Chapter 4

THE next morning Kavila woke early. As usual she had no idea what time it was; the lack of clocks was a feature of Middle Earth that Kavila was still getting used to. They existed, but mostly in upper and middle-class homes and some shops. Places like this inn unfortunately didn't fit into that category.

Kavila knew it was early because Erin had asked for the innkeeper to awaken them at dawn, and no one had come knocking on their doors yet. Still, there wasn't really any harm in getting up early. Kavila slid out of the bed as quietly as possible, went to the basin, and splashed a little achingly cold water on her face. It was still early March, and Minas Tirith was in the White Mountains, so the temperatures dropped relatively low during the night. The lack of heating and air conditioning might be a problem with Middle Earth, too, she thought with a shiver. She would definitely have to learn how to light a fire sometime in the near future.

The very near future, namely the next few days, was what concerned Kavila most. Vilad had ordered most of the supplies for the giant crossbow, except for the pieces that had to be specially crafted elsewhere, such as the metal parts. He had returned brimming with ideas, and together he and Kalva had made great progress in transforming the girls' design into an operational weapon

They had worked late into the night, mostly figuring measurements and angles, so that construction might begin the next morning. Actually, Kavila and Sarah had worked with Vilad and Kalva, while Adrienne, Erin, and Megan perfected their sparring skills. Sarah had shown a somewhat surprising interest in this project; she had never struck Kavila as a person who enjoyed math.

While Sarah was having fun with it, Kavila was of a different mind. She harbored a strong dislike of physics borne of many report cards reading "89", although she didn't mind math…too much. It had certainly been interesting to see how much of her scientific and mathematical knowledge applied to the project. Still, spending a whole evening working out complicated problems was not Kavila's idea of fun.

This project isn't about fun, Kavila reminded herself. We're building a war machine here. The paradox of it was almost funny. Kavila, someone who hated the idea of hurting other people, was designing and building a war machine that would wreak devastating havoc on other creatures. She couldn't quite bring herself to refer to the Orcs as people, but the idea of killing anything, even an Orc, was difficult for her to accept.

She'd had to remind herself several times last night that if she didn't help kill these Orcs, they would overrun the city and kill her. That was something she certainly didn't want to happen, and so she had worked, and was going to go back this morning and continue to work. Time was short and moving fast.

Suddenly there came a knock on the door. Kavila walked over and opened it a crack to show she had heard. The innkeeper nodded at her and moved on to the other room, whispering, "I'll have breakfast brought to you in a few minutes, ma'am."

Kavila closed the door and turned back toward the bed, where Erin was slowly coming awake. Kavila was mildly surprised that Erin had heard the knock and awakened. She rolled off the bed, landing rather surprisingly on her feet, and began pulling the blankets back into some semblance of order, just as she would have had she been rising for school. There was no groaning or mumbling about getting up; after all, who would groan about getting up early to work on a project which could very well turn the tide of the upcoming battle?

Erin stumbled over to the basin, still furiously rubbing at her eyes. "Kavila, where are my glasses?" she mumbled as she splashed cold water on her face. The invigorating effects of that lasted all of ten seconds, and Erin found that she could still barely keep her eyes open. This was going to be a long day.

Kavila retrieved the glasses from the table, where they had been all but invisible to Erin's horribly blurred vision. She had worn glasses since she was six years old, and her eyes were not very good; she knew few people whose lenses were as thick as hers.

"I wonder what you'll do when those glasses break or you need new lenses," Kavila mused.

"Let's not," Erin replied as she stumbled over to Kavila and claimed her glasses, sighing with relief as she slipped them onto her face. At that moment there came another knock on the door. Breakfast had arrived.

The two girls ate in silence, while Erin's mind slowly worked itself into a functioning mode. She was not a morning person, especially when she was forced to wake up early after a late night. By late night, she didn't mean 11:00, either. 11:00 was fine. But as far as Erin could tell, they had returned to the inn sometime around 2:00 in the morning, and Erin guessed that she had slept perhaps four and a half hours before the innkeeper came knocking at the door. Even she had trouble functioning on four and a half hours of sleep.

Kavila and Erin had finished breakfast and were putting together everything they needed to take with them back to the armory when the rest of the group joined them. Adrienne was the most energetic of them, though that wasn't saying much; Sarah and Megan looked like the walking dead.

"Morning, everybody!" Kavila greeted in an annoyingly cheerful tone as they entered. "Ready to get working, Sarah?"

"Sure," Sarah replied in a voice that sounded anything but ready. Truthfully, she was looking forward to starting the construction, but at the moment she couldn't summon enough energy to smile, much less sound excited.

Erin took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders around a little. "Well, let's get out of here," she finally suggested. The others wordlessly followed her out the door into the chill early morning air.

-----THE next day came with a morning like brown dusk, and the hearts of men, lifted for awhile by the return of Faramir, sank low again. The winged shadows were not seen again that day, yet ever and anon, high above the city, a faint cry would come, and many who heard it would stand stricken with a passing dread, while the less stout-hearted quailed and wept.

And now Faramir was gone again. "They give him no rest," some murmured. "The Lord drives his son too hard, and now he must do the duty of two, for himself and the one that will not return."

In truth Faramir did not go by his own choosing. But the Lord of the City was master of his Council, and he was in no mood that day to bow to others. Early in the morning the Council had been summoned. There all the captains judged that because of the threat in the South their force was too weak to make any stroke of war on their own part. Meanwhile they must man the walls and wait.

"Yet," said Denethor, "we should not lightly abandon the outer defenses. And the Enemy must pay dearly for the crossing of the River. That he cannot do, in force to assail the City, either north of Cair Andros because of the marshes, or southwards toward Lebennin because of the breadth of the River, that needs many boats. It is at Osgiliath that he will put his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage."

"That was but a trial," said Faramir. "Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange. For he can afford to lose a host better than we to lose a company. And the retreat of those that we put out far afield will be perilous, if he wins across in force."

"And what of Cair Andros?" said the Prince. "That, too, must be held, if Osgiliath is defended. Let us not forget the danger on our left. Faramir has told us of a great strength drawing ever to the Black Gate. More than one host may issue from it, and strike for more than one passage."

"Much must be risked in war," said Denethor. "Cair Andros is manned, and no more can be sent so far. But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought—not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord's will."

Then all were silent. But at length Faramir said: "I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead—if you command it."

"I do so," said Denethor.

"Then, farewell!" said Faramir. "But if I should return, think better of me!"

"That depends on the manner of your return," said Denethor.

-The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien

-----

DURING the brisk, chilly walk to the armory, Sarah began to come awake. Unfortunately, as she had discovered during her high school career, she did not work well on small amounts of sleep, and usually took a couple of hours to get her mind fully online. The cool air and movement was accelerating that process far more than sitting in a desk at school listening to her German teacher lecture.

As far as Sarah was concerned, the lack of giant high schools and rigidly structured educational systems was one of the best features of Middle Earth. Here, academic pursuits were much less complicated, and much more practical. She had enjoyed working with Vilad and Kalva much more than she had ever enjoyed learning math in school, especially because of the fact they were putting it to a useful purpose. That, according to Sarah, was the main problem with high school math and, in some cases, science. Students memorized formulas and theorems and rules galore, but the real test of learning, and the real fun, was practical application.

It also helped that Vilad and Kalva were amiable, entertaining people to spend hours with. Though they all knew it was a serious project, and regarded it as so, Kalva especially livened the work by making witty, sarcastic comments. He had made a few comments about Vilad teaching the girls swordfighting, but they were not necessarily disparaging comments; merely curious.

Kalva seemed to be an especially inquisitive person. It had been much more difficult to keep the secret of their origins from him than from anyone else they had encountered in Middle Earth. He had pressed them once during their work last night, until Vilad rescued them by drawing Kalva's attention back to the project. Then he had walked them back to the inn, and had once again pressured the girls for answers. It was obvious that he was suspicious, but he had not voiced these reservations, and Sarah had decided she would wait to press the issue until their project had been completed.

By now, the girls had reached the armory. Once again the streets had been all but deserted, and they had been able to easily avoid notice. The people of Minas Tirith were nervous; the sense of impending doom was almost tangible.

The moment they entered, Sarah could feel the anxiety and excitement. Today, they would begin construction of their great weapon. Today was the first test; would their design work, or would they be unable to get past even the first few beams?

Vilad and Kalva were already at work, beginning to measure out and cut the support structure for the actual weapon. All five girls were soon busy measuring, sawing, and placing the various parts under Vilad and Kalva's patient instruction.

After perhaps an hour of work, the main structure was standing. All seven stood together, just looking at it, and reveling in the growing sense of empowerment. For the first time, Sarah truly believed they could succeed. Before, there had always been that seed of doubt, that "What if?" But the first hurdle had been cleared; the infrastructure was up, and the questions were gone. Now came the more difficult work: cutting out the smaller, finer sections of the weapon, and putting it all together.

Before Sarah could start on the next stage of construction, Kalva pulled her aside. "We're going to need as many arrows as we can possibly build," he said. "Would you make them?"

Sarah swallowed rather self-consciously. "I'd like to…but I don't have any idea how to make an arrow…"

"It's not terribly hard," Kalva assured her. "I shall show you how."

Sarah nodded. "Sure then, I suppose I could do it."

Kalva grinned. "Wonderful! I determined the measurements last night. I have a device I created for carving arrow shafts, since it gets rather tedious to go into the forest after them or try and hand-carve them yourself. I made some adjustments to it this morning before you arrived, so that it will make larger shafts." He retrieved one of the sketches. "Now see here, the shaft will be three feet long…"

Sarah listened and watched intently as Kalva demonstrated how to use his device. His hands were strong and nimble, his voice rich and rhythmic as he explained. Sarah found herself wondering if he was good at telling stories. She liked the way he laughed when he was pleased with her work, and tried to provoke it as many times as she could.

The one part of the arrow-making process Kalva did not teach her was fletching. This presented a slight problem, because Vilad had not ordered any feathers, and feathers of the size needed for such large shafts were not very common. "I shall go out and see what I can find," Kalva told her. "You can still make the shafts and fit the points in, and I will start the fletching when I return." Sarah nodded, and he left hurriedly.

The first couple of shafts she made were not quite right, since she was new to the machine, and Kalva's hands were not there to guide her. But she soon got used to the process, and began to work out a system. She would make five shafts, then fit them with points, then make five more, and so on. By the time Kalva had returned, she had produced fifteen shafts, and was fastening the point onto the last one.

"Ah hah!" he exclaimed when he saw the stack of unfletched arrows. "You have worked diligently, I see! And it is good work, too. You have mastered my machine!" Then he laughed, obviously pleased, and Sarah couldn't help but smile back.

Kalva sat down beside her, taking a knife and a large roll of black cord from a pouch at his side. Sarah looked over with interest as she finished the last tip. "Are you going to fletch them?" she asked.

He glanced up for a moment before unwrapping a large cloth-wrapped package. Inside were several dozen turkey feathers, each seven or eight inches long. "I am," he replied as he fingered one of the white-and-brown flecked feathers. "Would you like to learn?"

"Sure!" Sarah answered, more interested in watching him work than in actually learning the process. Still, she observed intently as he used the knife to trim the feather, then sighted down the shaft to make sure the feather was straight as he placed it. He fastened the feather onto the shaft with the black cord, his fingers moving so quickly Sarah could barely follow their actions.

It was not difficult at all to see why Kalva was considered a master of his craft, watching him now. His movements were smooth and practiced, but rapid and efficient as well. In a matter of minutes he had tied on the other two feathers, exactly a third of a rotation away from the first one, without even measuring. He tied off the cord with a complicated knot, trimming off the remaining cord and leaving only a small end.

Suddenly he glanced around himself with a curse. "Sarah, could you get me some hot tar and a brush?" he asked in a frustrated tone.

"Sure," she replied, and rose quickly. The others had been using the tar as a caulk on the giant crossbow, and so it was not difficult to find a bucket of the stuff. She set it carefully beside him, holding out the brush, and he glanced up with a grateful smile. As he took the brush from her, his hand lingered on hers for a moment longer than necessary, and Sarah glanced hurriedly at his face as her heart did a fluttering somersault. It was a mask of concentration, as he applied himself to the delicate task of cementing the knot with tar.

"Lunchtime!" Erin called suddenly from the other side of the practice field. Sarah waved to show she had heard, gave herself a mental shake, and tapped Kalva on the shoulder. "Lunchtime," she told him.

"Go on, I'll be fine," he murmured in a voice that was barely audible, not even glancing up. Sarah watched him for a moment longer, concern on her face, then joined her friends.

"LUNCH" was a simple affair: bread, cheese, and water for the girls, and a mug of ale for Vilad. The plain fare was not usual for the mess halls, but the explanation was simple. The city was storing up food for a siege, he thought with a mental sigh. He would much rather spend his time crafting weapons than wielding them, and was not looking forward to this battle. Back in the armory, working with the girls, he escaped at least somewhat the ominous cloud of depression that had descended upon the city, but here at the mess table it was more obvious than ever. Where normally there was loud talk and laughter, silence reigned, even among his own group. The sense of hopelessness had affected even the normally talkative and upbeat girls.

Vilad was pleased that no one had taken real notice of them. The girls had tied back their hair in the traditional men's way, and their loose clothing helped disguise their obvious femininity, but there had still been that worry that someone would confront them about their presence here.

The few murmurs that were passed around the mess halls provided the reason for the unusually introverted pessimism of the soldiers. Captain Faramir had departed early this morning for Osgiliath, at the orders of his father, there to make a last stand for Gondor before its people were imprisoned within their own walls. Even the generals knew it was a lost cause; many had lost faith in the Lord Denethor, ever since Prince Boromir's death had been confirmed. Denethor seemed like a lost man, unable to find his way back to reality to provide the leadership his people so desperately needed.

Maybe Osgiliath and the Rammas Echor were lost causes, but once the Enemy had reached the walls of Minas Tirith, Gondor would show them that it had not completely lost its former glory and might. Though in many ways she seemed weak, she had endured thus far against the Enemy's forces, and would continue to endure until her very heart was struck through.

Though it had been only a few minutes, all six were finished with their quick meal, and soon were on their way back to shelter of the armory. Vilad knew what was happening, what was driving them to work so tirelessly. They were throwing themselves into the construction of this war machine, trying to escape from the realization of how soon the battle would reach the walls of the city, how soon they would be forced to face the reality of war and death.

And yet at the same time, Vilad reflected, there could be rays of joy in the grim cloud of the past few days. He smiled a little as he saw Sarah grab a loaf of bread and block of cheese, wrapping them quickly in some cloth; probably for Kalva, who had refused to come to lunch. Vilad knew him well; until he was satisfied that there was nothing more on the project that he could do, he would habitually forget about such comparatively unimportant things as sleeping and eating.

Vilad specifically remembered once instance a year or so back, when Kalva had been commissioned to craft a special bow for a wealthy lord of the city. At Vilad's urging, he had taken perhaps a meal a day, and slept a few hours a night, working by candlelight when he could not fight off the sleeplessness. It had taken nearly three days to complete the weapon, and when he was done Kalva had seemed a different man; gaunt, with circles of exhaustion under his eyes and a drag to his step that was disturbingly uncharacteristic of him. It worried Vilad, because as soon as this project was finished Kalva would be thrown into a battle with little chance for recuperation, and an exhausted man does not usually perform well in such circumstances.

When they returned to the armory, Kalva had finished fletching all fifteen shafts, and had started on another batch. Vilad watched with a hidden smile as Sarah offered Kalva the bread and cheese. Kalva smiled gratefully, and Sarah beamed back before taking over the operation of Kalva's shaft-making machine. Vilad considered this a good sign for his two friends; he had noticed that Sarah was not particularly given to displays of emotion, whether they be angry outbursts or grins and laughter. Vilad had already passed through that time of life, when one is young and interested in the opposite gender, and so could easily recognize the symptoms of a growing affection. Now would come the frustrating part: waiting for the two of them to acknowledge that they had feelings for each other. Why is it that the two people involved are always the last to realize they are in love? Vilad wondered absentmindedly as he returned to his work. He noticed the other girls exchanging knowing glances and giggles. He wasn't the only one who had noticed, apparently.

Still chuckling inwardly, he strode over to one of the larger beams. "Kalva, I need your help for a moment!" he called as he attempted to lift it. Together the men were able to fit it in place, stepping back to survey their work. The project was coming along well. We will probably finish it with another day's worth of work, Vilad thought. Hopefully we shall have time to perfect it before we must wield it.

MEGAN watched with halfhearted interest as Vilad and Kalva put another piece onto the giant crossbow. It was coming along, that was for sure. It would be done soon; perhaps even by noon.

This was the second day the girls had spent in the armory, working on their project, and Megan was bored stiff. Yesterday she had been able to help measure and cut the different pieces, but when it came to the actual assembly, she was no longer needed. She had brought her book, but had finished it after only a couple of hours of reading. Now she was faced with the prospect of another hour and a half until lunch, with nothing to occupy her attention.

Megan glanced around the armory building, where she had been reading by candlelight. The darkness that had fallen over Minas Tirith meant that there was no natural light to read by; though the giant crossbow was being assembled outside, all the measuring and precise work was being accomplished in here.

Suddenly Megan's gaze fell on the doorway. She could hear some faint sounds outside on the street, and decided to investigate. Stepping outside, Megan saw a couple of wagons clattering down the street, explaining the sounds she had heard. There were a few passersby, all soldiers, some on patrol and some returning from duty. The barracks were on this level, after all.

There were no civilians on the streets. The people of Minas Tirith seemed to be frightened by the unnatural darkness of the sky, and preferred to stay indoors.

Megan was not exactly comfortable outside, since her body clock was telling her that it was mid-morning, and her eyes were telling her it was nighttime. She found the constant movement of the clouds disturbing, like vapors from some witch's cauldron. But she was tired of sitting around the armory feeling useless, and definitely needed to stretch her legs and get some fresh air.

Suddenly Megan's gaze was drawn to the corner of the street, perhaps thirty feet away, where an older man was struggling down the main lane with several packages and bags. Several soldiers passed him by without a second glance, but he obviously was very close to dropping something.

Megan jogged down the street toward him, calling for him to stop. "Here, sir, let me help you with some of that stuff," she said, removing three packages from his arms as he nodded his thanks. "Where are you taking these?" Megan asked.

"Houses of Healing," he puffed as he continued his slow progression up the slope. They had not even gone a block before he turned left down another passage, wide enough for more than one person or perhaps a horse to pass, but not something as large as a wagon. At the end of the passage was a large set of double doors, which Megan quickly opened for the old man.

Inside were many corridors, wider than the hallways of normal houses, branching off in several directions. Megan could see several doors down each of them, and surmised that this was indeed the Houses of Healing.

The man led her down the righthand corridor, until they reached the end. They passed through the door into a room which Megan immediately recognized as a storeroom. There were dozens of boxes and jars containing all sorts of herbs and medicines, stacked upon shelves that lined the storeroom walls. The old man set his packages down on a table that stood in the center of the room, motioning for Megan to do the same.

"Thank you, girl," the man said with a kindly smile. "That was very thoughtful of you."

"Megan, please," she said, and he laughed apologetically. "Forgive me, I forgot to mention my name. 'Tis a disadvantage of age; I fail to remember such simple courtesies. I am Lindir, a healer."

"What's in those packages?" Megan asked, her interest piqued.

Lindir began to carefully open the nearest one. "Herbs," he answered as he pulled back the cloth to reveal a bundle of slender green leaves. "We must replenish our stores in preparation for the wounded that will soon be returning from Osgiliath."