"Here we leave the river!" shouted Anborn when he spied the path into the woods. He and Boromir handed the wounded man over to two soldiers, so they could cover the rear of the retreat. It was a league through the woods to the farmhouse. At the top of the bank, the ranger guide halted and loosed one final shot; then he turned and ran after Boromir, into the trees. Yelling, the orcs surged up the bank.
It was so dark that Boromir could scarcely see the man in front of him. The hard-packed dirt path was narrow, and low-hanging branches scratched his face. His side ached with each breath he took, and he stumbled as exhaustion dragged at his feet. In the distance, he could hear the harsh voice of the orc captain shouting at his troops, doubtless urging them onward. The heavy yet swift footsteps grew closer. Anborn halted suddenly and turned to shoot down the path. Boromir unslung his bow and loosed a few shots, aiming toward the shadowy figures of the orcs. He heard screaming, followed by angry cursing as the orcs tripped over their fallen comrades. Tapping Boromir's shoulder, the ranger slung his bow across his back and took off again.
"What place is this?" Faramir whispered so faintly that the fair-haired ranger had to lean over him to hear.
"An old house, sir. The roof is gone." Hirluin found the waterskin in the dark, and then he lifted the wounded man enough to slide a knapsack under his shoulders. Faramir raised his head weakly and drank, choking a little when Hirluin gave him too much water at once. The ranger's hands were unsteady, and he splashed water down Faramir's neck, soaking his bandaged shoulder.
Though it was hours since his captors had drugged him, the bitter dose of herbs had yet to wear off, and Faramir found that he could see very clearly in the darkness. He was lying in the corner of a ruined building, an old farmhouse of stone. A great fireplace stood along one wall, and an empty doorway led outside. Through the open roof, he could see the stars; they looked strangely brilliant to his eyes.
Somewhere close by, Haldan was giving orders. Arrows were to be counted and shared out, and the old officer calmly reminded the archers to keep the firelight behind them as they shot. If the men could not hold the outer wall, they were to fall back to the farmhouse. There was to be no retreat through the woods. They make ready for battle? When they had rested at the milestone, Faramir had counted only eight able-bodied men. "Where is Lord Boromir?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. In the farmyard, a soldier was calling for help with a broken strap on his armor.
"I do not know," Hirluin replied. "He has yet to arrive, sir." Faramir reminded himself that his brother had a goodly company of men with him; he was likely safer than they were.
Hirluin soaked the cloth with cool water and placed it back on Faramir's brow. He glanced nervously at the window then looked down at the floor, saying in a low, broken voice, "I fear that-that I will fail you, sir."
"You have not failed me yet, Hirluin," was Faramir's reply. The fair-haired ranger looked up, but he still could not bear to meet Faramir's gaze. Faramir watched him silently then said, "No more than any man can I say what the future will bring; yet even so, I do not foresee that you will prove to be faithless." Sometimes the cruelest burdens are the ones we place upon ourselves, Faramir thought sadly.
Settling himself against the stone wall, Hirluin took up the silver dagger again. Faramir stared at the knife in surprise; it had not occurred to him that he intended to fight. This man's awkward shyness hid a strong undercurrent of stubborn determination. But Hirluin was injured and exhausted, and the enemy would easily kill them both. Perhaps if he hid in a root cellar or a well, Faramir wondered as he looked around the ruins of the farmhouse, stopping when he saw the huge fireplace. It was as tall as a man and twice again as wide; the flagstones were littered with ashes and half-burnt branches. A young tree—an oak, from the looks of it- had taken root by the hearth.
"Listen to me, Hirluin. If the enemy breaks through and we are overrun, you must hide yourself. In that great fireplace, close against the back wall." Orcs had sharp sight in the dark, but unless they were carrying torches, they might not see him.
"Then who shall defend you, sir?" the young ranger asked in a shaky voice.
Faramir did not believe he had long to live regardless, but he knew that Hirluin would be grieved by such hard words. So instead, he told him, "I do not doubt that you are willing, Hirluin, but neither of us are fit for battle, and stealth must be our defense. You must hide. That is an order." He tried to sound stern, but his voice was hoarse and weak.
"Yes, sir," Hirluin said uncertainly. He had little liking for this command, but by the oaths he had taken, he was bound to obey it.
"We need not give up hope so soon," Faramir added, more kindly. "At least one patrol watches these woods; they left their signs on top of that old milestone." Hirluin nodded. Rangers often signaled their whereabouts by leaving stones or other tokens; however, they both knew that it was unlikely a patrol would find them.
Hirluin sat quietly as was his wont. The shadows of the cavalrymen, as they hastened to prepare for the fight, slid across the window and onto the floor. Watching the movement of dark and light, he silently repeated the song about the horselords, over and over again. To keep his mind from fear, he tried to imagine how they looked-horses and riders as they broke upon the foe, driving forward in a glittering wave of swords and mail. Yet, instead of noble steeds, he kept seeing his father's shaggy mare that hauled the wood for the charcoal fire.
After their speech, Faramir felt weary and his head ached, so he was silent and tried to rest. Looking up at the black sky, he thought of that winter night, long ago, when Denethor had shown his sons the evening star. He searched for Earendil, but it journeyed too low in the sky and was hidden by the walls. It had been two months since he had knelt in the White Tower, taking leave of his lord and father. Under the watchful gaze of the guards, their parting words had been formal and brief, the ritual farewell of a lord and his soldier. When his father had risen to embrace him, Denethor's eyes had held a distant look, but Faramir knew that the Steward was burdened with many cares.
The faint scent of flowering trees drifted in. Almond or apple, he thought drowzily; trees of the lineage of the rose, with their sweet, five-petaled flowers. Long ago, Ithilien was laid out in fields and orchards and well-tended woods, a chessboard with squares of brown and bright green. Apricots, apples and pears were sent to the markets of northern Gondor and south to Belfalas. He tried to imagine all those fruit trees in flower, acre after acre of shining, white branches. How beautiful it must have been, he thought as he fell asleep.
Water, bread and dried meat had been passed among the men. Haldan had given them their orders, and now they sat on the ground and broke their fast as they waited, their strung bows leaning against the stone wall. Well they knew what these orders meant, and though he heard a few grim, nervous jests, there was no sign of panic. He was reassured to hear the usual complaints about the rations.
Haldan sat on the stone step in front of the doorway; every so often, he rose and tended a small fire, feeding it dry branches and pine cones. The great pile of apple wood sat ready nearby. He wanted to sink forward and rest his forehead on his hands, but the men were watching. So he sat and stared at the trail of sparks rising into the darkness, his face betraying nothing—neither fear nor regret nor weariness. He had always supposed that someday, in the midst of a petty skirmish, he would turn just a little too slowly, raise the shield a moment too late. This siege in Ithilien was far more heroic than the death he had foreseen. That would be Boromir's doing, he thought wryly.
Pacing restlessly, Eldahil tried to shrug off his dark mood. He glanced at the fire. The pine sap in the branches sputtered and sparked as it burned. In the heart of the fire, the charred wood seethed brilliant red and orange, and the hot flame burned deep blue. He recalled the old superstition and shivered a little. At home, when the fire in their chamber burned low at night, his eldest brother used to point to the blue flames and foretell that death was near. Eldahil idly wondered if Boromir had told his little brother stories that gave him nightmares, then he decided he could not imagine his cousin ever doing any such thing.
A shower of sparks flew up as Eldahil halted and tossed a pine cone into the fire. "Think you that the enemy complains that their feet are sore and the bread is moldy?"
Shaking his gray head, Haldan gave a short laugh but did not smile. "I do not doubt it." He listened to the grumbling and grim banter of the cavalrymen, and he deemed that this must be the common speech of all soldiers. He suddenly noticed the other man looking into the flames and said sharply, "Do not gaze at the fire, Captain. Soon enough you must aim into the dark."
Eldahil started guiltily; he knew better than to be so careless, but his thoughts had drifted. He picked up his bow and quiver and walked over to the large chimney. An old rosebush grew up the rough layers of stone; the lower branches, covered with gray bark, were as thick as his wrist. He gave the vines a sharp tug to test their strength. Now, up the rigging, he thought as he climbed upward, cursing silently at the thorns.
"Are you out of your mind? You will break your neck!"
"Not to worry, sir. I am just going aloft to shoot," Eldahil called down. He climbed as far as the top of the farmhouse walls, where the roof had once rested; the massive chimney rose several feet higher still. This looks like a good spot to roost, away from orcs with sharp, pointy swords. He was still without a helm or mail, but if he kept close to the chimney, he was not an easy target and most orcs were poor to middling archers. From here, he had a clear view around the entire farmhouse and into the surrounding fields.
The sound of harsh cries and breaking branches echoed from the woods. Haldan scrambled to his feet. Seizing a burning branch, he thrust it under the pile of apple wood. The fire started slowly then flared with clear, white light. The smoke smelled sweet, like incense or musk roses; one last gift, the old officer thought, as fire consumed the gnarled branches. It seemed strange that he should even notice such a thing, when the enemy was fast approaching.
Eldahil raised a shout as the first of Boromir's soldiers dashed out of the woods and across the stretch of open land. Boromir and their ranger guide came last, with the enemy close behind them. They tore across the field and tumbled over the garden wall.
Yelling their battle cries, the enemy rushed forward, shields still slung across their backs. They faltered, taken by surprise when the archers, kneeling behind the shelter of the wall, loosed a volley of arrows. A harsh voice shouted a command, then the others took it up, and the enemy fell back. Several orcs lay dead or dying in the field; one had fallen just a short distance from the wall.
Breathless and exhausted, Boromir leaned against the stonework to keep himself from falling. Each breath stabbed like a knife in his side, and the words choked him when he tried to speak. He could hear Haldan's cool voice sending two men to take the quivers of arrows from the slain before the enemy regrouped. As they left, the old officer added, "And drag in that body, the large one next to the wall. We need his armor." At the edge of the woods, the orc captain shouted and waved as he marshaled his troops.
"My lord, you had best sit down," Haldan said, looking closely in the heir's face. He called for a waterskin then, pulling off Boromir's helm, he emptied most of the water over his head. Haldan had not expected to see the heir again, yet his great joy at his safe return was hardly warranted—Boromir's death had been delayed for just a few hours. "Drink slowly, my lord, or you will make yourself ill. The enemy will return shortly, but we have arrows and archers enough to hold this wall for a time."
"Lord Faramir?"
"Resting within, my lord," Haldan nodded toward the ruined walls. "All made it safely here."
"I lost one man, two were wounded."
The other man glanced at the heir then was silent for a moment before speaking. "No, my lord, two are missing," Haldan said quietly. He had counted after the men were safely over the wall; the tally was short by two.
Boromir stared at him, his gray eyes wide with horror; then he buried his face in his hands. In the woods, he thought, I left one of them in the woods.
At first, he did not see Faramir lying in the far corner, away from the doorway. After a moment of staring into the dark, he spotted him and hastened over, careful not to trip on the uneven floor.
"How do you fare?" Boromir asked him. "Better, I hope." He saw the damp cloth on his brother's forehead, and in the dim light, Faramir's eyes glittered with fever as he turned to look at him, his movements quick and restless.
"I am just weary, Boromir; I think I could sleep for a week," the wounded man said hoarsely, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
Most likely that cut in his shoulder has festered; it was left too long untended. But once we bring him to the healers, Boromir told himself, he will soon recover. To believe otherwise seemed faithless, and he pushed away the thought that his brother might die.
"I heard fighting just now." Faramir frowned slightly. "You come in the very nick of time."
Boromir ran a hand through his hair. He bit his lower lip then said, "The enemy followed close on my heels, Faramir, but for now we hold the wall."
Faramir began to suspect that he had been misled about their plight, but he asked no further questions. While Boromir led the defense of this place, he could ill afford to be distracted. Faramir would keep his fears to himself.
The firelight dimmed as a man stepped through the doorway; with an uneven tread, he limped across the floor. Holding up a mail shirt of blackened steel, Haldan told Boromir, "Not so sturdy as the armor you lost, but it is better than nothing, my lord." Boromir tried on the mail shirt; it was somewhat short but was wide enough across the shoulders. He still carried the orc shield and bow that he had picked up at the bridge. More and more I look like an orc. Now I need pointed teeth and squinty eyes.
Haldan knelt unsteadily and hunted through one of the knapsacks; he handed Boromir bread and dried meat. "My lord, you and Lord Faramir should eat." The heir had not broken his fast since late afternoon, and Haldan did not know when he would have another chance to rest and take some food. There was at least one more fight before them.
"Still they wait?" Boromir asked; he wondered how long this siege would last.
"Yes, my lord. Well-drilled troops, for their kind. That captain keeps them closely in hand." The old officer had been watching them from the wall, and he did not see the usual squabbling and fighting within their ranks. "I will send word if there is any change." He bowed slightly then left.
"Boromir, I am not hungry," Faramir protested weakly as his brother slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him so that he could eat.
"You will feel better after taking some food," Boromir said firmly. He is far too warm, and his tunic is soaked with sweat.
Nearby, the young ranger sat almost hidden in shadow. "Hirluin?" Boromir recalled that was this man's name. "I need your help, the bread is there." He had softened a hunk of stale bread with water. "Tear it into small pieces."
Hirluin had to feed the wounded man a little bread at a time, as if he were a small child. The young ranger's hands trembled so badly that he kept dropping the food; Boromir pretended not to notice. His brother endured their ministrations without complaint, but Boromir saw how slowly and listlessly he ate.
When Faramir was too tired to eat any more, they settled him on the ground and covered him with a blanket; despite the fever or perhaps because of it, he was shivering in the cool night air. Boromir sat beside him and had some bread and meat. While chewing the stringy flesh, he weighed the strengths and weaknesses of his enemy. He considered what Haldan had said—that these troops were kept well in hand-and it seemed to him that orcs, like men, could become too well-disciplined. He took this thought and turned it over in his mind. Perhaps one bold and final stroke could still save Faramir and the others.
"I am needed outside, but I will be back before long," he told his brother, "Try to stay out of trouble."
Faramir gave a weak laugh. "And who do I have as an example to follow, older brother? Although, at present," he added ruefully, "I think that any trouble will have to find me."
Farewell and safe return, Boromir said silently as he rose to leave. He laid a reassuring hand on Hirluin's shoulder, saying "Good man. My brother is fortunate to have you with him." The ranger bowed his head in embarrassment, answering the heir with a whispered, "Yes, sir. I mean, thank you, sir." Then Boromir left.
So that's where those prisoners are, the captain from the Black Tower said to himself. The trick would be capturing them alive; he wasn't worried that they would escape—he had a string of guards posted around the farmhouse.
His scouts had found a low spot in the wall, where the stones had shifted and fallen. A dense thicket of birches would give them cover as they approached. If his lads could force their way through the wall at that point, they would drive the tarks back into the farmhouse. Then he could just smoke them out of their lair.
A small group of orcs stood in a half circle as the sergeant gave them their orders. He signaled them to follow, then he disappeared into the cover of the birch trees. A short distance from the farmhouse, the orcs burst into the open and charged toward the garden wall with a shout.
Raising their red-painted shields, they surged forward. The archers were surprised but quickly drew and aimed. An orc slid to his knees, an arrow in his stomach; at this range, his mail shirt had not saved him. A second orc fell to a shot coming from the roof of the farmhouse. Just before reaching the garden wall, three others were hit and dropped to the ground. As arrows thudded into their shields, the remaining orcs hesitated and the orderly charge was broken. The sergeant blew a blast on a great horn, and they fell back again. A parting shot from the rooftop put a dent in the sergeant's helm. As the enemy soldiers retreated, a dark figure slid down from the wall and joined them.
Standing on a narrow, stone ledge beside the chimney, Eldahil steadied his aim. Then he hesitated; though the soldier was crouched over and ran with an awkward, bow-legged gait, Eldahil had never seen an orc with such long legs. Lowering the bow, he quickly glanced over the side of the house and realized that his noble but insanely reckless cousin was nowhere to be seen.
The orc helm was not a good fit, and Boromir hoped it would not fall off. He had smeared mud on his face, but he had to admit that was not much of a disguise. Hunching his shoulders, he loped along after the orcs. Faramir would be better at this sort of thing, he thought. He started in surprise when an orc stepped in his path. The enemy soldier glared at him and snarled in its uncouth language. Talking had not been part of Boromir's plan; he had no idea what to say.
After staring blankly for a moment, he snarled back and roughly shoved the orc out of his way. The enemy soldier stumbled backwards, yelling in surprise. Before the orc could take a closer look at him, Boromir hunched his shoulders and ran toward the edge of the woods.
As he watched the raid fall back in disarray, the orc captain decided a change in tactics was in order. Looks like we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way. He would surround and overwhelm the enemy position with sheer force.
"Listen up, lads," he shouted to his troops. "I want two of these tarks alive. Odds are they'll be together. They're dressed like greenboys, and one has white hair like this," he held up a scalp taken from an unlucky Rider. He tossed a heavy coin in the air and caught it on the back of his hand. "A gold coin for each of 'em, lads." The orcs raised their fists and gave a harsh yell.
"You!" the captain pointed at Varag. "Get in front." No point losing a perfectly good soldier to an arrow when this mountain maggot was around.
The captain from the Black Tower would remain at the edge of the woods, where he could clearly watch the battle. He called his sergeant over. "Snaga, don't forget to take out that archer up on the chimney."
"As good as dead, sir," the sergeant replied. He picked up a spear from the ground; a dirty green and white flag was tied to the shaft, just below the spearpoint. Facing the troops, he ordered, "Draw steel!" There was a harsh ringing as the orcs drew their swords. Raising the tattered standard above his head, the sergeant pointed with the spear toward the farmhouse. "For Mordor and the Eye, charge!"
An answering cry went up from the troops, "Mordor, Mordor!" Striking their sword hilts against their shields in a steady rhythm, the orcs marched forward. In the firelight, they had the gleaming eyes of wolves.
