At first light, Boromir's men packed up their blankets and other gear and started loading the boats. As Haldan limped past him with a knapsack, Boromir asked, "Is that old wound troubling you?" Many years ago, Haldan made an unpleasant trade with an orc-he had taken a knife in his leg in exchange for its ugly head.

"It is kind of you to ask, but no, my lord," Haldan replied. Though after sleeping on a pile of tree roots and rocks, his muscles were so stiff and sore that he could scarcely move. To make matters worse, one of the men had snored like a troll for most of the night. They were lucky every orc within a hundred miles did not descend on them. Lord Denethor needed to find someone else to watch over Boromir, someone who was young enough to keep up with him. However, this would become the least of his problems, Haldan reminded himself, if the steward ordered his head struck off for kidnapping and desertion.

After a few hours of rowing, the ranger led them up a small river which flowed from the east into the Anduin. No one could be spared to stay behind to guard the boats, so the soldiers hauled them out of the water and back into the underbrush, and then they carefully brushed away the tracks on the sandy shore.


The stone steps which led up the hill were broken and slippery with green moss. Faramir could not climb them with his hands tied, so the orcs took hold of his arms and dragged him up the stairs.

Surrounded by dark pine trees, a deserted watchtower crowned the hill. As he was pushed through the doorway, Faramir could smell mold and stale urine. Soot stained the walls, and he tried not to look too closely at the broken bones scattered across the floor. There was not enough room in the tower for all of them, so the prisoners were sent back outside. Their guards complained bitterly. The day was sunny and they longed for the cool darkness. Faramir shivered as he leaned his back against the cold foundation stones. No sunlight reached through the heavy branches of the trees, and the ground was covered with damp pine needles.

He hated this place, and he could see that it made the others likewise uneasy. When the orcs brought dried meat and water, none of them could eat.

"You must eat to keep up your strength," he told Lindir.

He replied simply, "To what end, Faramir?"

Later, the two leaders came out of the tower and stared at the prisoners. As he argued with his companion, the larger orc idly tossed a small, silver dagger from hand to hand. He gazed with his yellow eyes first at Lindir and then at Faramir.

Still snarling at each other, they hauled Lindir to his feet and pushed him toward the tower. The ranger had not looked up when they approached, and he stared fixedly at the ground as they took him away. But when he reached the doorway, the man raised his face, as if he could not help himself, and looked into the tower. With a sudden cry, he fought to pull away from his captors. He turned and looked wildly at Faramir as they dragged him inside. The orcs were still arguing loudly, but Faramir might have heard the sound of a struggle and then a sharp cry.

In the open sky between the pine trees, he saw several hawks gliding high up in the sunlight. The air was so clear that he could see the reddish color of their tail feathers and, when they turned, the pale undersides of their wings.

Years ago, he and Boromir used to play a game where they would count the hawks circling above the Pelennor fields. There was not any real point to this game; it was something to do while they sat on the Citadel wall. They would watch the hawks and dangle their legs over the edge, until one of the guards shouted at them to get down. Once in a while, a great eagle would glide down from the mountain behind the Citadel, flying a hundred feet above their heads.

Faramir forced himself to count each pass the hawks made as they circled back and forth above the woods. This is like our old game, he thought, but now the rules are changed. Sometimes the trees became blurry and he could no longer see the hawks, then he had to blink his eyes.

When the orcs suddenly started shouting and laughing, he lost count and had to start over again. He thanked the Valar that he could not understand their speech.


The old rosebushes had turned wild and grown up the side of the ruined farmhouse. The roof had fallen in years ago, leaving a shell of stone walls. Boromir picked up a shard of pottery and brushed off the dirt. Part of a plate, he thought. It was white with a painted design of blue flowers and stars. At midday, the ranger had suggested that they stop at this place. Boromir had already finished eating and was restless to leave.

Anborn saw him examining the piece of pottery. "My grandfather's father lived here and grew apples. Most of the trees have long since died, but you can see the remains of the orchard behind the house. My family was the one of the last to leave Ithilien," he said, hastily adding, "Sir." He sat on a large, stone block that had been part of the front steps.

My great-grandsire was the steward then, Boromir thought. He did not think the ranger meant any reproach, but the words were a reminder of all that needed to be made right. It was a heavy burden to carry so many losses. He did not know how his father could bear it.

Anborn knew of a good site for the ambush. Due east of his family's old farm, the highway ran down into a valley until it reached a swift, shallow river. With Boromir and Haldan looking over his shoulder, he drew a map in the dirt with a stick. A stone bridge had once arched over the water, but it had since fallen into ruin, so travelers had to descend a narrow path down the riverbank then wade across a rock-strewn ford. When the orcs reached the remains of the bridge, they would have to slow down and descend the path in single file.

"Some of these creatures will flee, but others will stand and fight." The ranger turned to Boromir. "When the trap is sprung, your brother will be in great peril. They will cut his throat before they let him be rescued."

With a calmness he did not feel, Boromir replied evenly, "Then we will have to shoot his guards." The risk, of course, was that the prisoners would be hit as well.

As they discussed how to set the ambush, Haldan arranged a handful of acorns on the map. These represented their best archers.

Eldahil stifled a yawn. Bored with waiting, he carefully stood a row of pinecones on top of a crumbling pasture wall. Boromir's men watched with interest as he strung his bow and shot the pinecones, one by one. Mardil, the foremost archer among the cavalrymen, could not refuse this challenge, so he went to get his gear. The soldiers kept score, and Haldan would not have been surprised if they started placing bets. Eldahil won by two pinecones but insisted that the match was a tie—two were knocked off the wall but not shot through, so they did not count as kills.

Moving one of the acorns, Haldan told Anborn, "You should go here next to Mardil." Then he picked up a nut and said, "And this is Captain Eldahil. We will set him beside you."

A march of two hours would bring them to the eastern highway, but the day was becoming warm and the men were heavily burdened with arms and supplies. Knowing that the orcs would not travel during the heat of the day, they decided to rest for half an hour before setting out again.

Frowning thoughtfully, Boromir walked back to the old orchard. Most of the trees were blackened stumps, but a few still put forth bright, green leaves and were covered with white flowers. Boromir looked for an open space; he needed to try the sword that Eldahil had given him. He drew the weapon and, squinting a little, closely studied the blade near the hilt. The swordsmith's mark was not familiar, which was not surprising since it was probably forged in the south of Gondor. Its weight was less than what he was used to, but the weapon was reasonably well balanced. He swung it and listened to the clean, whistling sound as it sliced the air.

Haldan leaned against the wall of the farmhouse and watched Boromir practicing among the ancient apple trees. From where he stood, he could see Eradan on guard at the edge of the woods. Boromir was as safe as any of them were going to be in Ithilien. The heir paced through a series of strikes, advancing slowly down the orchard. When he moved behind the flowering trees, Haldan could see only a dark blur of movement and the gleam of sunlight on the blade. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and thought sadly, At the least, he will have revenge. He did not deem it likely that any of the prisoners still survived.

Boromir moved through a series of drills, slowly at first then faster. Soon, he told himself as he turned and brought the sword downwards in a flash of steel, we shall find my brother soon. He still lives, and by this time tomorrow, we will have found him. Once, he overreached and struck a branch, bringing down a shower of white petals. He shook them off and continued, quickly adjusting his movements to the unfamiliar sword.


Soon, Faramir said to himself, tonight or tomorrow morning. The last time that he stumbled and fell to his knees, the orcs had to pull him to his feet. His strength was failing, and he would be next. Two days on the road had left him almost too weary for fear. He felt horror but also some relief that this evil journey would be ended. Then Hirluin would be left alone with these creatures. It made him sick to think of it.

The last of his men sat with his face buried in his hands. Except for his uneven breathing, he did not make a sound. Faramir could see that his shoulders were trembling. He is nearly overcome by fear. If he loses his mind, they will not wait to kill him.

Faramir knew nothing about this man, except that his grandmother came from Rohan. Life in Ithilien attracted many solitary and taciturn men, but even for a ranger, Hirluin was unusually quiet. He looked down when he spoke and had never been known to say more than a few words at a time. Perhaps he felt awkward because he was one of the youngest and least experienced of the rangers, having arrived at Henneth Annun only a few weeks before. He was not of noble birth and may have felt out of place in the company of Lord Denethor's son. Faramir was not sure how best to deal with him.

"Hirluin, look at me." Faramir spoke in a low and steady voice, "Before you came to Ithilien, did you work at a trade?"

The other man looked up and tried to push the matted hair away from his face with his bound hands. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his expression was wary for their guards were sitting nearby. "Yes, sir, my father is a charcoal-burner," he whispered.

This was smoky, dirty work that required a steady supply of cut wood. The charcoal-burners and their families lived in isolated settlements in the forest. Now Faramir understood why this man was so quiet. He had probably met very few strangers during his life. The outpost in Ithilien must have seemed like a great city to him.

"I know nothing of this craft," Faramir said, which was true. "Can you use the wood of any tree?"

"Oak is best, sir, but any wood will do excepting pine." After a long pause, he added shakily, "The blacksmiths want charcoal from oak for naught else can melt the iron."

Faramir asked every question that came to mind, and Hirluin became somewhat calmer as he talked about this work. Layers of bracken and clay were used to build a kiln around a great pile of wood. A slow fire was set inside the kiln to char-but not consume-the wood. The fire burned for several days and had to be tended carefully or the charcoal would be ruined. At night, Hirluin and his father took turns watching the wood burn down, sitting under the stars or under the rain clouds. Faramir thought this sounded like excellent training for a ranger.

In the midst of explaining how to let more air into the kiln, Hirluin looked straight into Faramir's eyes and said fiercely, with mingled hatred and terror, "Do not leave me alone with them!"

One of the guards watched them with narrowed eyes. Faramir said very quietly, "We must needs keep our voices down." The orc got up and walked towards them. Glancing at the prisoners suspiciously, he picked up several empty waterskins and trudged down the steps.

"Yes, sir." Hirluin whispered then swallowed nervously.

So weary that he could scarcely think, Faramir asked, "Do you know any of the old songs about Gondor?" Most people could recall at least the first few lines of these verses. They were taught to children along with the rhymes of lore.

Hirluin wondered if Lord Faramir had lost his mind, but he nodded and said, "Yes, sir." Raised in the middle of the woods, he had learned only the few songs that his father and grandam were able to teach him.

"Do you know 'The Battle of the Field of Celebrant'?" He glanced at Hirluin's blond hair and thought of this song. Denethor believed it was originally written by the Rohirrim since even in translation, it preserved something of their style of verse.

At the other man's blank look, Faramir recited a few lines under his breath-

Down from the north rode the fair horselords,
Driving the foe into the flood.
Red was the water, red was the sunset,
Enemies paid with the edge of a sword.

"Yes, I was taught that, sir."

Faramir had the young ranger repeat it back to him. Hirluin's frightened eyes followed the orc as he returned from the stream with the filled waterskins, but he did not miss a word.

"Good." Faramir was silent for a moment then spoke very carefully. "As the commander of this patrol and the son of Lord Denethor, these are my orders. You are to recite that verse to yourself and pay no heed to the orcs. Do as they bid you and keep running, but do not look at them, do not think of them. Just repeat that verse."

"Yes, sir." This was a strange command, but Hirluin would do his best to obey it.

"Your duty is to live for as long as you are able. Our people are in the woods nearby—I saw their tracks yesterday and again this morning. I would not deceive you. It is not likely that they will find us. But there is still a chance of it." This was so close to the truth that it seemed worse than a simple lie. He did Hirluin no favor by giving him hope, but Faramir swore that he would not see this last man die.

After they set out again, if he stole a quick look over his shoulder, he saw Hirluin running determinedly behind him, his lips moving silently. Faramir thought, Down from the north rode the fair horselords.