The orc sergeant rolled over and put a hand to his swollen face. Right between the eyes. He was lucky that crazy tark had hit him with just the pommel and not the blade. Squinting up at the sky, he wondered how long he had been knocked out. The sun was already above the trees. Several orcs lay sprawled at the edge of the woods, neatly shot with green-feathered arrows. "Cursed rangers," the sergeant growled out loud. Taken by surprise, the rest of the lads had probably bolted and were still running. It was going to take some time to find them.
He staggered to where the captain from Mordor lay in the grass. A clever fellow, for an officer, but not clever enough, the sergeant thought as he searched the body. Grunting eagerly, he grabbed a small leather pouch. It felt heavy for its size; he shook it and listened to the soft, greasy clink of gold. He picked up the captain's fine sword and admired the hilt which was closely wrapped with brass wire; then he stared blankly at the inscription of runes on the blade. Wonder who he sliced to get this, he thought as he fastened the scabbard to his belt. He glanced down at the weapon's most recent owner. Already, flies swarmed about the captain's face.
Now to round up the lads and get back to Mordor. The iron-rimmed shields of the two bodyguards still leaned against the oak tree where they had left them. The orc sergeant pulled a shield strap across his shoulder; and then, turning his back on the farmhouse, he walked into the woods.
With a strident cry, the raven flapped across the fields and landed on the low stone wall. Boromir stared at the grim forager, remembering the bodies they had lowered into the well; then he called two cavalrymen to his side. Taking up an abandoned sword, he led them back to the old apple orchard. Perhaps a covering of branches would discourage winged scavengers from dishonoring the dead.
The wood of the black trees was brittle and snapped easily under the blows from the heavy swords. The two cavalrymen gathered up the withered branches and carried them to the well. Alone in the ruined orchard, Boromir bowed his head. He stood under one of the few surviving trees, and as the wind rose, a drift of blossoms was shaken from the branches. White petals landed in his hair and settled across his mail-clad shoulders. Glancing up at the fluttering movement, he caught at a heavy limb and drew it downward. He cut an armful of flowers and green leaves then slowly walked back to the well. Leaning over the stone brim, the heir let the glimmering branches fall into the darkness.
I look like a bee, Eldahil thought as he stared at the bright yellow, fuzzy cloth; the rangers had found an ugly tunic that fit loosely over his splinted arm. Not that it matters a whit-there is not a woman for leagues around. The old captain and Ragnor had set his arm in a sling then tightly strapped it against his side. They had had some trouble setting his dislocated shoulder, and they wanted to be sure that it stayed in place. Eldahil dimly remembered putting up a fierce if misguided struggle as the ranger pulled at his arm, trying to ease it back into the socket, while Boromir and Captain Haldan fought to hold him still. After they had finished tending his injuries, they had carried him into the shelter of the farmhouse.
A few paces away, Faramir lay asleep under the young oak tree, the shadows of leaves flickering across his face as the branches swayed back and forth. Eldahil knew too well that weary, flushed look. He had watched many soldiers die from tainted wounds, including his older brother Arahil. The thought of his brother seemed an ill omen, and he wondered if Faramir would last until they reached Minas Tirith. You have been spending far too much time with these gloomy people from the north, he told himself, trying to dispel this dark mood.
The rangers had settled Hirluin on his side, with a rolled up blanket under his head, so that his wounded back would not have to bear any weight. Eldahil had noticed that the young ranger, still unconvinced that they were safe, was trying to keep watch. Shaking his head and blinking, Hirluin had struggled to stay awake, but he was too weary and had soon fallen asleep. His eyes were closed and his blond head had slid off the makeshift pillow and onto the ground as he dozed uneasily. At the sound of a shout in the farmyard, he started awake, half sitting, and reached for the hilt of the silver dagger.
"Hirluin, that band of orcs has yet to stop running," Eldahil told him. "They are leagues away by now."
"Yes, sir," the ranger replied as he clutched the hilt of the dagger.
Eldahil thought, Cousin Faramir has found a bodyguard, whether he wants one or not.
Lying on his back, Eldahil listened to the soldiers breaking camp and watched as, once again, Hirluin lost his fight against sleep. The midmorning sun was slanting through the empty windows when Boromir returned along with Ragnor.
"Soon we shall set out," Boromir told him. "We need to reach the Anduin well before sunset."
"It will be none too soon for me." While Eldahil did not look forward to being hauled through the woods on a litter, he would be glad when there was open water between them and the orcs. He caught the worried glance toward Faramir. "Do not despair, cousin," Eldahil said. "With any luck, we will sail before the wind."
Boromir looked at him blankly.
Eldahil had forgotten that this cousin was a cavalryman, not a sailor. With his uninjured arm, he pointed up at the sky. "See how swiftly the clouds move; the wind has veered to the west and grown steadier. It would have been slow rowing against that current, but if the wind holds, we can reach the Harlond in less than two days." Instead of retracing their journey from Osgiliath, they had decided to take the shorter route to the landings at the Harlond, putting them only a few leagues from Minas Tirith.
Boromir leaned over his brother to wake him as two cavalrymen brought a litter assembled from spear shafts and heavy clothing stripped from the enemy. They spread a blanket across the litter, then Boromir and the ranger helped them carefully shift Faramir onto it. The edges of the blanket were drawn around the wounded man then they strapped him to the frame.
A second litter was set next to Eldahil. As the cavalrymen lifted him, he had a sudden, horrible thought. Valar help me! I will have to teach these horse soldiers how to sail! He remembered the cavalry troop's outstanding lack of skill with the oars. More than once, they had nearly swamped the boats. So I have survived two companies of orcs, only to be drowned by a troop of cavalrymen.
They reached the Anduin several hours before dark. Much to Eldahil's relief, two of the rangers had done some sailing; with a great deal of shouting and pointing, they managed to set the triangular sails. With the enemy still in the woods, it was too dangerous for the rangers to return to their camp on foot, so they sailed with the cavalry troop. Several leagues upriver, far enough to put the orcs off their trail, most of the rangers would go ashore.
The two boats were crowded with men and gear so they had spread the spare sail in the bow of the first boat and lowered Faramir onto this rough pallet. His feet reached under the first rowing bench, and the soldiers had to take care not to trip on him. Nearby, Hirluin lay among knapsacks and heaps of armor; now that they were safely on the river, the murmur of water against the bow had quickly lulled him to sleep.
With the orc shield as a pillow, Boromir lay on his back, an arm flung up to hide his eyes. He had put aside the heavy mail shirt, having no desire for another trip to the bottom of the river. Save for the deep rise and fall of his ribcage, he did not move. Most of the weary cavalrymen were dozing on the wooden deck along with their captain.
Eldahil sat against the side of the boat, gazing up at the sail. Stretched taut by the wind, the canvas and ropes were silent, and the boat heeled over sharply as it skimmed across the water. Like a gull swooping in search of fish, Eldahil thought, with its grey wings tilted to one side. A small standard, blue and white for Dol Amroth, fluttered at the head of the mast. Listening to the gentle splashing against the bow, Eldahil watched the banner with a wistful smile.
After he was set down on the pile of sailcloth, Faramir slept. Though the soldiers had tried not to jolt the litter, they had traveled in haste, and it had been a long and rough journey over the old road. Weary and fevered, Faramir dreamed of water-streams in Ithilien, fountains in the City, clear water splashing over a woodland fall, silver drops trickling into stone basins. He woke to the cold touch of a damp cloth as Falborn wiped the sweat from his face and neck. He wore naught but a long linen shirt, yet even that seemed too warm to bear. The shirt was large, and from the fine needlework at the wrists, he guessed that it belonged to his brother. He drank gratefully when Falborn brought him some cool water. After the green shadows of the woods, the glare of sunlight made his head ache. Closing his eyes, he tried to turn his face away.
"The light troubles you, my lord?"
"It is no matter; my eyes will soon be used to it," he rasped; even after the water, his throat felt dry and swollen.
"He is already parched by fever, Captain," Falborn said to someone nearby. "The sun and wind off the river will do him no good."
"Boromir?" Faramir squinted against the light.
Eldahil's drawling voice replied, "He is resting, Faramir; I doubt he has slept more than a few hours since we left Osgiliath." To the ranger, Eldahil continued, "We could draw a length of canvas over him, at least until the sun is lower in the sky. Let me see what I can find."
Clattering and scraping was followed by a solid thud as something rolled along the wooden deck. Eldahil cursed under his breath. "No! Catch it, Falborn—that is our last cheese! Faramir, tell your brother that the next time he kidnaps me, he should at least bring better provision." After more searching, Eldahil handed an armful of canvas to the ranger. "Here, this should do. Just have a care not to smother him. Are you all right under there, cousin?"
"Much better. My thanks to you." Though it was still bright under the sailcloth, the sunlight no longer pained his eyes. For a time, Faramir listened to the cool murmur and splash of the river, then he sank back into the welcome darkness.
Within the curve of the palantir, the boat looked like a child's frail plaything. Sails stretched taut to catch the wind, the craft skimmed the water, making good speed. The water glittered like fish scales beneath the white sweep of canvas. A small blue and white banner streamed above the sail. Now Denethor could see two men standing by the mast. At once he recognized Eldahil who had one arm set in a sling and was pointing up at the sail with the other. When the second man turned so that he could see his face, Denethor ran a hand through his disheveled grey hair, his shoulders sagging as he let out his breath.
Boromir walked toward the stern of the boat, carefully stepping over the rowing benches. Though his great shoulders were bowed as if wearied, he moved steadily and showed no sign of hurt. Denethor watched as his elder son rummaged in a knapsack. He had hardly dared hope that Boromir was alive, let alone unharmed.
Yet even as he thanked the Valar for this safe return, his heart ached for Faramir, lost to the enemy and given up as dead. Against reason, he prayed for the return of his younger son as well. His face almost touched the rounded surface of the glass as he searched for Faramir among the men in the boats. The palantir was guided by its master's thoughts, so he tried to imagine his son. His overtired mind was filled with a disorder of images—a lanky boy sitting on the windowsill, open book in hand ; a toddler, still in skirts, walking with a determined stagger; a silken-haired child sleeping with the coverlets drawn over his eyes. It was so effortless for him to summon this child, but he needed to remember his son as a man of twenty years.
He had last met Faramir two months before as his son had taken his leave, kneeling on bended knee. He and his son had quarreled bitterly the night before, yet still Faramir had sought his father's blessing before he left. Denethor tried to see again the sharp angles and shadows of his face, the unruly hair above his forehead, the sparse stubble of a young man's beard. His son's upturned face had seemed so beseeching and open, his emotions so naked, that his vulnerability had made his father somehow angry. I steeled my heart against him even as he asked my forgiveness. And I could see in his eyes that he knew it. Shaking off these thoughts, the steward willed himself to look more closely in the dark glass.
Then he saw his younger son, laid in the bow among coils of rope, covered by a shroud of sailcloth. Before he could look away, the palantir showed him a quick glimpse of dark hair, bruised skin, and closed eyes. Hands trembling, he drew the brocaded covering over the glass sphere; he dared not look more closely at that broken, lifeless form. At least he knew that his son was safely dead and beyond further torment. He tried to tell himself that this was for the best as he bowed his head and wept.
When at last he looked up, red sunlight slanted in the western window. He felt emptied of sorrow, emptied of all feeling. The steward had learned long ago that mourning was the luxury of lesser men, and he knew that now he must descend the tower stairs and face the tasks at hand.
Before he left, Denethor uncovered the black glass and looked for his remaining son. It was late in the day, and the river was shadowed by the trees on the western shore. Sprawled under the rowing benches, Boromir slept on his back, with an arm flung up to shield his face. Thus had he always slumbered ever since he was a babe. Watching him, his father felt reassured by the measured rise and fall of his breathing.
The wind must have shifted for the surface of the sail began to ripple. Eldahil offhandedly stepped over Boromir and went to check the lines. With a flicker of irritation, the steward recognized the small flag that hung from the mast-the blue and white banner of Dol Amroth. Eldahil planned this; those are his boats. His eyes narrowed as he watched the young captain calling out orders. It bears all the marks of one of his adventures. Boromir would have been overcome by grief and easily led by Eldahil into needless peril. And Haldan, who should have protected the heir, had failed to keep him safe. This day might well have seen the death of both his sons.
Scowling, Denethor twitched the brocaded cloth over the seeing stone then rose quickly from the chair. His legs buckled under him at the sudden movement, but he was able to grab the back of the chair. It had been two days since he had taken food and longer since he had rested, and there would be none to find him if he fell and struck his head. Hands pressed against the wall for support, the steward edged his way to the chamber door.
"You need to draw some water? There should be a bucket under that bench."
Boromir held up a coil of fine cord and a long stick. "A fishing pole, unless my eyes deceive me."
"On the river, that is just as needful as a sword or a bow," Eldahil told him with dead seriousness. "When we are on patrol for days on end, that fishing pole is aught that saves us from starving." Or dying of boredom, Eldahil added to himself. The chance to fish while on duty was one of the many allures of patrolling the Anduin.
Boromir shook his head in disbelief, and from the bow of the boat, there came a muffled laugh.
Eldahil called over his shoulder, "I am glad to know that you are awake and listening over there, Cousin Faramir."
One of the rangers borrowed a pole and baited the hook with dried meat. Eldahil's men kept a store of broken buckles from armor to use for weights, along with wine corks to float the lines. Most likely there is a steady supply of those, Boromir thought. Bored with watching the shore slide by, he took up a fishing pole and tossed a line over the side, the hook and sinker hitting the water with a splash.
Years before, their uncle Imrahil had taught him and Faramir to fish from the pier in Dol Amroth. Once, when a huge catfish took the bait, he had stubbornly refused to let go of the line and, if not for Imrahil's strong arm, would have been dragged into the river. But mostly he remembered catching a number of small bream and an old boot. Long after he had tired of this quiet sport, Faramir had sat with their uncle, gazing out across the river, waiting in silence for the sudden dance of the cork on the water.
As the ranger hauled in a handsome trout, the soldiers shouted much praise and helpful advice. A second trout and a large salmon soon followed the first catch. Puzzled, Boromir suspected that the fish had not even looked at his bait. He handed the pole to a soldier and made his way to the bow of the boat. The sun was low in the sky so they had put aside the sailcloth covering, and Faramir lay dozing and watching the gulls that circled overhead. When Boromir leaned over him, the wounded man reached up to catch his arm and said hoarsely, "Boromir."
Alarmed, Boromir asked, "What? What is the matter?"
"Remember to jiggle the line, or the fish will believe you feed them dead bait."
"I weary of your cold counsel." The man's voice rose until it echoed in the stone hall. "I have sworn to serve the Lord of the City; he has not been well served if I leave him to die!" With a muttered oath, the captain of the Tower Guard started toward the steps.
The silver-haired councillor moved to bar his way. "We are not to disturb Lord Denethor. Those were his last orders."
"Two days have passed; how long would you wait? Until ravens and crows perch feasting on the Tower? Do you fear the lord steward so greatly?" Without thinking, he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, closing his fingers around the grip.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, the councillor said, "And if he struggles in thought with the Enemy. What then? What evil will follow if we force the chamber door?"
The captain pushed him aside and ran up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, "If you have not the courage to join me, I will let you know on my return."
He hurried up the first turn of the spiral stairway, his boots leaving a hollow trail of echoes. In his haste, he nearly ran into Lord Denethor. Leaning against the wall, the steward was slowly descending the steps. His head was lowered, and his hands clutched blindly at the stonework.
"My lord, are you hurt?"
When there was no answer, the captain drew one of Denethor's arms across his shoulders and put an arm around the other man's back to support him. He could not risk the lord fainting on the stairs, so he helped him to sit against the outer wall. The guards would have to bear him down on a litter. Though it was early May, the stones of the tower still held the deep chill of winter. The captain wore no cloak, so he pulled off his woolen surcoat. As he tucked the warm cloth around him, Denethor tried to push his hands away.
"Captain." Though weak, this was still the voice of command.
"Yes, my lord?" The captain was startled by the fierceness of his gaze. Though his lord was weary and faint with hunger, his gray eyes were strangely clear.
"I go in the morning to meet my sons at the river. Have my horse saddled and waiting at first light and have a mount readied also for Lord Boromir. But for Lord Faramir…" The steward closed his eyes, and for a moment he did not speak. "The guards shall bear his body in honor to the City. See that all is made ready."
"Yes, my lord," the captain said yet his voice shook. How came these tidings to the Lord of the City? He did not dare to guess.
