PART ONE

BEFORE THE LAST BATTLE

Chapter I

It was sometime past the sunset-hour when she first heard it: a shrill cry coming from above the fields of the Pelennor. The unearthly sound turned her blood to ice. The young woman froze mid-step, a shuddering chill spreading through her limbs and awakening within her terror such as she had never felt before. The sound of her breathing was too loud in her ears. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. For many endless seconds she stood still as a statue, her wide sea-grey eyes staring unseeingly. As the echo of the piercing shriek died away, she brought a hand to her breast to still herself. She breathed deeply.

Carefully putting the folded square of fabric she held in her kirtle pocket, the young woman gathered her skirts and strode forward to cross the darkening lawn. She climbed the short flight of steps hewn into the stone wall and pressed against the parapet that ran the whole length of the paved walk-way. Then, she looked down.

Six hundred feet below, the plain looked dim and bare, but to the left, near the Gate, dark shapes circled and swooped and rose again. They were winged beasts of great size, wheeling above something on the ground. The tiny black specks that tried to evade the flying creatures moved erratically. They were horses, she realised.

Another sharp cry rendered the silence. The woman cowered and drove the heels of her hands against her ears, taking a quick step back from the parapet.

A new sound clashed suddenly with the harsh wail. It was a trumpet-call, its clear note long and high. The young woman choked on an intake of breath. Her heart began thumping against her chest once more. That trumpet-call was one she had heard before many times.

She dropped her arms to her sides and forced her rooted limbs to move forward. Her hands grasped the parapet tightly, her nails almost digging into the stone. The tips of her fingers burned. She leant over and looked out.

Three of the riders were running on foot towards the Gate, thrown from their mounts, but the fourth remained in the saddle and was riding back to them. The flying beasts circled above them still, like terrible birds of prey. The woman's wide eyes darted from one rider to the other frantically, her pulse racing.

Then, as though sprung from the very ground, a white light appeared. It sped towards the men, growing ever more bright and dazzling. One of the fell creatures dived. A flare of blazing radiance shot up into the heavens, and the young woman thought she saw a figure clad in brilliant white. The winged beast gave a shriek and veered round. Its companions gained height and followed it eastward.

She watched their dark bulks disappear into the vast brown cloud that dominated the East and let out a deep breath. Turning her gaze at last to the fields, she saw a dimmed white glimmer pass from sight under the outer walls: the hunted men and their saviour had entered the City.

The young woman looked away. The darkness surrounding her surprised her. It was as though night had fallen all at once, as though the presence of those winged creatures had hastened its coming. She blinked and felt the wrinkled fabric in her pocket. She brought it out, smoothing the cloth with gentle fingers. Then she came down from the wall.

She walked back the way she had come, making for the southernmost wing of the Houses of Healing, the light skirts of her pearl-white chemise and sleeveless steel-blue kirtle swishing against her legs. Her brisk footsteps were the only sound in the calmness of the early night.

It was pleasantly cool. The greensward laid out between the buildings was flowering, and the air was already filled with a subtle fragrance. In the quiet that reigned at that moment, the domain of the healers seemed secluded from the rest of the City. The dread of the fell beasts now seemed like a fading dream.

As the young woman reached her destination, a hum went up from afar. It rose steadily to a clamour and cheering. She looked over the shrubbery that was the border of the Houses. Two horsemen appeared through the gate to the sixth level, followed by a press of people.

She halted, and her heart fluttered once more. Even from a distance, the second rider was as familiar to her as her own brothers. She rushed forward without thought, stopping suddenly when her fist closed tightly around the folded cloth she held. She relaxed her fingers at once but did not move. Instead, she stood watching, her eyes following the crowd that went up to the citadel gate.

With a sigh the young woman then turned away, heading into the building nearby. There were still many things to be see to ere the night was done.

The door she pushed open led to a darkened room. Taking a few steps inside, she tended an oil-lamp that stood on a table beside the entrance. Pale yellow light spread out to chase the shadows in the chamber.

It was a store-room: columns of shelves lined the walls. Jars and bottles, flasks and bowls of various shapes and sizes filled them, some containing liquids and others powders or dried herbs. Across the door, a row of short cabinets extended nearly the whole width of the chamber. A couple of low tables were placed there also, and a long, narrow bench in one corner. On the worktop that was attached to the cabinets were two sets of mortar and pestle, and brass balance scales, and empty phials. A tall stand with a washbasin and clean cloths was on one side of the cabinets. A small hearth with a large kettle for boiling water was on the other side, the fire-wood still glowing. Sprigs of freshly culled herbs were hung from hooks in the wall to dry.

Depositing her small bundle on the cabinet at the far side of the chamber, the young woman reached for a tightly sealed jar of dark berries. She unfolded the square of cloth. Her nose twitched: the sharp, earthy scent of sage was pungent after her handling had bruised the leaves. She dropped them and the berries in a bowl and filled it with boiling water. Waiting for the tea to steep, she returned the jar to the shelves and brought back to the cabinet a pot of honey. Once the liquid was strained into a mug and the flavour tempered, she washed her hands, placed the brew onto a small tray and went from the store-room.

The next chamber she entered was lit brightly, the lamp casting feeble shadows here and there as it flickered.

The man standing at the window turned round at the sound of her footsteps. His hair and beard were flecked with much grey, but his bearing was proud and his eyes keen.

"I apologise for my lateness, Lord Húron." The healer placed the salver on a high table.

The man waved off her apology, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. He took the cup she offered. "Thank you, child." Sitting on the bed, he closed his eyes and took a long whiff of the brew. His faint smile grew, and he sipped at the hot tea contentedly.

"How do you feel?"

Húron looked up at her. "My legs are less sore, and my hands have not gone stiff all day." Then he gave a short laugh, but it was a mirthless sound. "Fortunate was Arastor to have been spared such bodily illness."

The young woman said nothing, though her gaze was thoughtful.

Húron took her hand in his for the briefest moment. "He had never wanted such a fate."

She nodded. "I know." Her voice grew lighter: "Both you and Father were more like the Rohirrim in that regard."

A cheerless hum rose in Húron's throat. "And yet I met not honourable death in battle but crippling injury instead." He paused for only an instant and spoke again: "Those piercing cries a while ago, what were they?"

The young woman took a second before answering. "Winged beasts from Mordor." She was pleased to hear her voice was steady. "They assailed Captain Faramir and three of his company, but Mithrandir drove them away."

"Your brothers?" asked the Lord Húron.

Her eyes darkened, and she shook her head. "I do not know."

He let out a soft sigh. "How are the others? Have you seen the Captain and his men?"

"Faramir I saw on his way to the Citadel, but not his men," answered the young woman. Then she lowered her voice: "Never have I seen such a look on his face. He seemed to be here and yet not so."

Húron frowned. "I would not blame him. Those creatures sounded fell, indeed, and mighty unkind."

The young woman shivered.

It was about two hours later that she found herself freed from duties. She all but hastened outside, pausing when the cool air hit her face. She took a long, slow breath. Running would not alter anything.

The young woman reached behind her neck. The thin veil that covered her hair when tending patients came loose, and she now draped it upon her shoulders. Her plait she left untouched. She looked up. The night was quiet and black and starless, yet the moon shone white and cold in the sky.

Solid footfalls punctuated the silence. She spun on her heel.

"Faramir!"

The dark-haired man clad in the green and brown raiment of the Rangers of Ithilien returned her smile, his grey eyes glinting. With a couple of long strides he reached her and tenderly took her hand in his.

Tall though she was, the healer had to tip her head upward to meet his gaze. He was beaming at her still. Her delight was suddenly drained, and she stared up at Faramir with troubled eyes.

"Those men who were with you . . ."

"Arvinion and Damhir were not among them," he said quickly, guessing her mind. "And all are well," he added, peering into her relaxing face. "I had half-thought Father would persuade you to join those going to Lossarnach: he cares for you so."

The young woman gave a slight shake of her head. "He asked, indeed, but I could not go. I feel safer in the City, and I have duties here." She fell silent and studied him then, noting redness in his eyes and a droop to the corners of his mouth.

"You are weary, cousin," she spoke softly. "Come and sit a while."

She led him past the arbour grown with orange-coloured climbing honeysuckle to one of the benches of carven wood and iron that dotted the garden-plot beside the shrubbery hedge. Then she bade him wait and hurried back to the adjacent building once more.

Faramir sat and followed her with his eyes. Truly, Idrin resembled her mother in her youth closely: she had the same bearing; the same hair, dark as rich-brown lebethron-wood; the same dainty nose, turning upward at the tip. She was no longer the child who had accompanied her sick parent to the Houses of Healing more than twenty winters past.

He took a deep breath of the flower-sweet air, and let his gaze linger on the greensward surrounding him and the paths of light stone that bordered it. Before long he saw his cousin returning, bearing a cup.

"Drink this," she said. "It will soothe you."

Faramir accepted the cup gratefully. In truth, he had come to the Houses to seek Idrin, though he was not expecting to be treated for the jadedness he felt. He had glimpsed her as he rode to the Citadel, and he knew what she had seen in his face would trouble her.

He smiled up at her and took a long gulp. Then he studied the contents of his cup, silent for a few moments.

"'Tis strange that so many beneficent herbs taste as bitter as those that are poison," he mused.

Idrin's lip twitched. "Some might name it expedient instead."

Faramir looked at her and let out a breath of laughter. "That is true." He chuckled to himself, his expression brightening. Then he drank deeply from his cup.

Watching him, Idrin felt her grin widen: in recent months it had become a rare occurrence to see her cousin entertain such light mood.

"I am glad thou art well." She sat beside him and for a while kept her silence. Yet she had to know. "What news from Ithilien?"

Faramir drew a long breath. "The Dark Lord is assembling his armies: Orcs and Easterlings and Men of Harad riding mûmakil," he replied. "We ambushed a company of Southrons on the North Road, yet the great beast with them took many lives in its passage, men on both sides."

His cousin's shoulders had begun to tense when he mentioned the mûmak, her expression growing sombre. Then, she relaxed again. Faramir made no comment, knowing well where her thought had turned.

Idrin stirred again. "Have you seen the Halfling who came with Mithrandir?" she asked. "They say he travelled with Boromir." She paused. The riddling words of her cousins' visions came back to her once more.

Doom is near at hand . . . Isildur's Bane shall waken . . . the Halfling forth shall stand.

A small frown creased Idrin's brow. "Yet, if he were the one of whom the rhyme in your dreams spoke, his fate would lie in some deed of valour, surely, and not here in serving a Lord of Men."

Faramir gazed at her long before speaking. "I have seen him, yes." His words were slow. "He was a companion of Boromir indeed: their fellowship set out from Imladris, but their paths afterwards parted. We found two of that sundered company — two Halflings — in Ithilien, going east."

Idrin regarded him for a few moments, but Faramir said no more. "It must be a desperate errand that would take them so far beyond the Anduin," she mused. "Our doom then lies with them, and with Isildur's Bane — whatever that may be — or so I read the riddle."

Faramir shifted in his seat. "So it would appear," he returned.

Idrin knew he would tell her no more. Perhaps he could only guess himself, or perhaps it was a tale best shared under the light of day. Either way, he was tired.

She stood up. "It's growing late, and I should let you go to your rest."

Ease flooded Faramir's features, and he rose to his feet. "I admit I would welcome sleep in a soft bed — it has been a long ten days," he said.

Idrin hurried back to the storage-room with the empty cup, and when she returned, Faramir proffered her his arm.

She rested her hand lightly on his forearm, falling into step beside him as they wove their way out of the garden and up towards the Citadel.

The entrance hall of the Steward's lodgings was empty. As they made for the great staircase that led to the upper floor and their private chambers, sudden movement came from a wide corridor to their left. Denethor walked slowly towards them. His eyes were downcast.

Idrin paused in her stride. Her uncle's tread was heavy and his shoulders stooped. He looked almost fragile. The notion was unsettling.

With a small gesture Idrin bade Faramir go on without her. He ascended the stair readily, and she waited until the Steward was several paces from her before addressing him: "You look worn, Uncle. Shall I send for a cup of tea?"

Denethor looked up. He was pale, and his eyes lacked their usual sharpness. He met her gaze silently.

"I have learnt many things this day that trouble me, and no draught can ease my fatigue," he returned at last. He opened his mouth again but closed it without speaking. A brief spell passed. "Seek your bed and in time I shall do the same, though sleep will not come quickly, I deem."

His voice had grown more gentle, but his mouth was set and a faint spark had glinted in his eye. He would speak no more of whatever it was that burdened him.

Idrin regarded him for but a moment more. "Good-night, then," she conceded quietly, turning on her heel. Climbing the stair, she glanced toward the corridor whence the Steward had come. The kitchen and pantry were at the very end, and a postern door that opened to the south of the Citadel.


On Original Names: A list of the names I have constructed for this tale and which first appear in this chapter, along with etymologies.

Arvinion noble first son; from the Sindarin words ar=noble, min=one, and iôn=son.
Damhirhammer lord; a simplified form of the name Damhír; from the Sindarin words dam=hammer, and hîr=lord.