With trembling hands, the scribe finished writing the orders and passed them to Lord Denethor. He was not sure that they were entirely correct since Lord Denethor had been shouting and twice he had to interrupt the steward because he could not follow what he was saying.
Without reading the document, Denethor dripped some wax from a candle onto the parchment and pressed his seal ring into the hot wax. He did not bother to remove the ring from his hand. Strangely, he did not feel any pain as he burned his fingers, noticing the injury only after the flesh turned red and shiny. He gave the orders back to the scribe, who bowed quickly and fled from the great hall. His footsteps echoed loudly, then faded and diminished into stillness.
The evening light slanted through the tall windows and across the marble floor, the dust rising in a column of gold. In his mind, Denethor saw two children standing before him, one who was dead and another who might still live. They seemed alike yet also very different. Perhaps that was true in all families. He did not know.
Once a week, for many years, the steward held an audience in the great hall for his sons. When the boys were still studying history and languages and astronomy, he would question them about their lessons. He was unwilling to rely on the second-hand reports of their tutors; also, he thought that they should learn from an early age to speak without fear or hesitation in front of soldiers and counselors.
The tutor had given Boromir one of the old battle songs to learn. Even at the age of ten, his bearing was straight and proud—and restless. His bright red tunic was decorated with squares of gold embroidery and rows of gold studs. From a distance, it looked somewhat like a coat of armor. Needless to say, this was Boromir's favorite outfit.
"Down from the north, rode the fair horselords…" He began reciting in a steady voice, his eyes fixed at a spot above Denethor's head. The verse went on for a long while since it seemed to list everyone in the battle, along with the name of each warrior's horse. Boromir's voice became gradually louder as he recited, and he waved his sword arm as the enemy counterattacked. When a young guard ducked his head and stifled a quiet laugh, Denethor gave him a cold stare. The heir's education was a matter of deadly seriousness.
All of a sudden, Boromir said in an exasperated voice, "Father, why did they not see the horsemen coming? They were fighting on an open plain."
"Finish the song, then we will speak of this, Boromir," Denethor said.
Faramir's lesson was to learn the names of the kings. From the way he spoke, his father could tell that his younger son liked the strange sound and rhythm of the old names.
"Anarion, Meneldil, Cemendur, Earendil…" His clear voice echoed happily in the stone hall, and his head bobbed up and down as he rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots. Standing in a half circle, several of the captains listened in grave silence. His sons were expected to dress appropriately for this weekly audience, so Faramir wore his best tunic of brown velvet. When he turned, Denethor saw that the backside bore imprints of grey dust from sitting on the floor.
When he was finished, Denethor rose from the simple black chair. The steward swatted the dust from the back of Faramir's clothes then beckoned to his sons to follow him. They walked down the hall and stopped by one of the statues of the kings. Faramir ran his hands across the inscription carved into the base. He tried to sound out the name but could not recognize some of the letters.
"Long ago, that is how they wrote the letter 'c.' And that is a 't'," Denethor told him. "The letters say 'Calimehtar.' He built the tower that is standing above us." Faramir gazed up at the high ceiling then looked down again and, frowning, carefully traced the odd letter "c" with his finger. Denethor pointed to the next statue. "This king was a great warrior who drove out the corsairs…" Quick, light footfalls echoed down the hall as his sons ran to look.
At the sound of low voices outside, Denethor looked toward the tall doors, and when he looked back, the children were gone. There was nothing but dust in the sunlight. The men's voices became louder. They are casting lots, to decide who will have to come in, he thought.
"Find several more of these," Haldan told the soldier, holding up the orc spear. He and Boromir were discussing how best to carry his brother. The spears were short but, lashed together, might serve for a stretcher. Haldan saw that Lord Faramir was watching them, moving his head a little restlessly as he stared with his wide, black eyes. His face was still very pale, and his skin glistened with sweat. He was badly overheated from running in the afternoon sun. That may be all that ails him, Haldan thought uneasily. They were two days from Osgiliath, without a healer or any medicines.
"We can get to the farmhouse before dark and make camp there," Boromir said.
Haldan nodded. "Yes, my lord, that would-"
"We have to leave!" Faramir tried to sit up. The sudden movement made him feel faint, so he closed his eyes.
Giving Haldan a worried glance, Boromir dropped to one knee beside his brother. "Just lie down and try to rest. We will be leaving soon."
"No, we must go now. More orcs are coming."
"The troop was not large, Faramir, and few escaped. They will trouble us no further."
Faramir shook his head frantically. "This is another company. We passed them on the road. At least a hundred strong. They wanted to trade us for supplies. They were short on food, they had lost their packs, so they—" He started to say something but stopped. He felt short of breath, as if there were a tight band around his chest.
Boromir's eyes narrowed slightly as he listened, but he said nothing. Faramir reached up and caught his arm. "You must believe me. They will be here soon."
These orcs are real enough to him, anyway, Boromir thought, even if that part about the supplies makes little sense. He was not sure that his brother, after being drugged and cruelly mistreated, was entirely in his right mind. Then he remembered the young ranger. Faramir called him Hirluin, or something like that. He can tell me if there is any truth to this tale.
Hirluin lay on his side, nervously watching the road. A blanket had been tucked around him, and someone's cloak was rolled up for a pillow. The back of his head was bandaged, with the ends of the linen neatly tied across his forehead. He looked wide-eyed and frightened. One of Boromir's men sat nearby, cleaning orc blood from his gear while he kept an eye on the wounded man.
"He is awake, sir, but hardly sensible," the soldier warned Boromir. "The wound is a few days old. Most likely, they struck him over the head when he was made prisoner. They used the flat of the sword so his life was spared, but the blow has left him somewhat confused. He keeps telling us that there are more orcs on the way. He will say naught else."
Haldan sent one of the cavalrymen up the hill to look northward along the road.
"My lord, we have to split up. We are too few to fight, but we cannot outrun them with the wounded. They will track us right into the woods." He spoke aloud as he thought. "You must take Lord Faramir and go to the farmhouse. My lord, do not light any fires. In the morning, get back to the boats. I will take half the men and draw the enemy away. We can lead them down the course of this river, toward the Anduin."
Haldan was sorry about the soldiers who would be with him, but it could not be helped. With bows and enough arrows, they could hold off the orcs until dark He knew too well what would happen then.
Boromir gave him a doubtful look so Haldan tried to reassure him. "We will join you at the farmhouse in a few hours. If we cannot fight them off, we will lose them in the woods and meet you at the boats tomorrow." He added in a low voice, so the injured man would not hear, "My lord, do not wait for us. You must get Lord Faramir to a healer."
"You scarce can walk on that leg, yet you plan to outrun them in the woods? After dark? I do not think you plan to rejoin us. Indeed, I think you would lead my men to their deaths." The words and tone of voice sounded eerily like Lord Denethor. Haldan realized that he had not spoken carefully enough; having no use for lying, he was not well-practiced at it. Though Boromir did not possess the keen insight of his father, he still had a quick mind and there was little that he missed.
Desperate, Haldan dropped to one knee and knelt in the road. He spoke rapidly as there was not much time. "My lord, let me do this for you and for Lord Denethor. We are outnumbered five to one. Unless I lead them astray, they will slaughter us to a man. I beg of you, there is no other way." He lowered his head humbly, staring at the muddy toes of Boromir's boots. He thought that the heir, with his great love of honor, might understand and grant his request.
More than thirty years ago, Haldan had stood with his friends and kinsmen in the great hall and sworn fealty to Boromir's grandfather. Most of those men were gone, and through fate or blind chance, he had survived them. Now it was his turn to die, but Haldan would still consider himself a lucky man if he could trade his life to save Lord Denethor's sons.
"Sir!" someone yelled, "On the hill!" Their lookout was running down the road as if all the orcs of Mordor were behind him.
"Get up!" Boromir shouted at Haldan. "The enemy is almost upon us!" Seizing the other man by the shoulders, he roughly pulled him to his feet. He was angry at how easily he might have been deceived, angry at the thought of anyone dying needlessly for his sake.
Haldan saw the look of rage in Boromir's eyes and half expected the heir to strike him. "Let me do this-if not for you, then for your brother." Too well he knew Boromir, and he feared that he would take this hopeless task upon himself. He imagined his young lord lying dead at the edge of the stream, and he was filled with the blackest horror.
Boromir said harshly, "You will take Lord Faramir and the other wounded and fall back to the farmhouse." He paused, pressing a hand against his forehead as he tried to think. "I will lead the enemy down the river and hold them off, so you have time to reach the farm. Then I will cut through the woods and join you. There we make our defense." Boromir looked around. "Where is Anborn? I will need him to guide me."
"My lord, let me go with you." If he could not lead this danger away from the heir, at least he belonged at his side.
"Would you hinder our retreat, so all are slain? And who will protect my brother?" Boromir replied sharply. "Take Eldahil. You will need his help with the boats. Go!"
The old soldier bowed slightly, then turned away and began shouting orders. Most of the able-bodied men would go with Boromir, but Haldan took a few to help with the wounded. Two of the cavalrymen were injured badly enough during the ambush that they could not fight. He looked them over. One had a sword cut on his leg, so he gave him the spear to use as a crutch. Leaning heavily against one of the men, the fair-haired ranger was able to walk, but Haldan was not sure how long he would last before they had to carry him.
Eldahil knelt beside Faramir, pulling off the blanket that covered him. "Cousin, we must needs be going, but you will be safe with us." Not very safe but safer than Boromir and the others, anyway. I would give the lot of us a snowball's chance in midsummer.
Earlier, as he lay listening to the cavalrymen, Faramir had thought he heard this cousin's voice, marked by his strong southern accent. Perhaps it was because he was still feeling lightheaded, but it seemed very strange to see Eldahil. The last he had heard, his cousin was patrolling the river near Osgiliath. "What are you doing in Ithilien? Not deer-hunting again?"
I will never live that down, Eldahil thought gloomily but said, "Hunting orcs this time. Here, let me help you sit."
"I am sorry, my lord," Haldan murmured as he and Eldahil lifted the wounded man to his feet. The old soldier drew one of his arms over his shoulder, and Eldahil supported him on the other side. Faramir's head slid downward as he fainted away. They hurried into the woods, moving as quickly as they could, but they were carrying dead weight. While not as broad across the shoulders as his brother, Faramir was still tall and was a heavy and awkward burden; his feet trailed behind them in the leaves.
When Haldan glanced back at the highway, Boromir was stringing an orc bow; his own had been left behind in Osgiliath. He bent the heavy bow made of horn across his knee, then leaned down to force the string over the end. The movement was easy and graceful, as if he were stringing a child's toy. He had picked up one of the quivers of black-feathered arrows, and it was slung over his shoulder, along with a hideous orc shield. Haldan doubted that he would see the heir again. As he had many times before, he reminded himself, If not in this world, then in the next.
"That handful of tarks beat you?" The captain from Mordor pointed with his arm toward the men waiting in front of the bridge, and then he snarled and gave Varag an angry shove. "Useless mountain maggots." For good measure, he landed a kick squarely on the body of the other leader where it lay in the road by the linden tree. He noticed with annoyance that the silver knife was already gone. The tarks had wasted no time in stripping the dead.
This wasn't the fight he and his boys had come for, but it wouldn't take long. He had spotted their officer almost at once—that tall man in the plain surcoat was giving the orders. The tarks were badly outnumbered, and in his place, the orc captain would have run for it. But maybe this fellow was feeling cocky after trouncing those mountain orcs. These men weren't armed or outfitted like rangers, and the captain wondered what mission brought them to Ithilien.
One of the orcs glanced to the side and thought he saw a movement back in the woods. He was about to tell the captain, when the tarks suddenly started waving their swords over their heads and yelling. The words were in their filthy language but needed no translation. Beating their sword hilts against their shields, the orcs answered with a chorus of insults.
The captain from Mordor jumped and swore when a well-aimed stone thudded against his helm. "Fine, then," he growled under his breath. Drawing his sword, he shouted, "In the name of the Eye, charge!"
