bow, he wondered as he remembered seeing an excellently crafted one slip out of his hands.
And, the stranger realised suddenly, he was not aiming to kill, or even to injure. It did not take him long to realise that the boy in front of him might have seen fighting but not to a great extent. He doubted if he had ever killed anyone by his sword yet. He found himself fighting back in a similar manner, trying to disarm him but not hurt him, wondering if he had not been a little too cautious in assuming that the man he had found in the river had not fallen in by accident.
The boy seemed to be tiring and he decided it would be easier to exchange a few explanations once he managed to get him to lower his sword. When he did finally get him down, it did not escape his eyes that he had not quite succeeded in disarming him in the process. The sword still lay gripped tight in his hand even as the head and shoulders hit the ground. The dull sound of the impact almost made him cringe, and he nearly lowered his guard.
The young man was struggling to rise. He moved forward swiftly, and held the blade calmly at his throat. The rain continued unabated.
"Lay down your sword. I am not going to hurt you," he said, scrutinizing the guarded expression on his face. He held out his other hand to help him up.
The boy stared back at him, with a completely unreadable expression on his face. He seemed to be assessing what to make of the words he had just heard and of the proffered hand. The set look still on his face, he finally let go of his weapon, and brushing away the helping hand stood up on his own, grimacing a little and rubbing the back of his head in annoyance.
The rider waited cautiously. He was quite sure, from what he had seen so far, that the young man was not one to retract without thought unless the provocation went too far. Perhaps his earlier words had done just that.
"Where is he? Have you hurt him? What do you want with us?" the boy spoke without preamble, as he swiped at his wet face with his sleeve, to no avail. Strands of wet hair hanging dankly around a tired face were brushed off irritably.
"He is not hurt," the man replied in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, but kept his sword out.
He watched the face in front of him carefully as he spoke. The previously inscrutable features changed for the barest minute. It seemed to be a look of relief, but he needed to be certain. The puddles around them grew progressively larger.
"Not very badly, that is," he continued to watch the younger man, who in turn was watching him intently.
Worry tinged the bright grey eyes.
"What have you done with him?" The fists were clenched, and the voice was steady but the faintest flash of fear seemed to cross the boy's eyes.
"He was hurt when I found him by the river. He must have hit his head on a rock. How did he fall in?"
"He slipped. His pony was scared, and he lost his balance. We were further upstream-," came the soft reply, "Where is he now? What do you want with him?"
"I just want to help him. What do you want with him?"
He received an incredulous look in return, "We were travelling together!"
"He is your friend?" He had to make sure one more time.
The reply came in an exasperated tone, "He is my brother. He fell. I saw him fall, but the current carried him too far too soon. So I followed the stream till here."
"How do I know you speak the truth?" the traveler asked.
"I do not utter falsehoods," came the steely reply, "Now, will you take me to him? It is raining, and you say he is hurt."
The man looked at him appraisingly, and then finally lowered his sword. There did seem to be some resemblance.
"You do look a little like him," he acknowledged.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks for the reviews!
Susan – No, he wouldn't react very well would he?;-)
Anita – Wargs would be a very welcome addition to the menagerie;-) The oliphaunts will like them.
Shlee Verde –Communicate? Typical males indeed! ;-) Hope the chapter was interesting enough
Rose – See, no real cliffhanger in this one.;-) There are a couple of events that year, aren't there? You're right though. Someone needs help somewhere. And this guy is always very helpful.
