Chapter Four

Boromir got up and charged as thousands of orcs poured in from the direction of the camp. The soldiers, shocked and taken by surprised, faltered. Only the most alert retaliated with the orcs' speed. The rest were in confusion.

Faramir tried to organize a line of archers. Gerhard led a group of soldiers against the orcs' left flank. Boromir plunged into the centre of the orc line, with even his best soldiers behind him.

Faramir watched as he ordered volleys. Boromir would get himself killed if he kept this up.

Then it seemed they would all die. The orc archers had returned.

Boromir turned once to look back and saw the archers. Suddenly, he gave a little smile of savage defiance.

Faramir knew that by that last look, Boromir was fighting now for pride. He had always been a proud person, and it had only been when he had been defeated time after time in Osgiliath that he had lost his confidence. Yet even then, Faramir knew the phase would be temporary. Boromir was not only proud, but a great warrior, and he would always fight to win back this ancient city of his people.

And now Faramir knew the phase was over. Boromir had hit rock bottom and now he was climbing back to the top.

Boromir fought his way back to the line of Rangers and Gondor archers who were holding the orc archers at bay. He turned back to his soldiers who had gotten over their shock. Suddenly he laughed aloud, "We're actually standing a chance! We're holding them off."

He pulled out his horn. It was special to him, an ox horn decorated with silver. He now put it to his lips and blew a clear, sweet note. As soon as it ended, he blew another note, and more followed. It sounded beautiful, and it stalled the orc-archers.

Quickly, he threw the horn to the nearest Ranger and grabbed Faramir by the arm, "Come brother! Let us destroy these cursed creatures!"

Faramir followed. Boromir was going mad. But the madness was contagious. Calling the Rangers, Faramir was hard on the heels of his brother.

Boromir was roaring as he cut down the orcs who in vain tried to overwhelm him. When Faramir and the Rangers burst into the fray, the battle was already won.

Together they made a fine sight, Boromir and Faramir. They were two brothers, one a powerful warrior, the other a shrewd thinker. Both had each other's back.

It took a short time before most of the orc-archers were dead. They stood no chance against the two Captains of Gondor.

Boromir waved his sword back to where the soldiers fought, "To victory, men of Gondor!"

The soldiers, under leadership of Gerhard, had made a brave stand. Boromir, always ahead of his men, plunged into the maelstrom of death. Faramir and the Rangers ran to right and left of the orcs and poured close-range volleys into the blackened horde.

Boromir, Gerhard and the soldiers were in a ring of defence. They were Boromir's veterans, and weary as they were with endless fighting day after day, they were up against the wall, they had had it with these miserable creatures they fought, and now they swung their blades as hard as they could.

Faramir, having run out of arrows, was hacking at orcs diverting their attention to the deadly Rangers on their flank. Some of the Rangers in the same predicament as Faramir were parrying blows with their swords.

Boromir swung his blade at orcs still trying to break the ring of Gondorians, and despite their efforts, they were gradually losing men. One man alongside Boromir went down when an orc-spear impaled him. Another replaced him, but they couldn't go on forever.

When suddenly, Faramir burst through the mobs of orcs, followed by dozens of screaming Rangers. The orc turned to fight this new threat, but that instant, the arrows of the Archers and remaining Rangers flew again. Boromir, sensing victory, blew his horn and encouraged his soldiers to fight harder.

The orcs, victory snatched from them in an instant, gave howls of despair, but this time, there was no running for them anymore. They were all cut down; none making it back to the river.

The soldiers moved slowly, weeping for dead comrades, and gasping in the air that they had killed to be able to breathe. They had overcome a great danger, but barely half the men who had fought would be able to enjoy the victory.

Boromir watched all around him. He felt something that he had not felt in a while. He felt the satisfaction of winning. This wasn't like when all he noticed were the casualties. All he noticed was the survivors. The bloody, bone-weary men who had never fought this hard maybe in their whole life. Boromir smiled at the faces that now looked to him, and raised the cheer.

It started as a trickle, and then a flood as more men joined Boromir in the cheer for victory.

Faramir weaved his way through the cheering men, and pulled Boromir to one side, "Boromir, you've given these men hope, but we can't go on like this. We need more men. I'm down to two hundred thirty-two Rangers. There are six hundred nineteen archers, and five hundred fifty-three soldiers. We cannot go on like this."

Boromir nodded grimly, "And I know what to do about it."

He had to ride to his country's capital city. Minas Tirith; a great city, and the home of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and father of Boromir and Faramir.

Faramir reading his brother's mind, nodded, "I will assume charge here until you return."

Boromir smiled and hugged his beloved brother, "I won't be gone long."

The next day, Boromir mounted a fresh horse and rode to the white marble city. He glowed with pride and excitement at the sight. It seemed to be carved into the mountain, shining in the bright sun. It made Boromir forget the bloodstained, unforgiving battlefield of Osgiliath.

The sentries above the gate cheered when they saw his face. People called out greetings as Boromir rode through the city. If it hadn't been so urgent, he would have returned every greeting gladly. But this was different, for Boromir was here to save the Osgiliath garrison. And to do that, he had to bring reinforcements back with him. That, however, required the permission of the Steward

He had to see his father.