"The Sickle has swung below the trees, yet still that fire burns. As if it were a beacon."
The other ranger replied with a doubtful grunt. "Falborn, save for orcs and rabbits, the land is empty for miles around. Aerandir's men are on patrol well south of here."
Falborn rapped his pipe against the tree trunk to knock out the ashes then stuffed it with fresh pipeweed. Once the pipe was relit, he blew rings of light grey smoke and watched them lazily drift away until they dissolved into the darkness. The coals of the fire settled into the ashes with a soft thud. From the nearby thicket came the low, raspy sound of a ranger snoring.
Suddenly, he looked up from his pipe and said, "Ragnor, did you hear that?"
After a moment of silent listening, the other man shook his head slightly and replied, "I hear naught but Duinhir snoring." He thought that all new rangers should be made to prove that they could sleep as silently as they could stalk in the woods.
"Shh! There it is again."
Both heard it now. Very faint but unmistakable—the sound of a horn. A low, baying note, then a high, wavering howl.
"Orcs, from the sound of that call," Ragnor murmured. "But why do they blow the horn? Do they fight among their own kind or with one of our patrols?"
"I know not, but they are very close—no more than a league or two away. South of here, and like as not they set that blaze." Falborn quickly dumped the burning ashes from his pipe. "Wake the others while I douse the fire-we go to see what devilry is afoot." He lifted the pot of porridge, left simmering for their breakfast, and upended it over the coals.
In haste, the rangers packed up their simple camp and set out on their night march. They followed the course of a small stream that flowed south. Eventually, it merged into a stony river that emptied into the Anduin. The light of the full moon was dimmed by the dense canopy of oak leaves. Sloshing in the cold water, the rangers stumbled slowly along in the dark, their boots squelching with each step. Where thickets grew close along the banks, they pushed their way through the low-hanging branches. With the choked stream for their only path, they had to forgo swiftness for stealth. The patrol counted only ten men, and the strength of their foe was unknown.
"This stream leads to that farmhouse with the apple orchard," Falborn said in a low voice. It struck him that those ruined walls were the only defensible structure for leagues around.
A desolate wolf-howl rose to the moon.
"That horn again." He clutched at Ragnor's arm. "And steel! Do you hear it?"
The damp night air was still, and they could hear clearly the ring of steel on steel, then the crack of sword against shield. The horn sounded again, but this time in the notes of a Gondorian cavalry call.
"Drop your knapsacks and string your bows," Falborn ordered. The two youngest rangers would follow behind, carrying the entire patrol's gear. The others set a fast pace, abandoning secrecy, as they hastened toward the fire that burned like a beacon in the woods.
Though the old armsmaster at the Citadel had died years before, he seemed to live on in Boromir's head. Whenever he went into battle, he could hear this man's gravelly voice muttering advice. Look around you, my lord, even as you fight, his unseen councillor said. Do not let yourself be blinded by the flash of the enemy's sword. Boromir studied the orcs as they ran toward him. Thirty or more. If he let them, they would swiftly surround him.
Still shouting with rage, the orc sergeant rushed at him and swung down his blade. Facing attack from more than one side, Boromir dared not raise the shield in front of his eyes, not even for a moment. Instead, he raised his sword high above his head, the blade at an angle, to parry the blow. The orc's sword slid downward along the blade and caught against the quillons, right above the hilt. With the enemy's weapon still trapped, Boromir neatly stepped in and drove the pommel of his sword between the orc sergeant's eyes. His opponent dropped to the ground with a grunt of surprise. Before the others could overtake him, Boromir turned and ran past the great oak tree and into the woods.
As the enemy's heavy steps followed close behind him, he knew that a slip on a fallen branch or tree root would mean his death. Sweat trickling down the back of his neck, he tried to lengthen his stride even as he drove himself forward. His long legs bought him some ground, and the enemy fell behind. However, these orcs would outlast him, and once he was out of breath and winded, they would bring him down.
Then he spotted it—a small stream, its far bank overgrown with thickets. In a few swift paces, he forded across, the shallow water scarcely reaching his knees. Changing his sword to his left hand, he grabbed at a low-hanging branch and hauled himself up the far bank. Perched above the stream, he turned to face his foe, his back guarded by the dense thicket behind him.
As the enemy came to a halt at the edge of the water, he could see the faintest red glint in their eyes, light reflected from the distant fires.
The orcs stared at Boromir and argued in their own tongue.
"There might be more tarks back here."
"No, you fool, he's alone," a deep voice growled.
"Zaglun, he's leading us into a trap—it's an old ranger trick."
Zaglun rumbled in reply, "Afraid of one tark? There aren't any rangers around, or we would've seen 'em by now. This fellow is working on his own."
As they spoke, an orc waded out into the stream and, picking up a stone, shied it at Boromir. It flew wide, landing in the water with a dull thwack. Boromir swiftly caught up a rock and cast it with strength and well-practiced ease. The orc shrieked and fell into the water. A lucky shot in this poor light, Boromir thought.
Zaglun scratched his head then gave a harsh laugh. "Any of you got a bow?" Unneeded, their bows and quivers had been put aside before they charged the farmhouse wall. "Gorgash," he ordered, "find a bow and get back here."
"Who made you an officer?" Gorgash muttered under his breath as he loped toward the edge of the woods to look for a bow.
"You two with the spears." Zaglun pointed at two orcs. "Yes, you. Get over here."
As the orcs rushed forward and threw their spears, Boromir watched the weapons' slow, heavy flight; he caught one with his shield and easily ducked the other.
His back pressed against the wall of branches, he listened to the harsh voices; he did not speak their foul language, but he could easily guess their intent. None would wish to come within reach of his sword arm; soon enough, they would think to string a bow. Now that he stood still, his fierce elation and the wild rush of strength had faded, leaving only weariness and fear. Boromir watched the waiting enemy with heavy dread. This seems a poor death, he said to himself, brought to bay and slaughtered like a boar.
Across the stream, the enemy soldiers muttered and paced restlessly. Holding up a short bow, an orc pushed his way to the front of the group. His first shot went wild, skittering into the thicket behind Boromir. He nocked an arrow and drew again.
"Gondor!" Boromir cried as he raised the ranger sword above his head and staggered down the bank; a stone turned under his boot, and he nearly fell. Let me rid Ithilien of some orcs ere I die.
"Now the tally of this day's evils is complete." The voice was weary and hoarse, hardly more than a whisper. Then the swaying light of the torch receded, men's boots crunching on the broken rubble.
"Sir," Hirluin whispered. His throat was dry from breathing dust and soot, so he licked his lips and swallowed. "Sir," he tried again, his voice sounding scratchy and brittle as dead leaves.
He had collapsed after dragging Lord Faramir into hiding, and he still lay as he had fallen, facedown across Lord Faramir's chest, with his legs and lower body trailing in the ashes. He lifted his head and called again, as loudly as he was able.
The footsteps halted. "In the fireplace, sir!" someone shouted, and then he heard running. Wincing at the sudden bright light, he closed his eyes as they held the torch above him.
"Mardil, get some blankets," a man ordered, saying under his breath, "one at least is still alive."
"Look at his back, sir," another voice murmured. "Now we know who slew that orc. The knife is still clasped in his hand."
The shadow of a man leaned over him, and Hirluin flinched as fingers pressed against the side of his neck. "Steady, Hirluin. It is Captain Haldan."
The old officer reached over Hirluin as he felt for a pulse in Lord Faramir's neck. "Covered with ashes but still alive, thank the Valar. This ranger hauled him back here somehow."
Hirluin tightened his grasp as Haldan gently tried to take the knife from him. "No," he whispered desperately, pulling his hand away. If the enemy had found them, Hirluin had thought to do his lord one last service. He did not know if, in the end, he could have turned his hand to such a deed. Yet, better than any man, he knew what awaited at the hands of the orcs. Still clutching the dagger, he tried to push himself onto his hands and knees. He had to crawl away, but his arms were too weak to bear his own weight.
"Hirluin," the old officer said quietly, "lay down the dagger. I swear that I will return it once we bind up your wounds. We would not leave you unarmed." The young ranger let out his breath and relaxed his hand. Haldan took the knife and set it to the side.
"Spread out a blanket. We do not want to get more dirt in those cuts." They lifted him off Faramir and turned him onto his back. "Draw the edges around him; that is right. Now, Eradan, get him under the knees. No, lift him higher; he is catching on the branches." The fireplace was cluttered with half-burnt wood. After they carefully set him down in front of the hearth, they carried out Lord Faramir.
Mardil searched the knapsacks in the corner and returned with bandages and a spare linen shirt. They spread the shirt across Hirluin's back and bound it in place as a makeshift dressing. The wounds needed to be stitched, but that would have to be done later. If there is a later, Haldan reminded himself darkly. Lord Faramir watched them with half-closed eyes, his face flecked with gray ashes. Haldan was not sure that he even knew where he was, but when the two cavalrymen lifted him and held up the waterskin, he gulped the water eagerly.
They wrapped the wounded men in blankets and moved them back into the fireplace. Surrounded by stone, it was several feet deep, and its shelter would be the safest place during the coming fight. As they settled Hirluin against the back wall, he caught at Haldan's sleeve and whispered, "Dagger."
Best set his mind at ease, else he will drag himself away to find that knife, Haldan thought. This young ranger was nothing if not determined. Holding up the silver dagger so the injured man could see it, he said, "I will set this by your side." Hirluin's blue eyes watched closely as he laid the dagger on the ground; then the fair-haired ranger reached out and rested his hand on the hilt. "We will return soon," Haldan reassured him.
Then the old officer and the two cavalrymen left; they still had to bring in the other wounded before the orcs returned.
An arrow whistled above his head as Boromir half-slid down the bank. The orc quickly set another arrow to the string. Then he dropped the bow with a shouted curse. The bowstring must have snapped, Boromir thought, until another orc fell to the ground with a scream.
As arrows flew out of the thickets, the orcs scattered in terror, a few running towards him, into the stream.
"Down, you fool!" a voice shouted in Sindarin, off to his right. Boromir dropped to his knees then sprawled full-length into the shallow stream. Gasping from the shock of the cold water, he lifted his head above the surface to breathe. A few feet away, an orc stumbled and fell, an arrow in his throat. A sharp scream close by, then quick splashing of footsteps. Still holding the sword, he staggered to his feet.
Water trickling down his face, he stared wildly at the rangers.
"Friends. We are friends," a ranger said slowly. Boromir heard him murmur to the man beside him, "Valar help us if we have to carry him; he must weigh well over fourteen stone."
"Are you hurt or wounded?" the ranger asked Boromir.
Boromir shook his head, then added haltingly, "No, I am unharmed."
The other man said in low voice, "Orc armor. A scout?"
"Where is your patrol?" the first ranger asked Boromir.
"Patrol?" His mind slowed by weariness, Boromir stared at him. "No, not a patrol. I am with a troop of cavalry." His voice rose as he spoke, frantic yet also demanding. "My men are at the farmhouse; we must get back to them." He glanced at the rangers who stood gathered around. A dozen men at most, no more.
"Rein back your horses, trooper. Cavalry? And from Minas Tirith, by the manner of your speech." The ranger gave Boromir a curious look then nodded at the dead orcs. "They seldom stray so far from the eastern highway, and these are from Mordor. What is their strength?"
"I know not for certain, though less than four score," Boromir said.
One of the rangers drew Boromir's arm across his shoulders and supported him on one side as he walked. The iron rim of his shield bumped against the ranger with every step, but Boromir had refused to leave it behind. His rescuers were in a hurry, and this had sorely tried their patience. Weary, drenched, and cold, Boromir staggered through the woods. Fearing the worst, he dreaded the scene of slaughter that waited at the farmhouse.
From under a fir tree at the edge of the woods, the rangers looked across the open fields to the farmhouse. "All seems quiet," Falborn murmured to Boromir. "And there are your men."
Trying to get a clearer view, Boromir straightened his back, brushing his shoulder against a low branch. A shower of pinecones rattled down and pelted the rangers. Through a gap in the leaves, he could see that a few soldiers guarded the low stone wall and the great fire still blazed beside the front steps.
Though scattered, the enemy was still nearby, so the patrol left the cover of the woods at a run and crossed the open fields.
At the farmhouse, bows were raised and drawn, but the cavalrymen waited for Haldan to give the order to shoot. The old captain was not surprised that, even with their captain slain, the orcs would renew their attack. These creatures were driven by malice.
"Should we loose arrows, sir?" Mardil asked. "They are well within bowshot."
"Hold until I give the word," Haldan said. Their gait is all wrong; they do not move like orcs, he thought, though at this distance, he was not sure he should trust his eyes.
"Friends!" a voice shouted in Sindarin. Now Haldan could see the long bows and plain garb of rangers, and he barked at the soldiers, "Down bows!"
Still leaning on the ranger, Boromir awkwardly climbed over a low spot in the garden wall.
The cavalrymen gawked at him for a moment before raising a wild cheer. Boromir smiled tiredly at them and raised his hand in salute.
Haldan stared at him in disbelief, then sank to one knee and asked in a hollow voice, "My lord, are you wounded?"
My lord? Eyebrows raised, Falborn and the other rangers traded a sidelong glance.
"No," Boromir said absently, staring at the farmhouse. He glanced down at Haldan's torn and bloody gauntlet and frowned, saying, "Your arm is hurt. Have it seen to."
"Yes, my lord," the grey-haired captain replied. A ranger took his uninjured arm and helped him to his feet; Haldan asked, "How is it that you happened upon us?" He still felt stunned, as if he had just been struck in the face.
Pointing to the fire, the ranger said simply, "You lit a beacon, so we came to your aid."
Head bowed, Boromir stumbled to the farmhouse to see how his brother fared. He had shrugged off the help of the ranger, but the man followed him anyway and brought along a torch.
A dead orc lay sprawled in the center of the room. Boromir sank down on his heels to study the body. There were many stab wounds, clear marks of a desperate fight, and close at hand, he found torn and knotted bandages. With growing unease, he thought that there was doubtless a tale behind this deed.
Ducking his head, Boromir stepped into the great fireplace. Four wounded men crowded the floor of the stone alcove, and he had to step over a cavalryman to reach his brother. Kneeling carefully beside Faramir, he called his name.
Eyes half-open, his brother looked up at him and murmured, "Wolves with red eyes." His hair was caked with sweat and ashes, and his nose had been newly bloodied "They slay and devour all."
Remembering the dead orc, Boromir gently took his brother's hand in his own. "And I am a hunter of wolves," he told him, hoping Faramir heard and understood. "So you need have no fear." He prayed that the enemy would return so he could sink a length of steel in their entrails.
Then Boromir rose and left; he needed to take counsel with Haldan and the rangers.
The rangers thought it wise to wait until morning to set out. Scattered and leaderless, the orcs were little threat while the men were still sheltered by the walls of the farmhouse, yet the rangers had no wish to come upon them in the darkened woods.
The hour was midnight, and the air began to stir, a light breeze rising from the south. The tall grass rustled, and pale strands of cloud drifted across the full moon. Guarded by the rangers, Boromir and his weary men could rest for a few hours before dawn. First, though, with the rangers' help, they would tend to the wounded and decently lay out the dead. Burial would have to wait until the morrow.
Boromir watched as they uncovered Eldahil's body. Wielding a small axe, one of the soldiers cut through the heavier vines. Then, carefully, they lifted away the tangled branches. The thorns caught on his kinsman's hair and clothing, as loose leaves drifted down and slowly settled over his back. An orc, clad in leather and mail of blackened steel, lay slumped under Eldahil's body. At least the enemy died with him, Boromir thought grimly.
Dropping to one knee, a cavalryman pressed his fingers around Eldahil's wrist. "'Tis unlikely, but still we had best make sure." He drew back his hand, shaking his head. "No, he is already cold, Captain."
They gently turned Eldahil on his back then lifted him to the side so they could drag away the orc. Boromir stared at his cousin's face, unable to look away, until the soldiers spread a blanket over the body.
"Keep it steady!" Falborn told the cavalryman holding the torch. It was difficult to work in this dim, flickering light.
As he cared for his charge, the ranger also kept an eye on Captain Boromir who sat at his brother's side. Strangely, soldiers sometimes found the sight of blood more troubling off the battlefield than on it. He did not know why this was so. Let us hope that he does not swoon and land on his brother. To Falborn's great relief, Lord Faramir had already quietly fainted away.
The ranger washed the shoulder wound with soap and hot water then scraped it with a small, sharp knife. When he had finished, Falborn said, "Captain, I will speak plainly. See that dark flesh?" he pointed with the tip of the knife, "That must be cut away, and soon."
The muscles of Boromir's face twitched as he peered at the discolored gash.
"I have done what I can," the ranger continued, "but that work needs hands more skilled than mine. I will not stitch the edges shut. Since the wound has already festered, I deem that would do more harm than good." The ranger bound the shoulder with clean linen; then he cleaned and dressed several cuts on Faramir's sword arm. "I carry some small store of herbs in my knapsack; I will mix a draft to give him when he wakes," Falborn said as he washed and put away his healer's knives.
Boromir nodded wordlessly. When this ranger had offered to tend to Faramir, he and Haldan had gratefully accepted his aid. Their men were often thrown from horseback, so he and the old captain were well-practiced at treating sprains and breaks, and they could staunch and bandage a wound; however, that was the limit of their skill. But rangers, who were out on patrol for weeks at a time, far from any healers, were often learned in healing lore.
Now his brother seemed to sleep more quietly, though Boromir wondered if he was too far spent to be restless. The rangers had cut away his filthy clothing and wrapped him in blankets. He had been covered with dirt and ashes, so they had heated a small kettle of water and washed him; his hair still hung in damp strands. By strength and skill at arms, Boromir had saved him, yet now he feared that, in the end, he would still be defeated. Dazed with weariness and grief, he bowed his head.
"Captain, you are in need of rest." Falborn leaned down and took the man's arm, moving slowly so as not to startle him, and helped him to his feet.
Boromir found where he had left the orc shield, and he took it and leaned it in the corner, within close reach. He tried to unfasten his swordbelt, but try as he might, his clumsy hands were overmatched by the buckle.
"You need not worry, Captain; I will stay awake and sit with Lord Faramir," the ranger said as he unfastened the belt clasp then brought him a blanket. Weary beyond words, Boromir cast himself on the ground near his gear, and slept.
The ranger patrol in this chapter is the same one from back at the beginning of Chapter 10. A "stone" is an old English unit of measure and is equal to 14 pounds. All reviews are received and read with joy!
