Chapter Twenty-Three: Another War is Waged

Glancing around, I saw Boromir being shoved along beside me. The man had a firm grip on his sword, and a determined light gleamed in his eyes. He seemed more than set to face our enemies. Well, if he could do this, I reasoned, then I could, too.

Boromir looked over at me, and I noted with a stab of queasiness that his face showed shock for a moment before recollection dawned upon him. When he recognized me, he gave me a brief smile.

"Have you seen Lord Denethor?" I asked, stumbling forward a few paces.

"No," Boromir replied. "Have you seen Gandalf?"

I shook my head. "Not since I woke up after I fainted."

"You fainted?" the man said, incredulous. "How? When?"

"It's a long story," I told him breathlessly. "A few hours ago, Lord Elrond was training me to defend myself against Saruman, and suddenly he attacked me, and I wasn't ready for it. I just blacked out."

"What happened then?"

"What do you mean?" I frowned. "What did I do, or…?"

"What did Saruman do to you?"

I fell silent for a moment; I hadn't thought of that. "I don't know, and I don't think I want to find out."

A high, blood-curdling shriek sounded not far off. I yelled in pain, clamping my hands over my ears. "What is that?"

"A Nazgûl!" cried Boromir. "Look out!"

I ducked hurriedly as a dark shape swooped down toward me, its talons barely missing my head. But I heard a scream as another fighter was snatched up, borne high into space, and dropped. There was a sickening thud as the soldier met his doom.

Suddenly there was another flood of figures pressing against me. It was not men this time, but orcs, many thousands of them. I drew a deep breath, mentally trying to ready myself for the fight.

"Send these foul beasts into the abyss!" a voice shouted. I looked up to see Gandalf galloping toward me on his white stallion, his staff upraised. "Drive them back!"

Gladly, I thought, raising my sword. I swung it at the orc nearest me, and swiftly separated its torso from its legs. More approached, and I cut them down. But I wasn't ready for what happened next, when Pippin screamed.

"Lord Denethor!"

Boromir's eyes widened in horror. "Father! No!" he cried.

He whirled around to where Pippin's voice had come from; I helped him hack a path through the advancing horde. Up and up we struggled, to the courtyard of the city. There I saw something I would never forget in all the years to come.

Denethor lay in a crumpled heap next to the withered White Tree, with a semicircle of hungry-looking orcs gazing down at him. A pool of blood was slowly spreading beneath him. Merry and Pippin stood before the Steward, their blades gleaming in the sunlight as they prepared to defend him with their lives.

I whispered in Boromir's ear as we drew nearer to the grisly scene. He obediently moved away from me as I pulled my tunic up over my head and tucked it safely beneath my chainmail shirt. Then I stepped silently up to my comrades from behind, and held my sword, point downward, above Denethor's back.

The Steward stared up at me in mute horror. The orcs all leered cruelly, and the two hobbits turned toward me. The younger of the two brandished his sword in a trembling hand and yelled, "Come on – make my day!"

I didn't move, and Pippin yelled again, "You touch him and you'll never see noon! I mean it!"

"So kill him!" Merry hissed. "What are you waiting for?"

"Not yet," Pippin replied in an undertone. "If I do, the others will be on Lord Denethor like wolves on a deer. He wouldn't stand a chance."

"You're right," Merry sighed. "We can't do this ourselves. We're outnumbered fifteen to one at least." I saw the hope drain from his face as he added softly, "Well, Pip? Ready to die fighting?"

"With you, I'm set for anything," Pippin said gravely. "Let's take them together."

"Ready when you are," the other replied.

I had no intention of harming any of my friends, and I stood in silence, gazing at the orcs across from me. They crept forward as one, slowly tightening the half-ring around the hobbits and the fallen Steward. I pointed my sword toward Merry, drew it back, and swung.

My plan worked; both hobbits moved to parry my blade, and I let them force me to the ground. Merry knelt on my chest while Pippin pressed his sword against my throat and roared, "One move and you're dead!"

"Kill him now!" cried Merry. "He's not going anywhere!"

"It's me!" I hissed urgently to my friends. "It's me, Isilden! T- t- telin le–" (I'm here to–) I stuttered. With a sigh of exasperation, I switched to the Common Tongue. "I'm here to help you."

The hobbit's eyes widened in shock. "But you almost killed Lord Denethor!"

"I was saving him," I whispered. "I had to get through to you somehow. I'd never have hurt him, or either of you. If you let me up, I can hold them off while you call Lord Elrond. We'll need him."

"Get up yourself," Pippin told me. "Make it look like you're fighting us."

Nodding, I held Merry's collar gently but firmly and pretended to fling him aside like a rag doll as I climbed laboriously to my feet. I gave a few grunts and growls of exertion for added effect. Pippin, having tumbled off me while I rose, instantly rushed to Merry's side, crying his friend's name.

I stood and faced the orcs, who were still grinning wickedly at the defenseless Steward who lay at my feet. I still had my sword in my hand, and Denethor was still gazing up at me in terrified silence.

Don't worry, I thought. I won't let them have their way, I promise.

I stepped forward a pace, and one of the orcs broke free of the group and charged toward me. I slew him in one blow, lopping off his head as casually as a child might pluck the bloom from a dandelion. I watched silently as my adversary fell to the ground in two pieces.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Merry and Pippin darting away, and breathed a silent sigh of relief. The orcs' eyes were all trained upon me.

After a few moments another orc dared to challenge me. I let him step between Denethor and I; he slipped in the growing pool of red liquid from the Steward's body, and fell back, meeting the same fate as his cohort.

Several more moments passed; no-one else moved. The only noise was made by Denethor, moaning below me. It was a piteous sound, and my heart gave a twinge. But then the orcs began to whisper, one voice rising above the others: "Let's rush him! Keehee, we can take him easy!"

I recognized the speaker's gravelly laugh, but his name escaped me. I began to grow nervous; I wasn't sure if I could handle all of the orcs at once. Another voice, this one also darkly familiar, agreed with the first.

"Maybe yer right, Dugum. He can't pick us off if we move together, can he? No!" the orc answered himself. "On my command, we charge!"

"We what?" asked an oddly squeaky voice from the rear of the group.

"Charge," the second orc repeated snappily. "No! Not now, ya fool! Get back here!"

But the squeaky-voiced orc had already leapt forward, a piercing cry emanating from his throat. He held two daggers, one in each hand, which sawed the air as his arms moved like twin windmills. I held my sword ready, counting mutely. Three, two, one…

"Eeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—!"

The orc's shriek was suddenly cut short as my blade ripped through his throat, spattering the sky with ebony drops that glistened like tears of darkness. Before my victim even hit the ground, the orc I assumed to be their commander gave a shout.

"Chaaarrrrge!"

I was ready for them. As the orcs surged forward, I swung my sword in wide arcs, slashing and hacking at my enemies. I fought until all but one were slain. That one was the commander. Now I saw him in full light, I recognized him instantly as Krân, my first captor. The one who had delivered me to my doom.

"You," I snarled.

Krân frowned at me. "You look familiar. Have I seen you before?"

"Yes," I nodded. "You have. I didn't look like this then, though… my hair was lighter, my skin was lighter, my eyes were blue."

Krân's scowl deepened, and I went on calmly, "It was a rainy night; it was just you and me. I was running, you were following… and then you caught me. You spat in my face before you dragged me back to the tower."

The orc's brow wrinkled. "What's yer name?"

"Didn't I tell you?" I asked smoothly. "Oh, yes – I couldn't, could I? Because, you see, just after I came out of that filthy pit, your master knew something was… different about me. He got angry, you may remember, at the way I wouldn't swear allegiance to him."

Krân's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "You're the mute – Snaga!"

Beaming, I nodded. "Bravo! Yes, I am the mute. Or who they thought was a mute. I was faking it the whole time. And my name isn't Snaga anymore, Krân…"

As I spoke, I had been steadily advancing, my sword extended. As I voiced the end of the last sentence, the tip of the blade slid softly between Krân's ribs.

"My name is Isilden. Say it?"

"Your name is Isilden," Krân gasped, staring at me through rapidly clouding eyes.

"Good boy," I nodded, smiling grimly as the orc went limp. "Now, lie down and play dead."