"No need to wake the others, but look yonder and tell me what you see." The ranger gestured to the south, where a haze of light veiled the stars just above the horizon.
"Likely a deserted campfire and nothing more, Falborn. Oft the enemy is careless with fire." The other man pulled his woolen cloak more closely around him and pulled up the hood; under such a clear sky, the heat of day had quickly faded.
"It seems too early in the summer for a fire to spread like that."
"True, but it has not rained in days, and already the woods are dry." He blew on his hands and rubbed them together, longing for the cozy warmth of his blankets. In a nearby thicket, the other rangers of their patrol were still soundly asleep.
"You may be right," Falborn replied as he walked quietly over to their fire. It had been well banked with ashes, and he had to dig out a coal to light his pipe. To eke out his supply of pipeweed, he had mixed in some herbs that grew wild in Ithilien. The clean smell of mint drifted in the air as he blew out a long stream of smoke. He offered the pipe, but the other man declined with a slight shake of his head. "Still, 'tis strange that it does not burn out."
The two rangers stood in silence and watched the distant fire for a time.
This is naught but a dream, Faramir told himself as a twig snapped under his boot. Yet he felt wide awake, and every detail was so clear. The air was warm and heavy; he could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck.
Save for the buzzing of the flies, the ravine was silent. Dead orcs and men lay scattered across the ground. It has been several days, he thought. A few feet away, a man in the plain green and brown of a ranger was sprawled facedown. My friend Lindir, Faramir thought; he knew him by his gear-at his side, the dead man wore a leather scabbard that was etched with a design of curling vines and leaves. A cord, braided of red silk, was looped through one of the buckles; Faramir watched as the wind caught the tassel and lifted each thread back and forth. All of them followed me, and this is what they came to.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slight movement. His heart pounding, he turned and ran to kneel beside the injured man.
Boromir looked up at him, his grey eyes confused and filled with pain. He had no helm or mail, and his heavy, quilted shirt was torn and soaked with blood."Slain by the werewolf," his brother whispered, his sides heaving as he struggled to breath. "Slain and devoured, one by one."
How is it that he is here? What errand brings him to this place? Faramir wondered, and then he felt smothered by dread. He followed me here, just like the rest.
"Boromir, it is all right; just keep still while I tend to you." He quickly found the wound and worked to staunch the bleeding. He pressed his hands against Boromir's ribs, but the warm blood kept welling through his fingers. He drew up the lower hem of the tunic and tried to pack the cloth into the gash.
His brother did not seem to hear him. He spoke brokenly as he fought for breath. "Do you not recall what Father told us? He said that oft the old tales are true." Boromir coughed weakly then grasped Faramir's shoulder and tried to sit up.
"No, you must keep still, you are bleeding! You will die!" Faramir shouted.
Something struck him in the face, and he opened his eyes in the darkness.
"I am sorry, sir," Hirluin said, his voice unsteady. "I could not wake you." The fair-haired ranger was leaning over Faramir; below the white bandages that swathed his forehead, his eyes were wide with alarm.
Faramir thought he must have called out in his sleep. He was too short of breath to speak, so he just nodded weakly. He forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly until he could no longer hear the sound of blood rushing in his ears. Above them, the stars of the Sickle shone below the waxing moon. He had fallen asleep again, and while he walked in evil dreams, the stars had shifted and turned in the sky.
He heard the pile of wood settling as someone threw a few branches on the fire outside. The light dimmed for a moment then grew brighter as the fresh wood caught fire. Some distance away, an orc shouted as if giving orders. Faramir knew nothing of their foul language; he caught only "Mordor" and even that was a loanword from the Sindarin. But then the enemy troops began to strike their sword hilts on their shields, and that language he understood too well. Soon, they would march on the farmhouse.
"Now you must hide yourself," he told the young ranger. "Pay no heed to the orcs, no matter what befalls-do not look at them, do not think of them. Keep silent and still." His hope was that if Hirluin stayed safely concealed, the rangers who patrolled these woods would later find him. Eventually, they would pass by the farmhouse and stop to search the place of battle.
Hirluin did not move. "Captain Eldahil ordered me to attend to you, sir," he said hesitantly.
"As a member of my patrol, you are still under my orders." In point of fact, this was not true. His men had been killed or captured, and that patrol no longer existed. Fevered and weak, he was so clearly unfit for command that Hirluin was in no way bound to obey him. However, he was praying that Hirluin did not realize this.
Bowing his head, the fair-haired ranger murmured, "Forgive me, sir. I meant no offense."
Faramir silently thanked the Valar. "Where none was meant, none is taken, Hirluin, but now you must hide."
So like my noble cousin to charge off to die with glory, while the rest of us just get to die. From the ledge beside the chimney, Eldahil watched the enemy advance across the field. An orc raised a spear and waved toward the farmhouse; tangled around the shaft was a green and white banner. A trophy from the northlands, Eldahil thought grimly. As the flag shook free and unfolded, he saw that a red eye had been crudely scrawled over the white horse. Though I cannot say much for their draftsmanship.
Haldan had not been surprised when Captain Eldahil told him that Boromir was headed toward the woods. As soon as he had realized that the heir was missing, he had easily guessed his errand. A bold move, but still it was too little and too late. A pity no one will be left to tell the tale or make a song; Boromir would have liked that, Haldan said to himself. The enemy was almost upon them and the firelight flashed on their swords, so his prayer to the Valar was short—I beg of you, do not let them take him alive.
Since Boromir was gone, Haldan had sent Anborn to lead the defense on the other side of the farmhouse. The old cavalryman and the taciturn ranger had discussed how best to deploy their few men. Their half of the chessboard was almost empty, the game already lost.
"At will!" Haldan shouted when the enemy came within range. Beside him, Mardil drew his bow and aimed, all in one flowing motion. With the slightest movement of his hand, the archer loosed the string and sent the arrow flying. The thud of the bowstring was followed shortly by a scream as an orc clutched at the arrow in his leg. Stepping over their fallen comrades, the orcs still marched forward in close formation.
Haldan called up to Eldahil, "Captain, the boldest are oft the most vain; aim for those who wear a badge or other token." The younger man acknowledged the command with an offhand yet graceful salute.
From his vantage point next to the chimney, Eldahil could aim over the front rank of the enemy. How about that one with the horsehair crest on top of his helm? He chose his target then loosed an arrow. Hah! One more servant of evil who will trouble us no more, he thought as the arrow plunged into the orc's chest. That leaves only seventy more to go. He took a shot at the orc bearing the tattered green and white banner but narrowly missed, hitting the soldier next to him instead. Next, that one with the dead weasel on his helm.
The orc sergeant lifted the battle standard in one hand and, raising a black horn to his lips with the other, blew a short call. The orcs broke into a run, charging toward the garden wall. Swiftly, the men discarded their bows, taking up iron-rimmed shields and drawing their swords. With a harsh shout, the orcs surged against the stonework; several enemy soldiers, bolder or less sane than the rest, clambered over first. As Mardil blocked a strike at his neck, Haldan caught a movement with the corner of his eye and turned to face the enemy.
The orc ran forward and brought down the heavy sword. The old soldier managed to turn it aside, but his shield arm ached from the force of the blow. They were so close that he could see the yellow eyes, intelligent yet inhuman.
The orc squinted narrowly at his opponent then gave a spiteful laugh. He saw the man's grizzled beard and the pale scars on his face. "You should've stayed in Mundberg and died in your bed, old man."
Staring fixedly at his opponent, Haldan said nothing, just raised his shield higher. With a sneer, the orc said, "You're slow and weak, too old—" then gave a choked cry as the sword pierced his mail shirt and cut into his abdomen.
Too old to be distracted by the likes of you, the gray-haired soldier thought, as he yanked the blade free. Reaching with his right hand behind his own back, he had brought the sword around and stabbed from the left side. It was an awkward movement and not as forceful as some, but it was always unexpected.
Beside him, Mardil was stepping over the body of his opponent. One of the cavalrymen lay unmoving beside the garden wall; from the strange way the man's neck was bent, Haldan thought he looked to be dead. Slowly, the orcs were pushing them back toward the farmhouse.
He heard Mardil shout, "Captain! To your right!" Looking quickly over his shoulder, he turned to the right, slashing sideways with the blade as he pivoted. He struck the orc heavily in the upper arm at the same moment that the orc brought his sword down. With a grunt, the enemy soldier let go of the sword and, clutching his maimed arm, stumbled away toward the wall.
Haldan stared down at the long slice in his leather gauntlet; the orc's sword had laid open his hand and forearm. Dazed with pain, he shook his head to clear his mind. He found that he could still use the arm, though blood ran down the gauntlet so that his hand kept slipping on the hilt of the sword. He thought that his duty had never been so simple or so clear-he would keep fighting until they killed him. As another orc ran toward him, this task seemed well within his grasp.
With the orcs so close, Eldahil risked hitting friend as well as foe. He had to shoot more slowly, watching the battle, looking for a clear shot. He saw one of the orcs break free of the fighting and dash toward the farmhouse. As Eldahil sighted down the arrow, he noticed that unlike the rest of the troop, this orc had no mail and wore only a leather shirt reinforced with metal plates. The young captain aimed for the intestines, but his shot glanced off one of the plates with a dull clatter. When the orc reached the base of the chimney, he squinted and looked around warily. Swiftly nocking another arrow, Eldahil dropped to one knee so he could aim at the orc below him. The enemy soldier darted a few steps away then peered in the empty window; after glancing over his shoulder again, he put a boot on the sill.
Eldahil drew his breath in sharply. He thought of his cousin and that young ranger-they were alone and without defense. He steadily fixed his aim, but as he loosed the shot, he jumped in surprise and the arrow went wild. A claw-like hand had seized him by the ankle. Next to the stone ledge, an orc was hanging onto the rose vines with one hand as he reached up with the other to pull down the archer. Swinging the bow sharply, Eldahil rammed the end in the orc's face; as the enemy brought his hands up, the man pulled his leg free and scrambled to his feet. Snarling, the orc drew a short sword and climbed onto the stone ledge.
Eldahil backed up against the stonework; he steadied himself against the side of the chimney as he drew the scavenged orc sword with his right hand. The weapon was unwieldy and heavy, and there was a good chance he would overbalance and fall when he went to use it, but he did not have much choice. Make that "any choice," he thought nervously.
As he leaned his free hand against the stonework, one of the stones shifted and fell inward, dropping down the flue of the chimney. With a sudden jerk, his arm slid into the hole left by the falling stone. The orc saw that his prey was trapped and, growling uneasily at the narrow footing, he raised the short sword above his head and stepped forward. As Eldahil struggled frantically to pull his arm from the hole, he felt something under his hand, a heavy and small object. Without thinking, he snatched it as he yanked his arm free, then he clumsily threw it in the orc's face The orc flinched and stumbled as the stone struck him in the nose. The young captain darted forward and, giving him a light push, sent him over the side.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, Eldahil said to himself. But now I must needs go below and see to Cousin Faramir. He glanced down at the window; he saw no sign of the orc in the leather armor. He turned to peer down the other side of the wall. With the roof fallen, the inside of the farmhouse was open to the sky, but it was too dark for him to see anything.
He had just started to climb down, when the rose branches started shaking wildly. Eldahil cursed his luck as another orc clambered up the side of the chimney. Scrabbling to hold onto the stone ledge for balance, he landed a boot on the enemy's head; snarling, the orc slashed at his ankle with a long knife. Eldahil had just landed another kick in the orc's face when the vines creaked loudly then shuddered and snapped under their weight. Clawing for a handhold, the orc reached out and grabbed the man's leg. Eldahil slipped as the vines gave way underneath him, but he managed to keep hold of the ledge with his arm. For a moment, he hung onto the edge, then the orc's weight loosened his grip and they both fell.
He found himself lying with his face in the grass; he realized that he must have been struck senseless by the fall. A weight pressed across his back and legs, pinning him down, and he could feel the sharp prickle of thorns against the back of his neck. When he hit the ground, the air had been driven from his lungs, and with each quick, shallow breath, his ribs burned with agony. If he tried to move even slightly, the pain left him shaking and bathed in cold sweat. Best keep still until someone finds me, he told himself, but then he remembered who that most likely would be. Perhaps if he moved very slowly, he could crawl out from under the branches. He tried to reach out with an arm, then wincing with pain, he lay very still. Gradually, the shouting and clash of battle faded, and he heard a distant roaring; as it grew louder, he recognized it—the sound of the sea on a rocky coastline. He had not thought to hear that again, so he was glad. Dazed and weak, he floated and listened for a time, and then the dark undertow drew him down, and he was gone.
Better make sure that sergeant isn't watching, Varag thought. After a quick look around, he put a boot on the window sill and climbed up; then he jumped heavily to the floor, cursing loudly as his sword hung up on the ledge. Think I'll let those Mordor boys handle this. After one of the tarks had split his shield clean down the middle, Varag had decided it was time to find a hiding place where he could wait out this fight. Some place dark and quiet.
From where he was hidden, Hirluin saw a dark shape climb in the window. Firelight glinted on the metal plates of his armor, and as the orc glanced around, Hirluin saw the red firelight shining in his eyes. Sword drawn, the orc stepped over the broken crockery and pieces of slate, looking warily about him. Hirluin feared that the shallow rise and fall of his ribs would betray him, and he fought to slow his breathing. He sat crouched on his heels, at the very back of the fireplace; when he shifted his weight, the slightest grinding of his boot in the ashes seemed unbearably loud.
Faramir lay in a shadowy corner far from the window, and for a moment, he had thought that the enemy would not see him. As the orc turned to look around, his eyes glinted red, and Faramir thought suddenly of the werewolf in Denethor's tale, with its two eyes gleaming in the dark. Though his heart raced, he tried to still his breathing, and he closed his eyes so he would not unwittingly turn to look. Several steps from him, the orc halted and gave a harsh laugh. "Fancy finding you here, tark," Varag said in the common speech. In spite of himself, Faramir looked up when he heard that scornful voice; indeed, he would not soon have forgotten the sound of it.
Even as hope died within him, he had a clear and sudden vision of Hirluin. He could see him kneeling in the ashes, his blond head bowed, his mind troubled by fear and shame. Faramir silently willed him to stay safely hidden. Weary and injured, the untried ranger would be quickly struck down by this vicious, cunning orc.
Varag stared at the damp cloth spread across the man's forehead and noticed that he was closely wrapped in blankets. "Not feeling so good, tark? Just makes my work that much easier." The orc sheathed the sword and squatted down beside the wounded man. He pulled off the coverings and threw them aside. As he leaned forward, the hilt tipped down and the blade slid a few inches out of the scabbard. Faramir saw the glint of steel and rolled onto his side, reaching for the sword with his uninjured arm. Even as he grabbed for the weapon, he knew he was too slow, his arm too weak.
The orc struck away his hand then cuffed him sharply across the face. "None of that. No more trouble from you." Pulling the sword from the scabbard, Varag thrust it into the ground beside him, well out of Faramir's reach, and then he turned back to his prisoner. Faramir gave a sharp cry of pain as the orc roughly unwound the bandages from his shoulder and tore off a strip of linen.
"I'd question you myself, but orders are orders. That captain seems very keen to talk with you. Maybe if you're lucky, he'll take you back to the Black Tower." Varag gave a snort of laughter.
They will take me still living to the Enemy! Faramir struggled to breathe, but he felt smothered as if a heavy weight were on his with terror, he tried to pull his hands away as the enemy soldier bound his wrists, wrapping the linen around several times. The orc tore off another strip of linen. "No," Faramir choked out and tried to turn his face away. Grabbing a handful of his hair, the orc pulled his head back and forced the gag between his teeth. Varag tied the ends tightly so that his prisoner could not work it loose and cry out for help. "No more trouble from you, tark." Gasping for air, Faramir stared at the cold stars above the ruined walls, until the orc moved closer, his hunched shadow falling across him, and the stars disappeared.
Crouched against the back wall of the fireplace, Hirluin listened to the rapid, choked sound of Lord Faramir's breathing. The young ranger felt a weight of shame and grief pressing down on his heart. He thought of a branch heavy-laden with snow, bent low and near to breaking. He came from the northern woods near Rohan, where in the winter, the snow falls heavy and wet, and he had seen the dark fir trees break under its weight. As the snow silently settles on it, the fir branch creaks softly under its burden. It can scarcely bear the weight of one more snowflake. He knew that Lord Boromir and the others would hold him blameless, hurt and armed with naught but a dagger, and Lord Faramir had ordered him to hide and live. Yet he felt the shame would crush him that his fear would outweigh loyalty and love.
Hirluin could not see what the orc did as he leaned over the wounded man, but he was filled with horror when the terrified, raspy breathing stopped.
Dropping one knee to the ground and leaning forward, Varag slid an arm under his prisoner's back and lifted him, slinging him over his right shoulder. The man was a heavy burden; the orc braced his feet then slowly started to rise. Faramir's head fell forward as if he were dead or in a swoon. His arms swayed slightly as they hung down the orc's back; Hirluin saw that his hands had been bound.
For a moment, the young ranger felt his heart stop and his shallow breathing become still. It was as if the weight of the snow had suddenly shifted, by just the smallest amount. One snowflake too many, and the point of balance changed. The fir branch dipped suddenly, as the icy burden slid downward, and then swaying wildly, the branch sprang free toward the sky. In his mind, Hirluin saw the snow glitter as it was strewn into the sunlight. He rose to his feet, moving quickly and with stealth-a hunter, not a horselord-yet the cry of battle echoed in his heart. The silver hilt of the dagger was raised in his fist, and the air felt cold on his face as he ran.
The enemy wore a helm and a knee-length coat of plates, but as he bent over to lift the wounded man, the backs of his legs were left unprotected. Silently, Hirluin rushed in from the side. Driving his shoulder into the orc's ribs, he grabbed him around the waist with his left arm while driving the knife deep into his upper leg. He kept his head down, burying his face in the orc's lower back. Shouting in pain, Varag turned and let Faramir slide from his shoulder, dumping him on his attacker. Hirluin flinched as the body struck him, but he did not look up and he did not let go. Tightening his grip around the orc's waist, the ranger hung on and kept stabbing. Cursing, Varag made a reach for his sword, still thrust in the ground where he had left it.
