Chapter 2: The death of men
Boromir stopped at the end of the barely visible path. Ahead lay another wide valley. Grass, rocks, scarce trees and a view of rolling hills stretching to the horizon – that was what the north seemed to be composed of. He had seen many places, from the White Mountains to the southern coast, from the wide plains of Rohan to the foreboding, ash-strewn borderlands of Mordor, but he had not seen anything like this wild land. It touched something in him he could not name. Far off to the west, the tips of another mountain range cast blue and grey shadows into the autumn sky. "Those mountains, are they…?"
"The Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, near the ancient lands of Forlindon," Kíli replied, catching up with him. While the dwarf was visibly at home in these parts and well familiar with the paths and trails of this land, Boromir was the faster marcher by a long stride. If the dwarf noticed at all, it did not seem to bother him, for someone of so much shorter stature he kept up with Boromir's stride surprisingly well without showing outward signs of exhaustion.
"How long until we get to Rivendell?" Boromir did not want to sound impatient, but the sheer size of this land made him wonder.
"Two weeks, maybe three." Kíli shrugged. "We need to steer clear of the Ettenmoors, and we don't want to get any closer to the Trollshaws than we have to. And that means crossing Rhudaur until we can get to the Great East Road." He moved ahead downhill, heading slightly more southwest than before.
"Rhudaur was part of Arnor," Boromir mused. "Are there still people in this land who could aid us? Or provide horses?"
"Very few people live in this land – there may be a settlement here or there but I expect little help from them. A stable to sleep in is as much as we may hope for," Kíli replied, picking up the pace, his stride was certainly shorter than Boromirs but all the quicker and he moved uphill and downhill with the natural ease of a mountain lion.
The day proved hard for Boromir, though not due to the march itself. He could keep up well with the seemingly inexhaustible dwarf, even as he was amazed at Kíli's endurance, most men would have been exhausted from a march like that. No, it was the ruins that began to appear on the tops of hills or tucked between the vales that got under Boromir's skin. Ruins of towers, of houses and bridges, remains of an entire civilization vanished, crushed in a dark storm centuries ago. His companion did not give them any notice or regard; he walked past the remains of this broken land without paying the slightest heed or respect. Many of the broken buildings showed signs of violent destruction, Boromir saw walls ripped apart by catapult stones, and towers that had collapsed as a result of wild fires raging inside, tumbled stones on a hillside betraying a wall that had been collapsed under troll ram and entire settlements that had been razed to their very foundations. He knew the story of the Witch King's war against Arnor, but this was the first time he truly saw the results of it with his own eyes. Boromir hardly noticed Kíli shooting two hares that had strayed too close to their chosen path; there was little other wildlife visible here, in spite of the land being wild.
When they came around a tight turn of the path they suddenly were faced with a broken guard tower, they stone archway still rising high above the path, while the shattered stones of the once might watchtower lay scattered in the hillside, long sunken into the grass. Under the stone arch Boromir noticed a few rough letters carved into the stone crudely. VdR, the letters were curved into each other. Varicil denár Rodayne. Remember our Souls, it was one of the few Adûnaic phrases Boromir easily remembered, a soldier's last plea to a faraway light before throwing himself against the dark hordes.
Stopping under the arch Boromir gently touched the stones with his hand, feeling the curved letters under his fingers. Traces of soldiers long fallen, fallen under a night that had no end, their homeland destroyed, their names forgotten…
A high pitched whistle startled him out of his thoughts. Kíli had stopped down the path, turning around to look for Boromir. High above him circled a hawk – it's high shriek the whistle Boromir had heard. The dwarf looked up before turning his head again towards Boromir, like he was asking what the holdup was about. Boromir made a fist, the dwarf walked past the signs of destruction, past the ruins with the calm and disregard of someone untouched by what had transpired here, if he had any regard for the dead, for the tragedy that transpired here, he did not show it. Or did he simply not care because it was not his own people? What would a dwarf care about Menfolk after all? Walking out under the arch Boromir strode down the path, walking quicker than before, his anger translating into a faster stride than before.
"There." The afternoon was already wearing late when Kíli pointed ahead. Down in the valley below them were a few ruins, remains of a wall and a tower. Boromir spotted the traces of a few stone houses that once had stood there. A small, well-defended settlement it had once been. Down in the deep ground of the valley he could see graves – the typical barrow mounds Arnor's people had built for their dead. "We'll camp there for the night. Easy to defend in case we have to." Kíli said and Boromir wondered if the dwarf had even noticed the graves, or given the settlement any regard beyond the practical view. This had once been a thriving settlement, with people farming the land around the hills, with children playing in that yard down by the tower and probably with a market by the crossroads. Men had lived here, had married, had children and died… only now there was only death that remained, the destruction had reached them and no wall no matter how strong had held off the bloody hordes of Angmar.
"I'll go and gather some wood," Boromir said, heading past the dwarf and towards a patch of trees to their left. It did not take much searching to find a fallen tree and break it into serviceable chunks that would last long into the night. The work allowed Boromir to release some pent up emotions. Breaking up the hard wood was good to focus some of the ire he felt towards his companion, who walked through this sad land with the casual acceptance of someone who did not see the tragedy of what had happened to this place. How could he not see? Even for a dwarf, for anyone, the consequences of what had happened here should be obvious. Boromir could feel the pain almost physically. Maybe he felt it more deeply because he knew that Gondor was faced with a similar dark enemy… was this all that would remain of them? A few ruins, with inscriptions that the passing wanderer could not read? A fallen land meaning nothing to those who passed its wilds? Boromir knew that if Gondor fell the Easterlings would annex the land and make it a part of their dark Empire, it seemed an ironic comfort that his enemies were known to record the history of their conquered lands meticulously, as a memento for generations to come.
The sun was setting slowly when Boromir brought the last of the firewood to the tower. Kíli would hopefully have found water already. The last light of the sun touched the empty window in the tower's west side, warm rays bathing it beautifully. For a moment, Boromir could imagine the tower still standing, people walking here, horses in the stables, guards… Steadying himself with one hand against the rough wall, Boromir nearly dropped the firewood, so intense had the picture been.
Kíli came out to help him, carefully taking the last of the wood from his grasp, giving him a nod that might have been meant encouragingly. . "Let's get inside – who knows what will be creeping about after dark."
"Is this all you care for?" Boromir snapped, his words sharper than he meant to. "This was once a village of men. People lived here. This was their homeland, and now look at it… broken, crushed… all but forgotten. Their entire homeland sunk to ashes." He brushed past the Dwarf and walked inside. "They fought Angmar, and when they broke, who cared to remember?"
"In my experience, the world will not care for those broken or cast out." Kíli's words were grim, short, and did nothing to assuage Boromir's stormy feelings.
"Not that the respect you are showing them is any better," Boromir's voice was sharp, anger clearly reflected in his words. The cold irony about the world not caring sounded like the worst mockery to him. Even the Easterlings showed more respect to their enemies. "but what does your kind care about after all?"
Kíli's dark eyes flared dangerously, reminding Boromir vividly of coals in a glowing fire. "I have been fighting Orcs and Goblins in this land for decades, Gondorian," his voice sank so deep that Boromir would have called it a growl, if a growl and speech did go along at all. "and I still do – to protect the settlements of my people and those of Menfolk still clinging to this land. Them I worry about, the living, those who built these ruins are long dead – removed from the pains and tears of this world. If this land ever will be safe enough to not having to worry about Orc raiders, trolls and Goblin thieves, there may be the time for the luxury to commemorate the dead."
The intensity of the dwarf's words surprised Boromir, beneath the calm demeanor lay a force to be reckoned with, he realised. "Are raids like the one you mentioned so common here?" he asked. How far spread were these Orcs and Goblins? Two thousand leagues north of Mordor and they seemed to have dominance over an entire region, that was worse than anyone in Gondor imagined the state Arnor was in.
"Two raids a month if we are lucky, the odd troll in between," Kíli said with a shrug, squatting down beside the ancient fireplace, clearing away leaves and small rubble. "That's strange…" His eyes narrowed.
"What?" Boromir asked impatiently, not seeing what in the pile of rubble on the fireplace was so strange, he might concede some points to Kíli but their discussion was not over by a long shot, and he was certainly not used to the other side declaring an argument over. Kíli had quite the confidence to treat him like any other warrior.
"These stones, they were placed here like this deliberately," he explained patiently, like it was obvious, only the way he gazed up showed Boromir that the dwarf actually did not treat him like a child, there was a strange sincerity in his features. Boromir frowned, Kíli had a talent for distracting him from his anger that he thoroughly disliked. "Someone wanted to make it appear that this fireplace had been buried under rubble a long time ago already." He turned to his pack to produce some tool for digging up the fireplace.
"No." Boromir stepped closer, forcefully putting a hand on the dwarf's arm, preventing him from further digging into the rubble. "Whatever is buried in there, it probably belonged to the people who lived here. When they had to flee, they buried their possessions for the day they returned. We shouldn't steal them." He could see in Kíli's gaze that the dwarf was about to point out that it was centuries ago and no one had returned. "I won't be a part of stealing from those who'd be my people."
Kíli shrugged and returned to building a fire, in a corner right under a broken window that could serve to carry away the smoke. It did not take long, and soon the fire flickered, the flames casting eerie shadows at the broken tower walls, their movements sometimes too reminiscent of people moving about. The two hares were roasting above the flames. Boromir had sat down a short distance from the fire, leaning his back against the old stones. He still felt it hard to calm himself.
"I know it is hard to bear," Kíli suddenly spoke up, he too sat with the back to the wall, one leg drawn in and his arms leaning on his knee. His entire posture looked smaller than ever before. "To see the land of one's people, one's kind destroyed like this. To know no one will ever come home again… it hurts, and it should. But their memory is not dead, nor is this land entirely forgotten."
"And how would you know?" Boromir asked, reining in his hard tone. He could see how Kíli had drawn in on himself, his entire bearing had become defensive… no not defensive, like he was trying to shield himself from something. The observation startled Boromir from his own anger and let the Captain snap into place, assessing Kíli much like he would one of his soldiers.
"More than two hundred years ago, the dragon Smaug attacked the dwarven kingdom Erebor, driving my people from their mountain home," Kíli responded, his voice sinking low, to a dark, hushed whisper that still seemed to softly echo from the stones in the tower room. "They fled, wandering the wide world, working among men, settling here and there where they could find a place." He looked up and while his mien had become withdrawn, distancing himself from the memories, as Boromir recognised the expression easily, his dark eyes were a different thing altogether, they echoed a crushing depth of sadness. "Me… I was born after, having never seen the mountain home. My mother and my uncle would tell me of the Lonely Mountain, of our homeland… and when they spoke of it, there was a pain, a great sadness in their eyes."
Surprised, Boromir looked at the dwarf on the other side of the fire. His shoulders had sagged, like he wanted to curl in on himself and his head was half bowed, the eyes at the flames of the fire that reflected sparks in those eyes until they seemed to only mirror the flames. But there was something else – he had gone entirely too still, while he spoke he had distanced himself from the topic he talked about.
Slowly Boromir let the words reach him too, he recalled what history he knew of the dwarves. There had been a great number of displaced dwarves a bit more than two centuries ago. Many a good construction work in Gondor had been accomplished making use of these extra wandering workers. But beyond that he could not place the events Kíli spoke of, nor could he even try to identify the Mountain Home. Moria? That had been a great Kingdom of the dwarves, had it not? But there was another detail in Kíli's tale that drew his attention. "Where was your father?" he asked, noticing how Kíli only mentioned his mother.
"Dead. He fell in battle against the Orcs in Azanulbizar when I was very young. My uncle was more of a father to my brother and me – the only father I can remember. He took us in and eventually helped us to settle in the Ered Luin."
"Does he still live there?" Boromir had seen the far away mountain range, and wondered if there were any northern mountains yet unsettled by dwarves.
"No. He too fell in battle… as did my brother." The last words were spoken so low, Boromir hardly understood them. Kíli's eyes went away from the flames, his hand reaching for the stone wall beside him, like to steady himself. He drew a slow breath, than another before he actually looked at Boromir. "Hope does not die," he added more firmly, though his voice still retained the dark, husky quality. "It was my uncle who led our people to reclaim the Mountain Home when I was a young warrior. Many then argued that we had a new home in the Ered Luin. We were even prospering after a fashion; why risk our lives for something dead and gone?"
"Because it is home." Boromir spoke with conviction – he well understood what Kíli meant. He only wished he knew more of dwarven history, but whenever he had needed such tidbits of information – which had been nearly never – he had simply turned to his younger brother, who would provide them.
"Boromir? Are you all right?" Kíli had leaned forward, his arm now resting more relaxed on his knee, keen eyes all of sudden sharp and focused again. Boromir could see genuine concern in Kíli's expression. Even after their rather terse conversation he cared enough to reach out, he was more of a good comrade than Boromir had expected to find on this road. .
"I am – you just made me think of my younger brother." To his own surprise, Boromir found himself smiling as he thought of Faramir. "He would know the kingdom you speak of, when it fell and when it was retaken – including your uncle who led you back there. He must have been a mighty warrior."
"That he was." Again there was the sadness in Kíli's eyes, before it vanished much more swiftly than before. Boromir was no stranger to walling off emotions, he too had memories he did not like to think off, and he saw the signs of that clearly in the dwarf opposite of him. Kíli reached over the fire and yanked the grilled hare off the pick, handing it to Boromir. "Tell me of your brother. Is he a warrior like you?"
"No… he is more a warrior in your vein, a quick archer and swift runner." Boromir's thoughts went to his brother, who was thousands of leagues away. His missed Faramir, his company, his swift banter and his silent understanding. "Faramir loves lore and learning, books and scrolls. He prefers wisdom over weapons. Were these more peaceful times, he would become a renowned scholar. How did you become an archer? Forgive me for saying so, but your people have little reputation with the bow, and more with their axes."
Kíli barked a short, grim laugh that was devoid of any real humor. "I learned it during our travels. My mother took very ill when I was about thirty – that's barely half grown up by dwarven standards. Sif, a former serving woman and now innkeeper, agreed to take care of her, but she could not handle two extra mouths to feed, let alone two young, rambunctious boys. So my uncle took us along when he went wandering again. We were old enough to help around the forge, and that way he could earn the money for Mother's healing and keep us fed. For one whole long summer, we were camped outside that fortress of men that you call Dol Amroth, making swords, armor and horseshoes for some clash with Umbar. There was a young human – Berengil was his name – the son of some nobleman who had employed our uncle's services. He would often come down to us in the evenings to talk – he taught me how to use a bow. My uncle approved, as it made me better able to defend myself on our wanderings."
"Berengil of Dol Amroth taught you how to shoot?" Now there was a name Boromir could place, even as the man they spoke of was long dead and buried. He could not deny a measure of awe as he realised that Kíli was probably already older than any man could get and not yet at the end of his people's lifespan. "He fell in a skirmish near Osgiliath decades ago."
"His ancestors receive him with praise," Kíli whispered softly, strange though the blessing sounded, it was spoken in such honesty that Boromir could not find it inappropriate. He was gazing into the flames, as if he was seeing the things he had spoken of in the fire's dancing shades. The light of the flame was mirrored in his eyes and played upon his features, and with his eyes lost in the fire, Kíli's mind seemed to wander away as well, for the guarded expression on his face melted away, making room for a more open expression, the stern mien relaxing into a mien that Boromir would have called vulnerable. Wherever Kíli's mind was in this moment, it allowed him a glimpse at the person underneath the rougher exterior.
TRB
They had decided to keep watch during the early hours of the night and during the morning hours again, it was the most dangerous times and as much as they could manage between themselves. Boromir had offered to take first watch and Kíli had accepted his offer, curling up against the wall and falling asleep swiftly. The way the dwarf fell asleep nearly the moment he closed his eyes made Boromir wonder if he was more exhausted than he let on, while he had the impression that the dwarf had kept up easily all day, Boromir realised that his own anger had prevented him from really observing his comrade. He shook his head, it was a recruit's mistake – no matter what personal anger a soldier might carry, it had to stay outside their unit lest it would rip them apart. If it had needed anything to keep Boromir awake, this did more than it's work.
Midnight was already passed when he rose and went to check the windows and the broken door. Outside a pale moon had risen and soft wind moaned in the trees, otherwise there was nothing but silence. When Boromir sat down in his place again, he saw that Kíli's sleep had become restless, he was not tossing or turning, but his hands had clenched and his breath was going ragged. His whispered words in his sleep that Boromir did not understand, probably it was his dwarven tongue that he spoke in thrall of whatever dreams he had.
Boromir was about to wake him when he was interrupted abruptly when a painful yell ripped apart the silence of the night. As though in answer, the rough, beast-like howling of a giant wolf .echoed through the night,
Kíli jumped to his feet. "Wargpack," he snapped. "They are hunting again." His voice echoed worries and uncertainty at the same moment. Another yell rang hollow in the silence of the night. It was much nearer than before, and Boromir heard quite clearly now that it was no Orc or goblin screaming, but a man. The voice was too distinct to be mistaken for anything else.
Boromir saw Kíli swiftly move towards the entrance of the tower, peering out into the darkness, his hand hovering above his quiver. He was not rushing outside to help, much as he seemed to want to, but assessing the danger first and Boromir concluded that a trap was as likely as a true case of a man in need. Kíli. "From where does it come?" he therefore asked.
"The other side of the valley, by the old tombs," was the prompt answer. The howling ripped apart the night again, louder and more angry this time. The voices of the Orcs joined the angry chorus. Their blood hungry screams were carried by the wind, echoing through the darkness. "They have not caught him yet," Kíli mumbled.
"Can we help?" Boromir asked, he had followed Kíli towards the doorway, using the opposite wall for cover as he tried to see anything in the darkness outside.
Kíli listened intently to the howls that were drawing nearer and nearer. "We can help him. Do we dare to? It is a whole bunch of wolves out there, and the Orc pack won't be far behind."
"What are we waiting for?" Boromir asked. He had not doubt that the warrior who had rescued him in the orc caves would leave someone else to the wolves.
"The dark take it, you are right," Kíli growled, then they hastened outside. A chill wind was sweeping across the hillside. He took the shortest way down to the ruins of the old gravesite. "They are chasing him down the vale directly towards us. We can cut them off." He jumped over a fallen tree trunk, agile as a cat, surprising, given his shorter legs, without slowing down.
They reached the valley ground; ahead of them, the shapes of the barrows stood in the darkness like shadows before an even grimmer night. The wind had picked up strength: cold gales whirled through the barrows, dead leaves dancing in the nightly air. The clouds were ripped apart by the gale and the pale light of the moon flooded over the barrows. In the silvery shine, Boromir saw a figure stumble towards them, and he did not hesitate to race towards him, supporting the man, no it was more of a youth who's auburn hair was smeared with blood, in the last steps towards them.
A growl rose behind him and Boromir quickly nudged the young stranger a step forwards and moved between him and the growl of the wolf. He turned around to see a huge wolf-like creature with an Orc on its back racing towards him. The creature jumped but before it reached him, an arrow to the eye killed it. Boromir saw Kíli standing on one of the barrow mounds firing arrows into the darkness in rapid succession and with a deathly precession that would serve any Ranger proud. The angry Orc, now deprived of its mount, was upon Boromir within moments, who gave a desperate swing of his blade, and the head, still locked in a vile rictus, landed with an ugly squelch on the hard ground.
More angry howls rose. Quickly, Boromir ushered the injured youth into the relative cover of the barrow, and Kíli jumped down from his elevated position at once seeing what Boromir was trying to do. He and Boromir were taking position left and right in the narrow opening between the two barrows, to block the Orcs from reaching the wounded man. Back to back they stood as the wargs swooped down. Boromir had never seen such creatures – Mordor did not use their kind, though stories of wolf riding evil men had been staple in his youth to scare impressionable children into being home before dark. It seemed ironic, back then it had only inspired him and Veryan to try and tame a hunting dog into a suitable mount of war. Never had he imagined what the true wargs might look like. They were huge, much larger than common wolves, with wide snouts and fierce fangs. Their paws were nearly as dangerous as their maws, for the sharp claws could easily rip through even armor. When the next jumped him, he ducked, ramming his sword into the beast's belly. It worked but nearly ripped him off his feet, the weight of the falling beast pulling at his arms.
Yanking his blade free, dark stinking blood sprayed over the ground and Boromir was faced with two more wargs, drawing close in slower hunting steps, their heads lowered and their deep growls echoing threat and hunger evenly. He advanced at the first to attack, before the warg could jump again. Valar, these beasts were huge! He never had seen such creatures before, and finding a way to fight them effectively was like trying to fight a fell beast blinded. It had been a long time since he had fought an unknown foe, and these beasts were vile, powerful and very dangerous, as he was quick to learn. A cross-cut against the snout and the wolf leapt forward into a pained attack, Boromir did not give ground, but only moved to the side the very last moment, ramming his blade into the warg's flank, coming about he beheaded the rider and then had to roll over the ground to evade the clawed paw of the next one. He stabbed his sword upward, with an ugly crunch it ate through the lower jaw and into roof of the mouth. The beast collapsed on him. He pushed against the stinking carcass but the warg was heavy and had him buried from the chest downward. The rider dismounted and Boromir frantically tried to draw his dagger, he had to get to rid of that Orc before it could come close.
The Orc raised his sabre but before his strike could fall, a shadow moved between him and Boromir, the curved Orc blade hitting the hard chainmail of the dwarf moments before the Orc was stabbed by Kíli. The dwarf turned and threw a knife to kill the next warg coming close, before he had enough time to pull the stinking carcass away and free Boromir.
"Don't hug them," the dwarf blocked another attack with his blade, allowing Boromir the space to get up.
Boromir pulled himself up and already killed the next Warg. "How many more are there?" he panted, these Wargs truly did hunt in large groups.
"I told you, an Orc pack will not far behind." Kíli's voice echoed some grim humor. "they hate being lonely. Welcome to Eriador." The dwarf turned around to the other side to prevent a wolf from getting too close to their protégée
Boromir barked a laugh as he faced the next Orc rider who was irritated for a moment, which allowed Boromir to stab him before he could react.
Had Boromir not been hardened by a life fighting Mordor, he may not have lasted through that stand. The wargs had been first to swoop down, followed swiftly by Orcs. Their only luck was that these Orcs had no archers. Between the dark barrows, they were forced to attack in small groups, giving them a chance to cut through them as they came. Still, when they drew off at the hour of dawn, Boromir had been wondering if this would be their end soon enough. They both were injured, bleeding and exhausted. It was the sun which soon would rise that decided this fight in their favour.
He turned around to see Kíli lean heavily on his sword. The Dwarf had a gory gash in the left side and was pale as dawn itself. "Kíli." Boromir hurried over, to support him. The gash was from the blad Kíli had stepped into when he protected Boromir from the warg rider. He guided him a few steps to sit down in the shadow of the barrow, but even doing that Boromir felt the blood running over his hand, the wound bled strongly.
"We need to get this bandaged swiftly, or you'll bleed to death." He said. "stay here, I will get our packs."
"The other one…" Kíli protested, pressing his hand hard against the wound, to slow the bleeding.
"You first," Boromir rose and raced back to the tower, to grab their packs. The fire had long burned out but no one had disturbed their camp. Autumn dawn was coming slowly, the grey light dim and filled with mists creeping from the brooks.
Dressing the wound was something that Boromir wished he had better light for, in the grey morning mists, he could not really check if anything was still stuck in the gash. The cut also crossed another scar, so the healing might prove complicated. He made swift work of the bandage, glad to see that the thick layer stemmed the bleeding successfully. When he was done, Kíli pulled down tunic and chainmail armor again.
"Let us see whom we saved and if he needs help too," he said, pointing to the figure sitting on the ground, leaning against the cold side of the barrow. But this was a useless errand to make, as Boromir could clearly see the first rays of the rising sun reflected in the young man's broken eyes.
TRB
"He was so young." Boromir shook his head in resignation, he was sure the youth had been alive when he had pushed him into the shadow of the barrow, but he had died during the night. Had he even known that he was not alone? That someone was fighting to protect him, or had he simply given in to the hunt and died? No matter, he had been alone on the hour of his dying, even as two fighters who would have protected him were right beside. It was a soldier's death, only that this youth was dressed like a farmer, he should never have had to fight a soldier's battle. "What could have brought him out into the night to be hunted?" Again his eyes strayed to the corpse. The man… he hardly dared using the word, was young, barely twenty, if guesses could tell.
"That's what I am wondering too." Kíli was still sitting on a rock beside the barrow, taking care of Boromir's injuries in turn. "There used to be a settlement about five leagues in the direction he came from. Not the friendliest place, I recall, but it sits right on the trail coming from Archet and leading to the old Framsburg pass."
"Maybe someone there knows him – or can claim his body for burial." Boromir harbored no illusions that they had they had the means to properly bury the boy. "At least they may know what drove him to travel at night."
Kíli stood up. He was still pale from loss of blood but walked without aid, though he was still moving slower than he had before. "Let us gather our belongings and be on our way. The sooner we get there, the greater the chance they can recover the body before night falls again."
An hour after dawn, the wind returned and strong gales parted the heavy mists that had enveloped the hills. This day Boromir did not walk ahead as he had done in previous days. Kíli had lost a lot of blood thanks to that gash in his side, it was half a miracle he was able to walk like that at all and so he kept to his companion's side during their march. Sometimes he marveled on the dwarf's endurance; they truly were made from stone – unbreakable. "Those wolves," he began when the clear morning light was upon them. "What are they?"
"Wargs," Kíli corrected, he was walking a little slower while they climbed a steep hill, each step in the precise rhythm with the next. "They are a remnant of Angmar – or some say even Angband itself. The Orcs have some alliance with them and use them to ride and track. When you have them on your trail, it is hard to shake them off – they find your smell. Their packs breed in the wilds north of the Ettenmoors – in the dark lands south of Carn Dum. I do not know why the eastern Orcs won't use them."
"An alliance? Are you saying these beasts think and speak?" Boromir did not doubt Kíli knew what he was on about, but he wanted to learn all he could about this new foe, and quickly. Who knew how much aid and auxiliaries Barad-Dur would be able to summon from the north?
"They do: they are Draugluin's children, after all." They had reached the hilltop and followed a winding path down on the other side. Boromir couldn't help but notice that Kíli moved through this land with a familiarity of someone having lived here for a long time. "Wargs come by tribes united under one leader – at least at times. The white warg held all the tribes in thrall. They have been fractured for decades after the white warg fell… but recently there have been rumors of a new Wolfking having risen up north. Bad tidings if it proves true."
"Are they in league with Mordor?" Boromir regretted speaking the name at once, for a cold gust of fell wind swooped over them. He shivered. Had the Dark Lord's reach grown so long already that his touch could be felt in the midst of Rhudaur's wilderness? He had always believed that this presence, the darkness was something Gondor alone had to face, so other lands would be peaceful still. But what he saw here, in the remnants of what once had been Arnor, was neither peace nor prosperity – it was war, maybe even the very same he had been fighting ever since he had been old enough to use a sword. If it was true, it was a disheartening thought.
"No one knows for sure but all evil creatures are drawn there. It wouldn't surprise me." Kíli stopped suddenly, his eyes on the ridge west of them. Smoke curled above it – not the smoke of hearth fires but the black smoke of a much bigger blaze slowly burning out. Without wasting another moment, Kíli began running, disregarding his injury entirely, Boromir following right behind. They made their way downhill and up the other side. There was a shepherd's path up there and they quickly enough reached the hilltop. On the other side they could see the settlement – or what was left of it. Black smoke rose from the building, and the wind smelled of fire, ash and burned flesh.
Raising his arm, Boromir shielded his eyes from the smoke the wind drove towards them. "Could he have fled this?" He felt sure it had to be the reason why that nameless youth, they had left by the barrow mounds, had run into the night. Why the Orcs had been after him.
Kíli did not respond, but went on towards the smoldering ruins. Yet he did not enter them but stopped at the path leading towards them just outside the former village and squatted down. Boromir understood at once what Kíli was doing and was extra careful to not step into any tracks. The dwarf rose after a few moments, looking left and right. Eventually, he returned back to the path. "Orcs and Warg-riders – at least fifty, likely more," he said, for the moment entirely focused on the tracks in spite of devastation before them. Boromir found it hard to do the same. He did not know how the dwarf could analyze so icily what had happened with an entire burned village before his eyes, yet Boromir could read the traces hard experience had wrought on the other warrior; he had learned to be calm in spite of everything. "Most of them came from the east and circled the village. And one rider on a horse"—Kíli pointed on the muddy path, eyes keenly surveying the grounds around them, searching for clues as to what had happened—"he met with three Warg-riders here, the Orc leaders most likely. They dismounted and…"
Boromir saw Kíli's puzzled glance go to some larger divots in the mud that looked familiar to him. "They threw themselves into the mud," he observed. "They were afraid of something – or they showed their submission. Orcs will do that when faced with fearsome power." Boromir had seen Orcs do that before their Haradrim Captains, and even more so before the Easterlings. A Haradrim might have to enforce their supplication, Easterlings commanded it as a matter of course. Were there no similar leaders in the north? Orcs were rarely unsupervised; the Black Lands always had some commanders above them to keep the brood in line.
"I have never seen them do something like that." Kíli frowned, his eyes still on the tracks. "They rose and turned…"
"Back to their troops and attacking the village. Whoever the rider was, he ordered them to attack." Boromir could see that clearly. He asked himself what sick man or creature had loosened the Orcs on a human settlement, but the tracks clearly said what had happened. He had seen it happen before – raids on settlements in Ithilien, raids that would drag away hundreds of captives. Boromir had often fought to prevent such raids and he knew the bitter feeling of failure.
"Let's look for survivors – it's all we can do no." He said, forcing himself to be calm, he would help no one by being angry, or by lashing out. If they kept their heads they might able to help the survivors. Maybe… Kíli seemed to know the lay of the land, if he could guess where the captives had been brought, they could think of a rescue.
The buildings were sweltering, small fires in between glowing timbers and still smoking ashes. There were bodies inside, badly burned bodies of people who had been trapped inside their scorched homes. Others lay outside, cut down by Orc sabers and axes. A few seemed to have been dragged to the center of the village square, where at least one of them had been nailed to the village tree. When Boromir headed that way, Kíli stopped him. "Don't," he said softly. "You don't want to see that. They always have their sport if they can find the time for it."
Boromir was tempted to shake off the hand on his arm and tell Kíli to stop patronizing him, but when he saw Kíli's face he stilled the movement before it began. The look in the black eyes was all too familiar to Boromir, the pained, haunted look that shone in Kíli's eyes told him the dwarf knew all too well what he was speaking of – of horrors he had seen and survived. He did not mean to patronize but protect a friend. "I have seen their handiwork before, Kíli," he said, bridling the anger he still felt. "No one lives on the Dark Land's borders and hasn't."
It was a nightmare, like a tale of terrors that was whispered about in the dark of night, not quite believed yet not quite disregarded either. Boromir had known the Orcs would have tortured the villagers for information and for fun – they were cruel beings – but this… He only understood what Kíli had meant with "their sport" when he saw some of the bruised and torn bodies. He shuddered, not wanting to think what these people had gone through before they had been permitted to die. And then there was the fire pit… Had the Orcs truly roasted some of their captives over the fires and eaten them? He had heard that they sometimes would eat their own kind.
Bile rose in his throat, he had seen many horrors the Orcs created, he had been in their hands before but this… the traces of them eating their victims, roasting them maybe even before they were dead, was something that raised a fierce, helpless anger in him.
In the heat still emanating from the buildings, the smell of the burned bodies hung all the heavier. There were no survivors here; whether this was cruelty or mercy was not to be said. Their departure from this world had already been needlessly brutal.
"Boromir, over here."
He was grateful for Kíli's call. The dwarf stood at the other side of the square, he rarely looked at the bodies scattered in the square, his focus was on something else – on the building he stood beside. It was one house that had been built from stone and was less damaged than the others. He was already moving aside some timbers that had fallen from the neighboring house and were blocking access. "This is Bran's forge," Kíli explained. "If he was still inside when the burning began…"
It was a sensible thing to build a forge from stone, and there might be someone alive inside, Boromir would admit – if the Orcs had not searched the place beforehand. Usually the Orcs were rather thorough in capturing all they could. But then… what did he know of the northern Orcs? And even if it was true – Kíli seemed to know the owner of the forge, and he had to check, to see for himself that there were no survivors. Boromir understood that and wordlessly helped to clear away the timbers. The dwarf was far less uncomfortable between the fires and the hot ash: he often would grab still glowing timbers and move them without the slightest hesitation. Even with the thick leather gloves he wore it was surprising to see, he did not shy away from the flame.
From the inside Boromir could hear a low groan, the first sound of a living being in this wretched place, Kíli had known or guessed right. Boromir grabbed another piece of timber and yanked it aside, he would need to learn this enemy – the Orcs of this land – entirely anew, they were nothing like the ones he could predict without thinking about it. Working faster, they soon could enter what had been the main forge. Leaning against the back wall sat a broad-shouldered man, a spear through the shoulder nailing him to the wall, his face pale. Two dead orcs lay inside the forge as well. The blacksmith had not been taken without a fight.
"Bran!" Kíli exclaimed, hurrying to his side, he knelt down beside the wounded blacksmith. The way he reached for the man's broad shoulder, with a gently, comforting touch, told Boromir that they might have been friends, or at least had known each other well enough.
"Kíli…" The redhead coughed. "Whom are your bringing? You usually don't run in the company of Rangers." His eyes pointed towards Boromir, who handed Kíli one of their water-skins, who knew how long the man had been stuck here in the heat?
"Do be quiet, Bran, and hold still. I'm going to pull that spear out. Boromir, we need to bandage him quickly or I fear he will bleed to death."
"Too late." Bran groaned as the spear was pulled out in one go. Boromir pressed the bandage cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding but the black blood seeping from the wound soaked it quickly. "The spear was poisoned," Bran panted. "They did not want survivors. We had not seen them… and still they wanted no survivors."
Kíli, too, saw the black blood on the bandage and met Boromir's eyes. The quiet shake of his head was all Boromir needed to tell that it was exactly as the man had already feared.
"Can't we do anything?" Boromir askedhis hands curling up to fists there had to be something they could still do, to save this brave man. "Cauterize the wound? Clean it?" Even if the man lost his arm, it might help save him from the spreading poison. The healers of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith had saved Boromir a couple of times from Orc poisons, even from a poisoned Southron arrow once, but he had always been in their reach and had never asked how they had managed to pull him back from the brink of death.
"Had we found him within an hour or two of the injury, maybe," Kíli stated grimly. "Now I doubt even an Elven healer could save him."
"It's too late for me, Kíli." Bran looked at the dwarf, his face relaxing slightly into a resigned expression. "It is like you to come here to help at the first sign of trouble. But this time it's truly too late. I… I wouldn't want to live when all my people have been butchered." A shiver ran through his body, herald of a cold creeping into his bones. "But we truly did not see them."
"See whom?" Kíli asked his voice softening. The dying man had leaned against Kíli and Boromir saw how the dwarf held him, comforting the last agonized moments of the dying blacksmith. Either Kíli had truly known him well, or he had an amazing capacity for compassion, in spite of the cruelties that surrounded him.
"A rider came here two days ago," Bran whispered. "He came from Archet, following some people who had been seen there. He searched for them. We had not seen anyone on the Archet road in days and days. He did not believe us. In the night, he brought the Orcs down on us."
"Who was the rider?" Boromir asked, remembering the tracks outside the village. Somewhere in his heart a strange warning unrest grew, like he should recognize something, something that was obvious but that he still was missing.
"I don't know. Black horse… black cloak, strange voice." Bran coughed again, his entire body shaking. He grasped Boromir's hand with the desperate strength of a man on the threshold of death. "I swear we did not see anyone. No one. We have not seen Baggins."
"Baggins!" Kíli nearly shouted the word, startling Boromir, who had kept his guard against any Orcs coming back. When he turned around he saw that Kíli was pale, his eyes wide in disbelief.
"They are searching for Baggins..." Bran's words fell to a whisper; his breathing became a hiss before his body sacked to the side, and death followed swiftly.