It took Lord Brandir and the staff at headquarters several hours, but they did eventually piece together what had happened.

After picking up the new velvet surcoat and the order of arrows, Eldahil's men had spent a frustrating morning in search of eels. There did not seem to be any in the entire city. They finally gave up this quest and returned to find that their captain and Lord Boromir had disappeared, along with two of the boats. Mystified, the two soldiers went to find Eldahil's lieutenant. This man had been with the company for so long that most of the men thought his given name was "Lieutenant, sir" or "the Lieutenant."

He listened to their tale then frowned. "Why would he send you to get eels? They are not in season." He did not like this delicacy, but he knew that it was scarce except in the autumn when the eels migrated down the Anduin to the sea.

"That is just what all the merchants in the fish market told us, Lieutenant, sir."

The other man said excitedly, "Maybe the captain meant that as a hidden message that something was amiss?"

The lieutenant tried to think like Captain Eldahil, though this was not easy for him. Yes, sending the men to buy eels when they were out of season would be their captain's idea of a veiled warning. "Where was Lord Boromir when the captain sent you away on these many errands?"

"In the captain's office, Lieutenant, sir. Maybe corsairs were in there holding Lord Boromir hostage?"

The lieutenant did not think this likely. The river was under constant watch, and a fleet of large, black-sailed pirate ships would not have passed unremarked. However, something very strange was going on, and Captain Eldahil and Lord Boromir might be in danger. Besides, he and the men liked this captain from the south of Gondor and had gotten used to his quirks. They needed to get him back before headquarters sent someone less agreeable to replace him.

The officer on duty at headquarters was not alarmed to hear that Captain Eldahil had disappeared ("Are you sure he has not gone deer-hunting again?"). However, the lieutenant got his attention when he told him that Lord Boromir had vanished also. A search turned up no trace of the heir, and a number of his soldiers were missing as well. When a second messenger arrived from Ithilien, it became clear what had happened. Lord Faramir had been captured, and though he was doubtless dead by now, Lord Boromir had taken off to Ithilien to rescue him.

Lord Brandir ordered a search along the Anduin. The captains were to send every man who could be spared. Then he mounted his horse and reluctantly galloped toward Minas Tirith. He thought he would rather suffer a painful and lingering death than bring this news to the steward.


It was late afternoon, and the air was heavy and warm. A slow stream wound alongside the highway. Its banks were choked with willows; the branches trailed in the water, and yellow leaves floated on the surface. Yellow irises flowered along the edge, their narrow leaves thrusting out of the water like green swords. Sword lilies, Faramir thought. He vaguely remembered that the country folk called them that name.

He was kneeling in the road, too faint and weak to stand. He had pushed himself up to his knees but could not get his feet under him. The high-pitched whirring of the frogs seemed very loud. When he looked up, he caught a glance of Hirluin's white face and the eager faces of the orcs. One of them grabbed a handful of his hair, and he gave a sharp cry as his head was wrenched back. He could feel the knife sliding against his throat.

"He's nearly done for. Why don't we just finish him?"

"No, Varag! You saw those tracks back there. We've got to get away from here."

"He's slowing us down!"

"Listen, you fool, we still need him to feed the lads. Slice him now, and you get to carry his carcass." The larger orc gave a short laugh. "Believe me, this fellow won't weigh any less when he's dead. Besides, there are ways to keep him lively."

Varag growled in annoyance but sheathed the knife. The other tried to appease him, saying, "Not too much farther, and it'll be safe for us to stop. Go ahead and kill him then."

The frogs were trilling so loudly that Faramir could not hear the orcs, and the iris flowers were just a bright, yellow blur. When his head was forced back again, he thought, Now they will kill me. Instead, one of the orcs held a waterskin to his lips. He drank thirstily for as long as he was allowed, then he was made to drink from a small flask. The liquid burned as it ran down his throat, and he tried not to retch at its bitter taste. After a moment, he could see the dusty road again, and when the orc hauled him to his feet, he could stand without help. The sunlight hurt his eyes, and he felt wide awake yet strangely light-headed.

Drawing the silver dagger, the larger orc cut a green branch from one of the willow trees. He trimmed off the narrow end and stripped off the young leaves. He showed the switch to the prisoner then hit his own hand so sharply that he drew blood. Faramir flinched at the harsh, whistling sound of the branch. Sneering at the man's cowardice, the orc struck him across the face and told him in the common speech, "Don't stop running."

The two leaders would make sure that this prisoner gave them no more trouble. Varag ran in front, pulling him by the rope tied to his wrists. The other orc followed him, and when he faltered, struck him with the willow branch until blood ran down his face and the side of his neck. He did not dare look over his shoulder, but he prayed that Hirluin was still behind him.


Lookouts were posted on the hills that rose to the north and to the south, so they would have warning before any travelers reached the bridge.

On the northerly ridge, Boromir and Haldan stood with Anborn and looked south along the highway, toward the river.

"My lord, I would advise attacking from the west side of the road, so the setting sun is in their eyes." It was already late afternoon, so Haldan added, "And let us hope they reach the bridge before nightfall." Orcs possessed the sharp eyes of wild beasts and could see in the dark. He dreaded the thought of a battle at night. Without the help of archers, they would have to close with the enemy and, almost blindly, fight hand to hand. His other fear, which he left unspoken, was that the troop of orcs had already come and gone. As they walked, he quietly looked for tracks or other signs of their passage.

About a stone's throw before the bridge, a great linden tree grew beside the road. The silvery trunk was so broad that a man could not circle it even halfway around with his arms. Its lower branches were densely covered with heart-shaped leaves and swept the ground. When Boromir pushed through the tangle of branches and stood next to the trunk, the curtain of green leaves hid him from the road.

"Here we will set the archers. When the orcs approach, they should have time for two or three shots." He distractedly ran a hand through his hair as he spoke. If their aim was true, the arrows would kill the guards before the prisoners could be slain. Boromir tried not to think of what would happen if the shots went astray.

Walking a few steps further down the road, he pointed at a dense thicket beside the linden tree. "And there the rest of us will lie in wait." After the archers had loosed their shots, Boromir and several others would free the prisoners, while another group drove off or killed the remaining orcs.

The three men climbed down the steep path beside the ruined bridge. They had to raise their voices to be heard above the clattering of water over the stones. Though the arches of the bridge had collapsed, the great foundation stones still rose in the center of the river; each was carved with the tree of Gondor. Boromir reached up and ran a hand across one of them. That is for luck, he told himself. They waded across the ford and then sloshed a short ways up and down the stream, surveying the terrain.

Sitting on the edge of the bridge, Eldahil held up an arrow, checking for damaged feathers which would throw off its flight. He glanced at Boromir and Haldan, who were pointing and shouting to each other as they planned the ambush. "Just be sure to place us downwind of the orcs," he thought. Most of the men had not had time to pack much in the way of spare clothing, and after two days of rowing and marching, the troop was beginning to reek.

The soldiers put on whatever pieces of armor they were not already wearing. Boromir had brought a helm and a round, wooden shield rimmed with iron, but his coat of mail was at the bottom of the Anduin. Figuring it was better than nothing, he put on the quilted shirt which was usually worn under the armor.

"My lord, you cannot go into battle with naught but linen between you and their swords." Haldan held up a mail shirt borrowed from one of the cavalrymen. He had had some trouble finding anything large enough to fit the heir.

Boromir scowled and nodded toward the owner, "But he can?"

Haldan had expected this objection. "My lord, he can hide with the archers by the road, and if he stays there, he will not have to close with the enemy."

"Unless the orcs flee into the woods. Then he will be right in their path."

Lord Denethor would have ordered his son to stop arguing and put on the armor, but Haldan did not have that right. At least he has a shield to carry, and I will be there to guard his back. He was neither surprised nor entirely displeased that Boromir refused to take the mail shirt.

After the soldiers took cover by the linden tree, Boromir stood in the middle of the road to check if they were well hidden. He walked back, picked up a handful of dirt, and rubbed it over the nearest man's helm. "Too shiny."

Eldahil watched as all the soldiers, including Boromir and Haldan, smeared mud on each other. "Good," he said to himself, "Now we will be both smelly and dirty." He was the only man without a helm, or any other armor for that matter, so no one tried to throw dirt on him. Then Boromir glanced over at the archers and noticed Eldahil's blue tunic. "That is far too bright. It will draw their eyes." With his hands full of mud, he advanced on his cousin. Before Boromir could lay hands on him, Eldahil muttered under his breath "You son of an orc" and started smearing dirt on his clothes.


When the scout spotted another troop of orcs, he ran back to report to Varag. A short distance ahead of them, a hundred orcs traveled south on the road. A party of that size had little to fear from the rangers. Marching in formation at a steady but unhurried pace, they were well-armored and carried supplies for a long journey.

Their captain looked doubtfully at Varag and then at the other leader. He wore the standard Mordor-issue armor of blackened steel, and his helm carried the badge of the Dark Tower. He could barely understand the wretched, northern dialect of these mountain orcs, so he used the common speech.

"So, you ran into the greenboys and ditched your supplies? Serves you right if you starve."

"We can trade him." Varag gestured at the dark-haired man standing in front of them. He was clothed in the simple brown and green garb of a ranger. "Your lads will get fresh meat instead of the dried stuff."

"I don't know about that. He doesn't look so good." The ranger was very pale and swayed unsteadily on his feet. Leaning forward, the captain from Mordor sniffed at his wounded shoulder and snarled, "Smells like he's already gone rotten." He saw that the prisoner had been drugged, probably to keep him on his feet; his eyes looked black because the pupils were so unnaturally large.

"Then take him instead." Varag pointed at the other prisoner, a fair-haired man who sat in the tall grass at the side of the road, talking quietly to himself.

"No, too scrawny."

"If you're from the Black Tower, Captain, then you oughta know they have other uses besides eating." In some detail, Varag told him how they had killed the last prisoner. While he spoke, the dark-haired ranger bowed his head, pressing his hands against his forehead.

When Varag finished, the captain threw his head back and laughed. "Pretty good for a pack of mine rats." Then he added, without smiling, "But the answer is still no. We're headed south to the coast, and my lads need everything they're carrying. Besides, that'll teach you to throw away your packs." The captain considered taking the prisoners by force but decided against it. Mountain orcs could be surprisingly tough when pushed to the wall.

Eyeing the silver dagger that the larger orc wore on his belt, the captain asked, "Where'd you get the pretty knife?" It was an expensive piece of work, not the sort of thing carried by most rangers. This pair of idiots probably killed the owner without a second thought. Too bad, such a high-ranking officer would have been a useful catch.

"It's not for trade," the other leader replied. He said to himself, "I've had enough of you, you arrogant swine." He had been watching this captain closely, and he decided it was time to go and quickly. With Varag still cursing under his breath, their troop headed south and soon left the Mordor orcs behind.

"He seemed mighty interested in that dagger," the larger orc said thoughtfully as they ran down the road.

"You think maybe there's more to this fellow than meets the eye?" Varag looked over his shoulder and stared at Faramir. He was still running in front of the prisoner, leading him by the rope.

"You know that big bridge before you get to the crossroads?"

Varag nodded his head.

"There's a good place to stop in the woods nearby. It's far enough from the road to be safe. We can question them there."

"This one's already half-dead. He won't last long."

The larger orc shrugged. "If he can't take it, it's no loss-we were gonna slice him anyway. Maybe we should start with the other tark and see what he knows. Just so long as we don't kill 'em both. And if this one's valuable, that captain might be willing to make a trade."


"No, sir, I could see only one man, and he had very fair hair. Almost white." The lookout saw the expression on Boromir's face and added, "But they were still a far distance away. They had a scout traveling ahead of them, so I could not tarry to get a closer look."

Then Lord Faramir is dead, Haldan thought. I feared it was so. This rescue had been, at best, a long shot. To Boromir, he said, "My lord, we must get under cover." The younger man nodded silently and walked back towards the linden tree. They had sat in readiness for a long while, watching the shadows slowly lengthen across the road. Now Boromir looked drawn and tired. This wait wears on him, the old soldier thought. He did not plan to let Boromir out of his sight.

They waited in the leafy shelter of the thicket. The evening sun slanted low across the road, and the only sound was the cold clatter of the river in its stony course. The archers pulled the bowstring back and held their first shot ready. The others drew swords, concealing the bright steel behind their shields.

The orc scout came over the ridge to the north. As he loped past, he raised his head and sniffed the air suspiciously, but he did not stop. Staring along the shaft of the arrow as he waited to shoot, Eldahil saw the orc's yellow eyes and pointed teeth. "Ugly" does not do these creatures justice. The scout ran down the steep path, splashed through the ford, and climbed up the path on the other side.

Shortly afterwards, the rest of the troop appeared over the top of the hill. As they approached, Boromir spotted the fair-haired man. He was surrounded by orcs, but he was taller than his captors and his light hair caught the eye. Boromir frantically searched for his brother, and then he saw him. He silently thanked the Valar that he was still alive. Faramir's dark head was bowed, and he was clearly having trouble keeping up with the others. When he stumbled, an orc ran up beside him and struck him across his face with a whip. His brother did not even try to evade the blow.

"Steady, my lord," Haldan whispered next to him. Boromir realized that he must have twitched. His hand was clenched so tightly around the hilt of the sword that it ached. The air was stifling, too warm and heavy for him to breathe. He thought he would suffocate if he did not move soon. He forced himself to breathe slowly and to wait, thinking, "A few more moments, orc, and then I pay you back with steel."

The enemy slowed as they approached the bridge. Silently, the archers chose their targets and steadied their aim. Faramir was so close that Boromir could see streaks of blood on his neck, and he thought the waiting and the stillness would drive him mad. As the prisoners and their guards neared the linden tree, Anborn gave a quick, sideways glance at the other archers then hissed, "Loose!"