Around midnight, one of the prisoners began to cough blood and shortly after lost his footing and could not rise. Cursing loudly, two of the orcs carried him between them, his boots trailing on the road. The others still kept the swift pace set by the orcs, although the night was overcast and so dark that they could barely see the paving stones.
Faramir's shoulder was bound tightly with grimy strips of linen to staunch the bleeding. The wound ached fiercely, but he found that he could still move his arm. He shook his head to dispel the faintness that was waiting to drag him under. He could not tell how badly the rest of his men were injured. The ranger in front of him, Lindir, seemed short of breath but kept on running. He was well known as a chess player, and Faramir was one of his better opponents. The fourth man was called Hirluin and was a few years younger than Faramir. His looks belied his Sindarin name - his grandmother came from Rohan, and he had inherited the fair hair of that people. Faramir glanced over his shoulder and saw him running in back, his light blond hair standing out in the darkness.
Later, the full moon rose above the clouds and turned the trees to silver. The night sounds of Ithilien, the call of owl and heron, were strangely missing. The orcs were traveling in haste and made no attempt at silence or secrecy. Every few miles, they passed the ruins of a watchtower, deserted a hundred years before and empty except for shadows. Faramir knew that the farther south they traveled, the less likely they were to encounter any rangers. Northern Ithilien was heavily patrolled to guard Minas Tirith, but there were no outposts like Henneth Annun in the south. Except for random sorties, it had been abandoned to the Enemy. He also knew that, even if they did run into a stray patrol, the orcs would not let their prisoners be rescued.
When the sun had cleared the trees, the orcs left the road and stopped to rest in a dark stand of holly trees. The two carrying the ranger dumped their burden on the grass. An arrow had found its mark between his ribs, and though the orcs had drawn the arrow and the wound did not look deep, his lungs were slowly filling up with blood.
After setting guards around the camp, the orcs threw down a waterskin and some grayish bread in front of the prisoners. Their hands had been tied in front so that they would be able to run, and though the ropes were drawn tight, they still had some use of their hands. Lindir awkwardly raised the dying man's head while Faramir tried to give him some water. Most of it ran down his neck, but he opened his eyes slightly and murmured, "Too tired." Faramir did not know what to say, so he just told him, "Rest easy, we will soon be there." When he gave some of the bread to Hirluin and urged him to eat, the young ranger flinched at the sound of his voice, and he saw that the man's eyes were dark with fear. Faramir doubted that any of them were going to last very long in the company of the orcs.
Sitting against the trunk of an ancient holly tree, he closed his eyes and tried to rest. He was exhausted from loss of blood and the forced march, but he could not sleep. He listened to the clatter of the orcs discarding their packs and other gear; mixed in, he could hear the shrill call of a blackbird.
He started awake when he heard footsteps approaching. He recognized the two orcs who had captured him. On his belt, the larger orc wore Faramir's silver dagger. Denethor had given it to him two years ago, right before he went to his post in Ithilien. He had been surprised when his father insisted that he tuck the knife into one of his boots. Denethor seemed so old that his sons sometimes forgot that he was a soldier for years before he inherited the rule of Gondor.
The other orc carried a long knife which he used to point at the man with the arrow wound. "Take that oneāthe boys don't want to lug him around anymore."
The orcs spoke in their harsh language, but Faramir saw the knife and could guess their purpose. When they seized the injured man by his arms, Faramir staggered to his feet. "There are three of us. We can bear him, and he will be no trouble for you."
The smaller orc turned quickly and struck him across the face. "Quiet, tark," he said in the common speech. Faramir fell to his knees. His nose was bleeding, and he could feel blood running down the back of his throat.
When the orc drew back his fist for a second blow, the other caught his arm. "Don't damage him, Varag, unless you want to carry him tonight." He looked at Faramir and smiled. "He isn't done marching yet."
The injured man's eyes were closed, and he did not move or make any sound when the orcs dragged him away. The larger orc growled, "Better slit his throat first or he'll squirm when we cut him." They sliced through his neck then worked quickly with their jagged knives. Varag licked the blood from his hands. The orcs had been on short rations for days and were hungry. They cracked the bones and noisily sucked out the marrow.
A piece of the man's scalp was caught in the branches of a nearby tree. The clear, pale light of the morning showed the shadow of every branch and leaf. Faramir could not stop staring at the unevenness of the torn skin and the way the wind caught each hair and lifted it back and forth. He thought that he would never be free of the sight, waking or sleeping, as long as he lived.
Wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve, Faramir quietly told his men, "It is no different than if he had fallen in battle. He gave his life for his people and his land. These creatures cannot dishonor him." But he could not keep his voice from shaking, and the words sounded empty and meaningless.
"He seems in a hurry," Eldahil thought as his cousin Boromir ran down the stone steps to the pier. Sitting at a small table, Eldahil was eating a late breakfast in his office. The breeze was a little cool, but the morning was bright and fair so he had left the windows open. From where he sat, he could watch his company's boats swaying gently at their moorings.
On the whole, Eldahil was glad that he had been assigned to the river patrol. Sailing was much more pleasant than marching around the Pelennor or the woods of Ithilien, and the food was quite good. The river supplied fresh fish and waterfowl, and Eldahil usually floated a few bottles of good Lossarnach wine over the side of the boat. Sometimes, he and his men traded arrows with the orcs, but most of the time, things were quiet. At the moment, nearly all his soldiers were on leave while the boats were refitted for a trip up to Cair Andros.
Eldahil was only distantly related to the heir. They were second cousins, sharing a set of great-grandparents. Eldahil thought that Boromir was the least disturbing member of the House of the Stewards. Faramir and old Denethor made his skin crawl. They both had those unblinking eyes that seemed to stare right through you. The heir could be high-handed at times but was pleasant enough once he got a few cups of ale in him.
Eldahil rose to his feet and made an elegant bow as Boromir strode through the door. "Noble cousin, to what do I owe the honor of this unexpected but welcome visit?"
"I need to borrow two of your boats, cousin."
"Borrow?" Eldahil abruptly straightened up from his bow. The word "borrow" made him suspicious. "Do you bring a signed order?"
"Well, no," Boromir said, a little taken aback for he was not used to handling logistical details.
"Unfortunately, I cannot hand over the boats without a written order. However, that is easily remedied. Headquarters can write one for you, or you could just ask your lord father."
"Kinsman, I need the boats now. There is not time for me to ride to the City. As the son and heir of the Steward, I can act on his behalf."
What in Middle-earth is the matter with him? Eldahil wondered. He looks ready to tear his hair out. What is he doing that he does not want Denethor to know about? "Regrettably, those are the rules, and I can ill afford trouble with either Lord Denethor or headquarters."
Boromir fought the urge to pick up this annoyingly stubborn cousin and shake him. They were wasting time that Faramir did not have to spend. "My father is not the only one who can make life unpleasant for you."
"I do not doubt it, but I am still more afraid of him than you," Eldahil replied. "In truth, I wish that I could help." If only to make you go away the sooner. Looking at Boromir's face, it occurred to him that his cousin did not look quite sane. He briefly considered flight-Boromir was taller but was weighed down with what looked like two hundred pounds of armor. Eldahil might have been able to outrun his cousin, but suddenly witnesses appeared. Two of his own men wandered onto the pier and cast fishing lines over the side. Eldahil cursed silently. His cousin was making him most uneasy.
Boromir frantically ran a hand through his hair then said, "There is not time for this." He drew his sword and stood in front of the doorway, cutting off the only means of escape from the room.
Stunned, Eldahil fell back a step and drew his dagger. His sword was across the room, on top of a pile of unanswered correspondence since he had not expected to have to fight for his life any time before noon.
Boromir stared at Eldahil with narrowed eyes and shook his head slightly. "Do not force me to cut you down. That would be a deed which I would regret." He desperately hoped that his cousin would not call his bluff. He had no intention of hurting him, but he needed those boats and was rapidly running out of ideas and time.
Eldahil looked from the blade of the dagger to the sword in Boromir's hand, and he remembered that his cousin was wearing a coat of mail. Tossing the dagger away so that it skittered into the corner of the room, he held out his open hands to show Boromir that he was unarmed. He is out of his mind. Best to give him whatever he wants. Forcing a smile, he said, "Kinsman, you have caught me at a disadvantage. My lieutenant usually handles any loans to other companies, but he is at a wedding in Minas Tirith and is not due back until this evening. Since this is so urgent a request, I will do what I can."
Boromir glanced around the room, and after a moment's thought, he lifted down a bow which was hanging on the wall. He still held the sword in his right hand, and his eyes never left Eldahil. He ordered his cousin to string the bow then told him, "You will send those men away for a few hours. I do not have much skill at archery, but even I can hit you from here. At the first sign that things are amiss, I will loose the string."
Standing at the window, Boromir nervously nocked an arrow and drew the bow. He could not simply aim harmlessly to the side; Eldahil was far too skilled an archer and would notice the ruse. As his cousin went outside, Boromir kept the arrow trained on his back.
Eldahil walked over to the soldiers on the pier. He sent the two of them to the market to find some eels for Lord Boromir's lunch, and he asked them to pick up his new velvet surcoat from the tailor. Could they also stop at the fletcher's to get the order of arrows? He and Lord Boromir would keep an eye on the boats until they returned. This was a typical request from Eldahil so his men were not in the least bit suspicious.
When Haldan arrived at the pier, the men were nearly finished loading their gear. He saw with approval that the boats were fairly new and had been well maintained. There were two, and each carried six oars. Though the winds on the Anduin were not often favorable, sails and a mast were stowed on the floor under the benches.
He brought along a ranger named Anborn. He was a friend of Galdor's and had campaigned for years in southern Ithilien. Galdor had no trouble talking him into joining their foray - he had served with Faramir for a short time, and he was also a little bored after a long stay in Osgiliath.
Haldan stood talking with Boromir for a few moments then suddenly asked him, "My lord, who is that man?" Someone was sitting in the middle of the far boat. He was turned toward the river so Haldan could not see his face.
"That is my cousin Eldahil. He is coming along to help with the boats."
Haldan noticed that the man was wearing a cloak, even though the day was turning warm. "Is he feeling unwell? Why is he wearing a cloak?"
Boromir looked away as he said, "He is in good health, Haldan. We put the cloak on him to hide that his hands are tied."
"What?"
"Keep your voice down. I had no choice. He would not give me the boats, and I could not leave him free to sound the alarm. Besides, we do not know how to set the sails."
"So you kidnapped him?" The older man glared at Boromir. "You expect he will want to help us after being so ill-used?"
"We will not get very far without his boats," Boromir shot back as Haldan stalked away without saying a word.
