Be warned-Chapter 6 is somewhat gory. Also, it is not the final chapter of the story; more to follow.
The road climbed up a long, slow rise. The hill seemed endless to Faramir as he struggled to keep pace with his captors. The bitter draft was wearing off, or perhaps he was just too sick and weary for it to make any difference. When at last they reached the summit, he was grateful to be running downhill again. The sole of his boot slipped on a loose stone, and he winced silently as the willow branch struck him across his face.
At the sound of running water, he raised his head a little. They were approaching the ruins of a bridge; he could see steep banks and the silver glint of the river. He licked his cracked lips and swallowed. The stones of the road still radiated the heat of the sun, and he could feel it rising around him. Sweat trickled down his back and stung in the cuts on his face and neck. He wanted nothing more than to lie down in the river and let the cool water wash over him.
The orc who was leading him suddenly hesitated. For a moment, Faramir was confused. Then, to his right, an orc staggered and fell, an arrow sticking out of his back. Rangers, he thought as he aimed an unsteady kick behind his guard's knees. With his hands tied, he nearly overbalanced as he drove his foot into the orc.
Varag stumbled forward then recovered and, dropping the rope tied to the prisoner, ran to take cover in a ditch beside the road.
From his hiding place under the linden tree, Eldahil had aimed at the large orc right behind Faramir. His first shot hit the target but was turned by the small metal plates of his armor. Cursing silently, he snatched another arrow and nocked it to the string. As he drew the bow for the next shot, Eldahil saw a flash of steel as the orc drew a long knife and drove it toward his cousin's back. As fast as he was able, he sighted the target along the arrow, but as he released the string, he heard a shout of "Faramir!" The other prisoner dashed forward.
No, stay out of the way! Eldahil thought desperately as the fair-haired man threw himself forward. His hands were bound, so ducking his head, he rammed a shoulder into the back of the orc's legs. The orc dropped to his knees, Eldahil's shot flying harmlessly over his head. His arm, still clutching the long knife, was thrown back as he fell.
Hearing the shout of warning, Faramir turned and saw the raised knife. The orc nearly landed on Faramir as he fell to his knees. Seeing the bright glint of silver, Faramir reached for the small dagger on the creature's belt. He got one of his hands around the hilt and clumsily yanked the dagger from the sheath.
Snarling, the orc grabbed the front of the man's tunic with his free hand and drew back his arm to stab the long knife into his guts. Before he could finish the blow, he gave a sharp jerk as an arrow sank into his shoulder.
With what strength remained to him, Faramir raised the dagger and drove it into the enemy's throat. As the orc choked and tried to shove him away, he hung onto the knife, letting his weight push the blade in. Leaning against the orc, Faramir sank down until he was almost on his knees. He thought he would swoon from the pain in his wounded shoulder.
Staring at him with the strange, yellow eyes, the orc spat blood in his face and clamped a hand around his neck. Faramir stared back, dazed but still holding onto the knife. The blade cut downward until it hit the breast bone, then finally the orc fell sideways, pulling Faramir down with him.
Boromir saw the flash of steel and ran, forsaking all discipline or training, empty of any thought except the need for haste. Haldan followed him, shouting "Forward!" to the rest of the men. An arrow flew above Boromir's head as one of the archers, either seeing him or hearing the shout, let the shot fly wild at the last moment.
He slammed into the orcs, shoving one aside with his shield as he buried the sword in the neck of another. Yanking the blade out, he turned to catch a blow with the shield, but the orc's heavy sword easily split the wood. He jumped back, discarding the shattered pieces, then darted several paces to reach his brother.
Faramir lay on his side, with a dead orc sprawled across him. A heavy arm was thrown across his neck, and his head slumped forward lifelessly, his face pressed into the road. When he weakly moved his arm, trying to push the body away, Boromir thought that he had never felt so happy in his life.
After he hit the orc, Hirluin landed face down on the stone pavement. Someone tripped over him with a yelp, kicking him heavily in the ribs. The blow left him stunned and out of breath, but he pushed himself to his hands and knees and staggered to his feet. He had to find Lord Faramir.
"No, stay down!" Boromir shouted over his shoulder, but the young ranger did not seem to hear him. They will cut him down where he stands. Besides the danger from the orcs, there were still arrows flying close by. Several orcs had taken cover in a ditch beside the road, and the archers were keeping them trapped, loosing a shot whenever they tried to escape. Unable to lower the sword and drop his guard, Boromir backed up a few steps toward the ranger then, with a sweep of his leg, knocked the man's feet out from under him. He dropped like a stone and lay still.
After the first volley of arrows, some of the orcs fled toward the river, pursued by a dozen soldiers. Several were killed on the highway, but the rest escaped and took cover between the steep banks of the stream. Anborn looked toward the bridge and shouted to the other archers, "Over there! Come on!"
Eldahil shook his head and shouted back, "No armor or sword!" Getting to the river involved running past a number of orcs, and he had no real interest in heroic but pointless death.
"Then stay here and keep them pinned down!" the ranger replied, pointing to the orcs huddled in the ditch on the far side of the road. Eldahil nodded and nocked an arrow to the string. Anborn and the other two archers dashed toward the river bank.
Panic-stricken, one of the orcs leapt up and ran north along the highway. Eldahil waited until his back was exposed then shot him. He could hear the orcs cursing and arguing. When the top of a helm appeared above the ditch, he swiftly put an arrow through it. With a clang, the helm fell off an upraised sword. "I cannot believe I fell for such an old ruse," Eldahil berated himself. "What a pity his head was not in it."
Lying on his belly, Varag growled to the others, "Looks like there's only one archer under that tree. We've got to take him out. Then we run north and get those Mordor boys." That captain from the Black Tower will settle with this lot, Varag told himself. Curse Tuborg for getting himself killed by that ranger. Varag had tried to tell him that those prisoners would be nothing but trouble. "Any of you still got your shields? Good. We'll keep low behind 'em. If we move quick, we can get this fellow."
As the orcs charged across the road, Eldahil aimed below their shields. He hit at least one in the foot before he decided it was time to run. With an explosion of leaves, he burst from his hiding place and tore down the road. Boromir or death, he thought, heading toward his cousin with a pack of orcs close on his heels.
Pointing northward with his sword, Varag shouted furiously, "No, don't chase him! Let's get out of here!" He ran after his soldiers, shouting, "Turn around, you scum!"
Yelling wildly for help, Eldahil tried to outrun the orcs, who in turn were chased by their screaming officer. "It would be very strange indeed if we passed my cousin unremarked," he thought as he tossed his quiver over his shoulder at his pursuers.
The orcs started to laugh then stopped abruptly when Boromir stepped into their path. Varag turned and fled north while the others ran forward to attack, joining the orcs still fighting around the prisoners.
Since he no longer had a shield to carry, Boromir took the sword in both hands. The grip was too short, so he had to wrap his left hand around the round pommel at the end. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye but was distracted when an orc with a spear made a thrust at his face.
The orc stepped closer and jabbed at Boromir again. Putting his shoulders behind the blow, the man struck away the spear shaft with the blade of the sword. The steel rang like a bell then shattered several inches above the hilt. Somewhat startled, he jumped but did not drop the broken sword.
The orc had come in too close and no longer had room to use the spear, so instead he drew back the wooden shaft and swung it toward Boromir's helm. Catching the spear shaft with his left hand, the man stepped in and drove the shards of the sword into the orc's eyes. As the enemy brought his hands to his face, Boromir grabbed the sword that he wore at his side. He took it in his right hand, holding the broken sword in his left.
Behind him, Haldan aimed a heavy blow at his opponent's helm, and the orc raised his shield high to fend off the attack. But instead of striking at his head, the old soldier dropped the point of the blade and drove it underneath the shield and into the orc's abdomen. With a flick of his hand, he turned the hilt and yanked the sword out. The orc slid to the ground, leaving a trail of black blood and pale intestines. Haldan quickly looked around for the heir.
One of the orcs slipped silently behind Boromir's back. Haldan could not run fast enough to overtake him, so he snatched up an abandoned spear and threw it, skewering the orc as he swung a sword toward Boromir's neck "I am getting far too old for this," Haldan said to himself.
With a shout, two of the enemy rushed at Boromir from either side. He parried the attack of the first with the hilt of the broken sword, even as he drove the heavy orc blade deep into the neck of the other. Then, pivoting rapidly, he brought the weapon down on the helm of the first orc, caving it in. His face was splattered with blood, and he had to shake it out of his eyes. The few orcs still remaining on the road looked at him and fled.
Boromir and Haldan lifted the orc and dragged his body out of the way. Haldan ordered one of the men to bring water and bandages, while the heir knelt beside his brother.
Faramir's eyes were half closed, and his pale face was splashed with blood. Though he looked close to fainting, his right hand was still tightly clenched around the silver dagger. "Let go of the knife, Faramir." His brother nodded weakly, but Boromir still had to pry his fingers from the hilt. He recognized the dagger at once-a gift from their father, the same as he had been given.
Faramir had trouble focusing his eyes, but he heard Boromir's voice. He lifted his head unsteadily and tried to speak. He wanted to ask his brother what he was doing in Ithilien.
"Keep still," Boromir told him as he carefully cut through the ropes that bound his hands. As gently as they could, they turned him on his back.
Boromir started to loosen the clothing around his brother's neck then suddenly stopped, breathing in sharply. "Haldan, look at his eyes." He tried to keep his voice calm so as not to alarm his brother. His first thought was that Faramir's captors had somehow blinded him for his gray eyes had turned black, like the cold eyes of a snake.
A gray-haired man leaned over Faramir, peering into his face. "Lord Faramir, look at me. That is right. Good." The white tracks of old sword cuts gave him a grim look, but his eyes were not unkind. Faramir had seen him somewhere before but could not remember where.
"He must have been drugged, my lord. To keep him on his feet." Haldan glanced up at Boromir and, seeing the panic on his face, quickly added, "The dose will soon wear off, and there should be no lasting harm."
They unfastened Faramir's tunic, but when they tried to move the arm on his injured side, he flinched and cried out. So instead, they slit the clothing and drew it back from his shoulder. As Haldan cut away the stiffened bandages, he could feel the heat of the wound even through the linen. The orcs had smeared on a sticky, black salve to slow the bleeding, and the jagged edges of the gash were filthy. Haldan bound up the shoulder with fresh linen, but they would have to properly clean and dress his wounds later. It was not safe to remain for long on the highway.
Boromir put an arm under his brother's shoulders and supported him while Haldan held the cup of water so he could drink. His brother was very thirsty. When had he last been given water or food?
They eased him back to the ground, then Boromir carefully washed most of the blood and dirt from his face and hands. Faramir shivered a little; the water felt so cold. "Where is Hirluin?" he whispered hoarsely.
Boromir glanced over his shoulder. The young ranger looked exhausted and confused but did not appear gravely injured. Two of the soldiers had sat him up and were giving him some water. "He is safe, Faramir. My men are taking care of him."
The light hurt his eyes, so Faramir had to squint to look at his brother. Boromir seemed very weary, and his gray eyes looked a little wild. His hair was plastered against his head from wearing a helm, and he was splattered with blood. "You are not wounded?"
"You need not worry. It is their blood, not mine," Boromir said with a slightly wolfish grin that was meant to be reassuring.
Faramir managed a smile, and then he closed his eyes. It was too bright, and he was so tired. He had given up hope, so now it felt very strange that he was going to live after all. "I did not think anyone would come for us," he murmured.
Boromir stared at him solemnly for a moment, and then he smiled a little. "You should know your own brother better than that, Faramir. They would have to lock me up and throw away the key." With both hands, he gently pushed the filthy, matted hair back from his brother's face, and then he kissed him on the brow. The White Tower was filled with memory and splendor, but it had been a cold and lonely home. He looked down at his brother and thought, "First and best friend, my ally and counselor, how could you doubt that I would come for you?"
The arrow was embedded in the breastbone, so Eldahil had to plant a boot on the orc's chest and give the shaft a strong tug before it would pull free. It is a long journey back to Osgiliath and we may yet need the arrows, but I truly loathe doing this. Another arrow was sticking out of the orc's eye. Eldahil looked at it with disgust. No, that one stays there. Good shot, though. He leaned over a large orc wearing leather armor reinforced with metal plates. And this one was mine. It took three tries, but lastly I hit him. The arrow had gone in deep, but with some effort, he yanked it out of the orc's shoulder. Nearby, Boromir and the old captain were still tending to Faramir. His cousin looked worn and ill, but things could have gone much worse.
Stepping to the next body, he nearly tripped over an orc sword. Looks more like a meat cleaver than a sword. It was not as long as the swords made by the smiths of Gondor, and the massive blade was sharpened on one side only and curved slightly near the tip. He picked it up and gave it a wild swing, almost dislocating his shoulder for it was much heavier than his old sword. "Which Boromir just broke," he reminded himself sadly. The sword had belonged to his great-grandsire, who used to scratch a line on the grip for every orc he killed. Unfortunately, Eldahil had not inherited his ancestor's prowess along with the weapon, but still he had rather liked it. Sighing, he hunted around until he found a scabbard to fit. An orc sword was somewhat better than nothing.
A number of the orcs had bows and quivers strapped across their backs. Eldahil and the other archers took several quivers of black-feathered arrows. The great longbows favored by the rangers of Ithilien were not practical for a rider to carry or use on horseback, so the cavalrymen had brought shorter bows, close in size to the bows of the orcs. Since he usually was shooting from a boat, Eldahil did not use a longbow, either. The heavy orc arrows were about the right length for their bows.
Limping slightly as he walked along the road, Haldan searched among the slain. These orcs were not well armored- instead of mail, they wore leather studded with small iron rivets or plates. "Not from the armies of Mordor," the old soldier thought as he turned over another body. Some of the northern orcs fought as free companies. Though sworn to the service of Mordor, they were poorly equipped and trained. The lord of the Dark Tower held little regard for the lives of his own servants.
Haldan stopped when he found an orc who wore a long sword slung across his back. Unbuckling the straps, he pulled the weapon free and looked at it The leather scabbard was etched with a design of curling vines and leaves, and an intricately braided cord was looped through one of the buckles—a token, no doubt, from a woman. The blade was dirty but undamaged.
Handing the sword hilt-first to Boromir, he told him, "My lord, it is not fit that you bear their weapons."
As he took the sword, Boromir wondered if it had belonged to one of Faramir's men. He remembered that several were slain during the attack on his brother's patrol, and of the four made prisoner, they had rescued only two. He drew the pretty cord through his fingers. The threads were shiny and as soft as silk.
After he had buckled on the dead ranger's sword, he knelt beside Faramir and told him, "I will be back shortly." He rose and beckoned to one of the men. "Attend to Lord Faramir until I return." He was not going far, but his brother still seemed confused and he did not want him left alone.
The orc was large for his kind. Boromir dug his boot under his side and kicked him onto his back. Then the man sat on his heels, studying the body. The yellow eyes glared at him soullessly, and the bloody teeth were bared in a snarl. A long gash ripped his throat. He must have choked to death on his own blood. His brother had chosen a good place to strike-a small, vital spot which had been left unarmored. With longer weapons, like a sword or spear, that would have been a difficult target to hit, but armed with only the dagger, Faramir had had no choice but to move in close to attack.
Boromir took the silver sheath from the orc's belt. He would need to clean it before he gave it back to his brother. Then he looked again at the orc's ravaged throat. When he returned to Minas Tirith, he would tell their lord and father that the gift had been well bestowed.
