4. Horror in the Darkness

The leader of the men reined to a stop directly in front of me. The horse was gigantic, with red nostrils, its flanks steaming in the cold air. The rider also was not small - if it had been his intention to daunt me, he had succeeded.

I tipped my head back to look at him and our eyes met; his were grey like a stormy sky. Watchful eyes in a remarkably beautiful face framed by dark, shoulder-length hair; there was a certain hardness to his expression, yeteven as he looked me over a large part of my fear left me. Something my American friend Faith once said came into my mind; we had been discussing a movie, and she said of the hero, "He is one of the good guys."

Wherever I was, whoever these people were, this man was no enemy. Although I knew that his men watched me tensely, waiting for the order to detain me, I felt safe in spite of my confusion.

"Who are you, lad?" he asked. "And what are you doing here all alone?"

Lad? Didn't he see that... I remembered that the hood covered my hair. I was not very big, and my figure was boyish. Perhaps this was all to the good...

"I don't know," I said. "I - I have been wandering around here for hours, Lord, and I have no idea how I came here."

I was uncomfortable even with this small bending of the truth, but what could I have told him? I appeared a few minutes ago out of nowhere? I had stayed as close to the truth as I could, I told myself. I felt instinctively that it would be a great mistake to betray this man.

He raised his eyebrow in puzzlement.

"Did you have no company? And where is your horse? You don't mean to say you are here on foot, do you?"

I shrugged and lifted my hands helplessly. The men surrounding the leader seemed to snap to attention, and I heard the hiss of a half-drawn sword. I froze, holding my breath.

"Sheath your sword, Mablung." The leader turned his head slightly and to my relief I heard the hint of a smile in his voice. "We do not make war on half-grown lads, and he does not have the look of one of the Dark Enemy's servants."

"Thank you, Lord," I said. "I would not betray you, and I swear to God, I am no danger. To speak truth, I am frightened to death."

That was more than true, and with a jolt of increased fear I realized suddenly that something was wrong with my language. I tried to understand what it was - it seemed as if every word I spoke had a strange new sound. Especially noticable was the word God: I had pronounced four soft, melodic syllables instead of a single one, the last syllable open and clearly accentuated.

What in heaven's name had happened to me?

The man looming over me must have seen the panic that flashed through my eyes, and his expression softened.

"Wherever you come from, I don't believe you are trying to deceive me. Do you at least know your name?"

I shook my head.

"Well, then." He straightened and motioned to one of the nearby riders, who brought his horse beside me.

"Damrod, take the lad up behind you. We cannot wait longer; we will deal with his case when we reach the city."

The rider reached down, and I took his hand without thinking. I was drawn up with a powerful jerk, landing hard on the croup of the mighty bay and scraping myself painfully against the saddle.

"Hold on tight," said the rider. All I could see of him was his broad back and dark tousled hair; obediently I wrapped my arms around him from behind. The bay began to trot, then broke into a gallop. The land flew by beneath us, and still there was not even a shimmer of sunlight. On the contrary - it grew steadily darker.

I swear to God, I am no danger.

I whispered the sentence again and again under my breath as if it had been an incantation, letting the syllables roll across my tongue and tasting their sound like a strange flavour.

I swear to God...

Again the soft, four-syllabled word, strange and at the same time familiar.

God. God.

Abruptly, I realized what I was actually saying.

Iluvatar.

I gasped and pressed my forehead against the back of the strange rider, closing my eyes.

vvvvv

After that there is a gap of about two hours in my memory. Probably my overburdened mind simply switched off to stop me from going mad. Fortunately my muscles functioned without my conscious attention and kept me from falling off the horse.

When I came halfway to myself again, I was still clinging behind the rider. My arms and shoulders ached; I had not ridden for several years and now I was paying for it. Meanwhile, during the time I had been lost to the world, darkness had fallen.

I swallowed and cleared my throat; I didn't trust my voice.

"Where are we? How long has it been night?"

"It is not far to the city now," the man said, looking over his shoulder. I still could see no more of him than a stubbly bearded cheek. "Normally night would fall within the next hour, if the Enemy had not darkened the day with his evil magic."

The next question slipped out before I could stop it. "Which city?"

You don't want to know that! protested a panicky voice in my mind.

"Minas Tirith," said the man, a faint amazement in his voice.

Minas Tirith.

"And who... and who is your leader?"

"Faramir." There was pride in the rider's voice. "Faramir, the son of the Steward."

I clenched my teeth, holding back a cry. I felt numb. Cautiously my mind began to try and work it out, searching my memory. If this was Faramir and his company, on their way to Minas Tirith... considering what the rider had just said about the Enemy and his darkening of the daylight... I could draw only one conclusion. A shiver of horror went down my back.

"Is it true you can't remember anything, lad?" the rider asked suddenly. "Not even who you are?"

I sighed.

"It is true," I said, relieved that I didn't have to look in his eyes.

"That must be very confusing for you," he said.

Confusing? He had no idea how confused I was.

Suddenly the bay slowed from a gallop to a trot, and then to a walk. I tried to relax my tense muscles, leaning to one side to see around my companion.

Close before us was a stone wall that stretched to either side, farther than I could see. Torches flashed in several places; obviously men guarded the bastion, and all along it works of repair were in progress. There was an exchange of quiet greetings, and we rode through the gate. Far in the distance, barely visible, reared a great mountain; closer, but still far off, I could just discern the high buildings of the city.

Without warning a bolt of lightning struck down from the dark sky; in its garish white light the town was illuminated like something in a dream. At the highest point of the city a slender tower shimmered like a needle of pure silver.

"That is Minas Tirith," the rider said, "the city of the Kings of Gondor." Suddenly I remembered his name - Damrod.

I opened my mouth to answer, but in that moment the thunderbolt fell. A horrifying shriek rang from the sky, a voice that shrilled with evil, and other voices of equal terror gave answer.

"Nazgul! Nazgul!" someone screamed - could that have been Faramir's voice? The bay reared, higher and higher, and I felt myself falling, still clinging to Damrod as he hurtled to the ground.

I landed with full impact on grass wet with dew and rolled hastily out of the way as the man's body thudded down beside me, shaking the ground. The next instant I felt more than saw that Damrod was getting up; again there was the sound of a sword being drawn. Fear washed over me, an icy wave... and I knew something was plummeting down upon us.

"Down!" I gasped, my lips stiff. "Stay down!" I caught his shoulder and pushed him down with all the strength I could muster. Something winged swooped over our bent heads, so close that the air whooshed in my ears. I heard my own scream, thin and shrill, and pressed my face into the grass, blind with panic. The Nazgul turned and flew at us again, and Damrod half-rose and threw himself on top of me, shielding my back, my head and shoulders. The beast shot past a second time, hardly two meters above us.

And then...

...then from the corner of my eye I saw a single horseman, shining white, galloping past. Gasping for air, I raised my head and stared; a blinding light shot from the staff the white figure held aloft, and I heard the shrieking of the Nazgul once more, but farther off, faint and dying away as if they had lost their courage.

I sat up, feeling dizzy and sick. There were bits of grass and dirt in my mouth, and I spat and wiped my face with one faltering hand.

"Are you hurt, lad?"

I heard Damrod's voice close at hand and felt his hand on my arm. He was trembling from head to foot with shock, and I shuddered in sympathy. I wanted to answer him, but did not dare: if I opened my mouth at all, I knew I would start to cry. Fortunately he did not press me for a reply, and neither did he remove his hand; a double blessing.

Shadowy figures moved around us; after a few minutes two riders appeared out of the darkness. One was Faramir, swaying in his saddle, his face as pale as chalk. Beside him rode the figure of white: snowy hair and a long beard over a robe so white it glimmered in the dark. He still held his staff, a gentle light radiating from the tip, surrounding him like a crystal gloriole and illuminating the spot where we still knelt on the grass.

Amazement swept aside my fear and exhaustion; I pushed myself to my feet and stared up at him, stared also at his horse, beautiful and mighty. I heard Damrod gasp, and realized suddenly that the hood had slipped from my head when I fell. My hair had always been my pride: copper red, hanging nearly to my waist. Now it was visible to everyone.

The eyes of the white horseman bored into mine, and he leaned forward in the saddle to examine me.

"A lad, did you say, Faramir?" His voice was clear and deep, an old man's voice that somehow rang like music. "I think you have been duped, my friend. This is a lass, unless my eyes deceive me."