Many thanks to my husband, a student of the martial arts, for explaining the physics of sword blows with a steak knife.


"The servants set wine and meat outside the chamber door, but they are left untouched," the captain of the Tower Guard said in a low voice. "And since yester eve, my men have seen a flickering light at the summit of the tower." He exchanged a knowing glance with the older man.

"As soon as we heard the young lords were missing, a messenger was sent to Prince Imrahil, but he is several days away. And Lord Hurin has yet to return from Lossarnach," the silver-haired councillor replied with a frown.

"When last I saw the lord steward, his mood was fell and strange; I fear that he will do himself mischief," the captain said, shaking his head.

High above them, in the White Tower, the windows were open, and the shutters banged loudly as they swung back and forth. No fires had been set in the braziers, and the small chamber was cold and dark. Parchment rustled softly in the wind; the books and scrolls had been shoved to the floor. Slumped forward from a carved wooden chair, the steward lay with his arms stretched out across the table. His haggard face was so close that it almost touched the globe of black glass, and the flickering lights were reflected in his eyes.

He was vaguely aware that the chamber had grown cold, and, with a sharp pang of hunger, he heard the rattle of silver dishes at the door. He turned from these distractions with the ease of long practice; the greater struggle was to keep his tired mind from straying afield. Endlessly, he retraced the past two days, searching the river from Osgiliath to the sea.

His face was pale and worn, lifeless except for the shining of his dark eyes. "I dare not look away," the steward whispered to himself, his voice cold and hoarse, like the sound of a dead branch dragged over stone. "I dare not look away, for fear I miss some sign of them."


Varag reached for the sword that was planted in the rubble behind him. "Darkness take you," he snarled at the fair-haired ranger as his fist closed around the hilt. With his left arm clenched around the orc's waist, Hirluin stubbornly hung on and drove the knife into the leg another time. His only plan was to keep stabbing until either he or the enemy was dead.

As Varag yanked the weapon from the ground, his injured leg buckled and gave way. With the tark still holding fast to his back, he landed heavily on his face, losing his grip on the hilt as he fell. The orc reached out with his right arm, scrabbling among the broken crockery for the sword; he caught the hilt and wrapped his hand around it.

Terrified and short of breath, Hirluin let go of the enemy's waist and reached out with his left hand to grab the neck opening of the orc's armor. Hauling himself forward, he aimed a stab under the ribs, but the coat of plates turned the blade. Slashing blindly, Varag swung the heavy sword over his own shoulder to hit the man behind him. Hirluin gave a sharp cry as the blade tore into his back; but even through the breathless agony, he knew that he must not drop the dagger. He had to keep fighting, and nothing else must matter. He clenched his hand more tightly around the silver hilt and blinked the tears of pain from his eyes.

While sprawled facedown, Varag could not swing the sword freely nor with much strength; he snarled and tried to roll over, hoping to knock this cursed tark from his back. Shifting his weight, Hirluin kept the orc pinned to the ground; he knew that, once free and standing on his feet, the enemy would swiftly cut him down The orc drew back and struck clumsily with the flat of the sword; Hirluin gave a choked gasp as the blow grazed the old wound on the back of his head. He stabbed at the orc's ribs again; the enemy jerked violently as the blade slid between the plates, but the cut was not deep. With a wild swing, the orc slashed at Hirluin's back, the point of the blade digging across his shoulders.

As the orc raised the sword again, Hirluin suddenly spotted a gap in his armor—under the shoulder, where the leather sleeves were loosely laced to the body. Dazed with pain and almost without thinking, he reached up and drove the dagger in, deep under the arm and into his lungs. Dropping the sword, Varag writhed and grabbed blindly for the man's neck. As the orc reached behind his own shoulder, Hirluin stabbed under the arm once more. With a strangled cry, Varag flung out his arms and clawed frantically at the rubble. Wincing, Hirluin drew the blade out, then he collapsed across the orc's body. The ranger's head was turned to the side, and his blue eyes wandered without focus then closed as a dark stain spread across the back of his tunic. His fingers uncurled from the hilt, and the silver dagger fell, its blade glinting in the firelight, to the floor.


It took long enough, but at least we finally knocked that fellow down from the chimney, the orc sergeant thought. That archer shooting from above had been making the lads a little twitchy, but he wouldn't be bothering them anymore—he had hit the ground pretty hard. Now for those two prisoners, he reminded himself, I'll wager they're inside.

"Hey, Gorgash, get your carcass over here!" the sergeant shouted. An orc trotted over and gave a hasty salute with his sword. He carried a battered, black shield painted with the red eye of Mordor; a single white-feathered arrow stuck out of the pupil. "Take a couple of lads and check the farmhouse for those rangers. If you find 'em, bring 'em back here-things are gonna get a little wild when the fighting is over, and I don't want those two hacked up. Remember what the captain said—a coin for each of 'em, alive and undamaged." He saw the glint in Gorgash's eyes at the thought of the promised gold. The captain was clever to offer a bounty; these lads were eager to kill, but greed would cool their bloodlust.

Led by Gorgash, the three orcs circled the edge of the battle until they found a stretch of wall that was defended by a lone cavalryman with a spear shaft sticking out of his back. They scrambled over the stones and headed toward the ruined farmhouse.


The silver-hilted dagger slid from his hand and hit the floor with a sharp clatter. The young ranger lay still, too weak to reach down to take up the knife. The shifting firelight and the bright-shining stars grew dim; the world was in shadow, as if he looked through a dark and heavy veil. The sounds of fighting seemed likewise muffled and unclear. Beneath him, he could feel the orc's ribcage rise and fall, heaving with each labored breath. Too overcome by weariness to heed any danger, his blond head slumped on the enemy's shoulder as he slowly drifted away.

When he woke, the veil was drawn back, and once again he saw the ruined walls and the starry sky above them. As he lifted his head to look around, he saw the back of Lord Faramir's head; the wounded man was lying on his side, a few steps away. Hirluin slowly dragged himself from the orc's body then sat still for a moment, resting his forehead on his knees so he would not faint. When the dizziness had passed, he swept his hands across the loose stones and pottery shards, searching until he grasped the hilt of the dagger. He knelt beside the orc and, with trembling hands, slid the blade between the enemy's helm and the leather collar protecting his neck. In the northern woods, Hirluin had hunted boar and wolf with his kinsmen so he knew enough to make sure of the kill. Taking a shaky breath, the young ranger leaned forward on the hilt and pushed the dagger in. He gave a choked cry as he moved the muscles in his shoulders, and his back felt cold where the blood had soaked his tunic. His strength would soon be bled away, so he knew that he must hurry.

On his hands and knees, he crawled to where Lord Faramir lay, unmoved from where the orc had flung him down. His dark hair had fallen forward, and it clung to his sweat-streaked face; a thin line of blood ran from his nose. Hirluin shook with exhaustion and anger as he cut the gag and pulled it away. He clumsily turned the unconscious man onto his back then cut the linen bandages that bound his wrists.

"Sir," Hirluin whispered, "Wake up." He grasped Lord Faramir's uninjured shoulder and gave him a hesitant shake; he did not know what else to do, and there was no one to give him orders. He flinched as something hit the other side of the wall with a heavy thud; then he heard a clear ringing as a sword struck the stones outside. A second thud was followed by a sharp cry. "Lord Faramir," he whispered more loudly, shaking the wounded man again. When he heard the tread of boots, the young ranger looked toward the empty doorway. He took the dagger in an unsteady hand, but too well he knew he would not last a second fight.


His troops would soon take the wall and finish off the defenders. He had lost some good soldiers, almost a third of his lads, but if his suspicions were right, he would bring a great prize to Lord Sauron. Soon he would know if those prisoners were worth the price. Standing at the edge of the woods, the captain from Mordor stared intently at the ruined farmhouse, his yellow eyes narrowed. The hilt of that dagger looked like solid silver. That mountain maggot Varag had said the dark-haired ranger had been the one wearing the pretty knife. But that light-haired man would still have his uses-as a hostage to force the other's cooperation. He knew how these rangers were.

Two shields, painted with the red eye and rimmed with black iron, were leaning against the roots of a huge oak tree. Nearby, the captain's bodyguards kept a wary eye on the farmhouse and the woods. Deer, startled by the sounds of battle, bounded into the open fields then noisily took cover in the thickets. High above, white owls whirred and flitted nervously from branch to branch. They watched the orcs below, their great black eyes staring out of the pale plumage of their faces. "Death owls, curse them," one of the guards muttered then spat on the ground superstitiously. It made the orcs uneasy to be so far from the stone highway.

The guards watched as a messenger approached across the field. He was breathing heavily, winded from his errand, and he swung his arms awkwardly as he ran. His shield was slung across his back along with a bow; at his side, he wore a long sword. The two orcs stood aside to let him pass.

The captain stepped forward to hear his report. Without slowing his pace, the messenger reached behind his back, under the shield.

Backstabbing swine! the captain thought, as he swiftly reached for his sword. The blade had just cleared the sheath when the messenger slammed into him, driving a knife up under his ribcage. The messenger had a strong arm, and he put his shoulder behind the blow. The sharp point of the dagger easily pierced the steel mesh of the captain's mail shirt. Cursing, the bodyguards drew steel and started toward the assassin. The captain's sword fell to the ground, the blade ringing against the stones. With a grunt of pain, he bent double, blindly grasping at the hilt of the dagger. Agony and disbelief stared out of his yellow eyes.

Yanking out the knife, the messenger said haughtily, "Lord Denethor sends this dispatch," then he stepped clear as the captain from Mordor staggered and fell to his knees. Though the words were in the common speech, his clear voice rang with the flowing rhythm of Sindarin.

"Tark!" one of the bodyguards shouted as they charged toward him.

Taking the dagger in his left hand, Boromir drew the ranger sword with the other. There was no time to unsling the shield and slide it onto his arm. He circled, moving quickly to the side, so only one of the foe would face him at a time. The first orc closed with him, aiming for his head. Boromir raised the dagger and caught the sword, but the force of the blow pushed aside his hand and the orc's blade slid free and glanced against his helm. For a short moment, he felt stunned and deafened, and then he realized that his ill-fitting orc helm was gone. With a dull glimmer of iron, it was rolling across the grass. Boromir swiftly recovered and stepped forward. Moonlight gleamed faintly on the blade as he brought the sword down; the guard saw the flicker of light but moved out of the way too late. The orc shrieked as the force of the blow shattered his collarbone and knocked him to the ground. The second guard hung back, staring at Boromir, then turned and fled, crashing through the underbrush and into the woods.

Dropping to one knee beside the captain, Boromir quickly searched the corpse. He found what he had hoped for and pulled the leather strap over the orc's head. That sergeant had sounded the retreat on a horn, and Boromir had guessed that his captain would carry one as well. The black horn was bound with crude fittings of iron instead of silver, yet still it was not unlike the ancient heirloom he had left in Osgiliath. He put the instrument to his lips and sounded a flat, bleating note. Scowling slightly, he tried again, using more force of breath. The enemy's call had reminded him of the howling of wolves—a single note, sustained but wavering in pitch. The call had started low then sprung up to a keening high-note. On the second try, he made fair pretense of the sergeant's signal to retreat; the horn sang out a long, baleful note. He blew the call again. Orcs, like men, can become too well-drilled, he thought grimly as he called the enemy to him.

At the farmhouse, some of the orcs heard the long, wavering note and began to fall back, puzzled by the order to retreat. The tarks were almost beaten. Their sergeant looked uncertainly toward the edge of the woods; then, raising the horn he carried, he blew the call to retreat. Confused and annoyed, he threw the dirty green and white standard to the ground. Some of the orcs did not hear the signal or could not break off their fight, but the sergeant gathered the rest of the company and hurried to report to his captain. A short distance from the edge of the woods, he gave an angry shout and started running. He did not see the bodyguards, but their shields were still leaning against the tree. Where the captain had waited, there stood a tall man. He wore no helm so the sergeant could see his pale features and his shoulder-length hair.

Boromir pointed to the orc captain's body and gave a contemptuous smile; he was so weary and desperate that it made him a little mad. He felt wild and light-headed, and it seemed as if there would be no easier thing in the world than to fight these creatures. The blood sang in his ears, and he laughed at the overwhelming odds; he had been born for this hopeless battle. He raised the horn to his lips and blew a cavalry call. He let the last note ring freely; then he threw the horn aside and, pulling his shield from his back, thrust his arm through the leather straps.


Why do they sound the retreat? Haldan asked himself as he stared after the fleeing orcs. The horn call rose again in a long, eerie howl. The enemy was cutting them to pieces; why fall back at the moment of victory? Perhaps half of the orcs had turned and were retreating. Then the pitch of the horn call changed, and his heart ached as he heard the brave notes for a cavalry charge. That would be Boromir's doing, he thought. He has killed their captain, and now he throws them into disarray. Yet, even so, it comes too late. Haldan had never known anyone quite like the heir, anyone who could inspire such a strange mixture of love and aggravation. And never had he seen such skill at arms in any man; yet in the end, these creatures would bring him down and kill him, like hounds harrying a stag.

"Captain Boromir!" one of the cavalrymen yelled as the last echoes of the call faded. Haldan glanced at him sharply then back at the retreating enemy; "Charge!" he cried at the top of his voice.

On the other side of the ruined building, Anborn heard the shouted order to charge. He looked around the farmyard and saw where the orcs had abandoned their battle standard nearby. Hoisting the spear, he raised the green and white banner. "Onward, horsemen!" he cried as the image of the white horse untangled and fell free. His small group of cavalrymen raised a ragged shout and followed as the ranger led the charge. With little trouble, they drove the remaining orcs over the garden wall and sent them running across the field.

"Halt!" Haldan shouted before the men could scatter in pursuit of the enemy. They did not have the numbers to mount a chase nor could they leave Lord Faramir unguarded.

Mardil caught at his arm. "We cannot forsake Captain Boromir! Would you leave him to stand against them alone?"

Ignoring him, Haldan ordered loudly, "Draw bows! Harry their retreat!" Then, more quietly, he said to the soldier, "We are too few; he is beyond our reach." He spoke no word of reprimand for the lapse in discipline; the men were weary beyond all endurance. We will not hold against the enemy for much longer.

From the edge of the woods floated the clash of weapons and the sound of a man's clear voice. The fight was beyond the ring of firelight, so the cavalrymen could see only the movement of shadows and the random glint of steel. Forcing himself to look away, Haldan turned his mind to the details of their defense. The enemy troops would soon return, but for a time there was a lull in the fighting.

"Mardil, Eradan, come with me; we must bear the wounded inside." As he turned back to the farmhouse, he saw that the ledge on the roof was empty. "Captain Eldahil?" he called, but there was no answer. Then he saw that the rose vines had fallen in a heap at the foot of the chimney. As he drew near, the sleeve of a bright blue tunic caught Haldan's eye. The captain from the south of Gondor lay sprawled on the ground, beneath a tangle of twisted branches. His face was hidden by dark, green leaves, but one arm was flung out in the grass as if he had tried to break the fall. The blue silk sleeve was in tatters and the outstretched arm streaked with blood.

Haldan knelt unsteadily on one knee and leaned closer, listening for the sound of breathing, but he heard nothing. Most likely, young Eldahil had died soon after he hit the ground. The old soldier started to push aside the branches then stopped, stumbling to his feet with a shout. Beneath the dead man lay the body of an orc. He must have slipped past us in the confusion of the fight. He glanced at the empty window with sudden dread. With Mardil and Eradan following, he ran to the fire; from the edge of the blaze, he pulled out a branch and, holding it as a torch, went up the stone front steps He stumbled and had to steady himself against the side of the doorway.

"Let me go first, sir," Mardil offered, with a glance at the old officer's mangled arm. Haldan started to protest then just nodded instead. The young cavalryman moved warily into the ruined building, glancing quickly along the walls. Once he was sure that no orcs were waiting in ambush, he relaxed slightly and beckoned to the others.

"Lord Faramir?" Haldan called. His voice echoed slightly on the bare stone walls. When they stepped forward, he saw that someone lay stretched out in the center of the room. The shadows swayed unsteadily as, still carrying the torch, he hurried across the floor.

As the light fell over the body, Mardil said, "Dead, sir."

Haldan gave him a wild look; then he turned toward the corner of the room. In the place where Lord Faramir had lain was an empty tangle of blankets. "Now the tally of this day's evils is complete," Haldan said in hoarse whisper.