Chapter 4
You get some (hopefully) good action here- writing how elves fight is rather difficult, but I think it worked! The chapter cuts off a little abruptly here, but it was either do that or have the chapter be really, really long and most of the action finished here. I'm also being a little mean- the chapter doesn't go to Legolas and Belhadron and Mablung straight away. Mwahaha.
Also, this bit with Faramir is weirdly based on some of the work that I have done in Geography, as we studied the rebranding and connections of cities. I'm not sure why I've told you guys that, but anyway...
Oh, and thanks to everyone who wished me luck on my event. Unfortunately, the car broke down halfway there, and we ended up stranded in a layby on the edge of a duel carriageway (for anyone who isn't English, it's like a small version of a motorway/freeway- two lanes either way). So I had a rather freaked out horse on my hands whilst we waited for the repair people! We got home, and the horse was fine, but it was super annoying that I couldn't get to the event.
Disclaimer: see Chapter 1
0-o-0-o-0
Faramir ran a hand through his hair, pushing the red-brown strands out of his face. "If we widened the road here, we could run a track up to Cair Andros," he said, tracing the route on a map on the table in front of him. A knife weighed down one end, some random stone weighting down the other. "We could then take supplies upriver much more easily."
Beregond, leaning next to Faramir, shook his head. "It would be easier, if you wanted a road up to Cair Andros, to just build a new road," he said. "To widen the road north out of Eastern Osgiliath would be a huge amount of work. That part of the city is badly damaged, as you know."
"But in widening the road we could repair parts there," pointed out Faramir. "And it means a more direct line to Eryn Lasgalen, and better access to the North. The trade that could come down from Dale and Erebor using this road would be a great help to that part of Osgiliath."
"We cannot get the road that far," said Beregond. "That is thousands of leagues, my Lord, up to Dale and Erebor. I know that the route down to here is difficult from there, but to build a road up through the brown lands, bypassing Emyn Muil, would be far too hard a job."
"We don't have to go all the way," said Faramir with a chuckle. "That would be impossible. But if we start with just a road running nearby the Anduin from here," he said, pointing at the eastern shore of Osgiliath. "Up to Cair Andros, then that would make moving supplies easier, especially if the river is flowing too fast like it does in the winter." He studied the map, his brow creased slightly.
"If we did that," said Beregond. "We could make a path through Emyn Muil. We can easily reach Rohan, the roads only need some repair in places. But a road up through Emyn Muil could open up the north and make trading with Dale and Erebor far easier. They could bring supplies through on the Old Forest Road, down the Anduin, and then upon reaching the Argonath move onto the road."
Faramir chuckled. "I think we are getting a little too far ahead of ourselves," he said with a laugh, clapping Beregond on the shoulder. "Let's just see what we can do about the northern parts of Osgiliath on this side of the river. And if that reconstruction happens to involve a road, then so be it."
Beregond laughed, and tossed the stone from the table, picking up the knife and sheathing it back into his belt. He rolled up the map. "How is the house going?"
"Slow," said Faramir. "The structure is mostly up, but it will not be finished until the end of the year. I think Eowyn is looking forwards to living in Ithilien." His wife was a shieldmaiden of Rohan, used to rolling fields and open skies, and Faramir could tell that being surrounded by stone was beginning to wear her down ever so slightly.
He smiled softly. "Ithilien was once full of light. With Legolas' help, we can make the forests beautiful again. We can rebuild Gondor, Beregond. We can rebuild it all. We just need time."
"Aye, my Lord," said Beregond. He rolled the map in his hand even tighter and tied it up, putting it back on the table. They were on the edge of Osgiliath, where a simple soldier's barrack had been set up for the time being. It was after noon, and a small garrison had just ridden in from Minas Tirith, replacing those who had been staying for the past few days.
The sudden thunder of hooves could suddenly be heard as a horse seemingly appeared from nowhere on the road into the city. Faramir stepped forwards as he recognised one of the Rangers. More specifically, one of the younger Rangers who had written out with Mablung, Legolas and Belhadron this morning.
The horse was lathered in sweat and panted heavily as the Ranger came to a stop. The young man swung himself off of his horse, his dark green cloak flapping behind him. "My Lord," he said breathlessly, bowing.
"What is it?" asked Faramir, coming to stand in front of him.
The man gasped for breath, barely audible words mixed in, and Faramir softened slightly. "Get your breath back," he said, not unkindly. "Have you come bearing news from Mablung?"
The man nodded, and Faramir felt a sudden unease begin to creep over him at the hurried look in the Ranger's eye. Not a panicked look, though, because the man was a soldier of Gondor and, thought Faramir with a strange feeling of pride, it took an awful lot to make any of them panicked. But still, the Ranger was worried, and Faramir got the sense that someone was in danger. "What has happened?" he asked, his voice sharpening.
"There were tracks, my Lord," said the Ranger, having gotten enough breath back to talk. "Of men, the men that we have found scattered throughout Ithilien. They were heading this way."
"An attack on Osgiliath?" asked Beregond incredulously. "Are they suicidal?"
"Maybe," pointed out Faramir. "To them, we took everything from them. They may have nothing left to risk but their lives." He turned to the Ranger. "How many?"
"Over forty, according to Lord Belhadron," said the Ranger. "Mablung couldn't see it in the tracks, though." His voice was slightly accusatory, and Faramir held back a sigh.
"If Belhadron says over forty, then I trust him," he said. "Elves have far better senses than we do, you should know that. They are here to help."
"Forgive me, my Lord," said the Ranger, bowing again. Faramir shook his head.
"There is not time for that now, but you do not need my forgiveness anyway. How far away?"
"Half a league, maybe a little more," said the Ranger. "The Elven Lords and Mablung have decided to track them, but he sent me ahead to warn you, so Osgiliath could be prepared. I saw no sign of them on the way," he added.
Faramir turned to Beregond. "How many soldiers on the eastern bank?" he asked.
Beregond paused. "Over ninety, as well as four captains. Do you want a perimeter established?"
Faramir shook his head. "Make it discreet," he replied. "I don't want to panic anyone if nothing happens, or if Mablung and the company encounter them before they reach the city." He frowned. "But Mablung only has ten men with him, not including Legolas and Belhadron." He turned to Beregond. "Gather twenty men. The more who have been in Ithilien before, the better. If there are any who used to be Rangers, ask them."
Faramir looked back at the younger Ranger. "Can you guide us back to where you left Mablung?" he asked. "Or better yet, to where you think the tracks might be?" The Ranger nodded, and Faramir smiled grimly.
"Beregond, you have ten minutes," he called out. "After that, you must get yourself ready. In fifteen minutes we ride out." Calling another soldier over, he gave the order for twenty horses, plus his and Beregond's, to be readied. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword, and the touch almost made him shudder.
An image of flames scorched across his mind, of a pyre, of a city burning and falling. And then just as quickly it was gone, leaving in its wake an empty feeling he had grown accustomed to.
Faramir shoved the images deep down inside of him, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. At least it hadn't been the worst things he had seen so far, in the wake of the War and everything that had happened.
He still sometimes woke screaming his brother's name.
Fifteen minutes passed, and to Beregond's credit, by then twenty soldiers, all long-time veterans and most men Faramir actually knew, were ready, with twenty three horses, including a new one for the Ranger, and twenty three sword hanging at hips. Faramir had his bow slung on his back as well, as did a few other men who had once been Rangers.
"Mount up," came the command from Beregond, and the soldiers mounted. There was no clanking of metal plates, for none of them were wearing armour. They had been fighting for long enough to know how much of a hindrance it was in the forests, and all were wearing the thick leathers and dark clothing that the Rangers opted for.
Faramir glanced behind him at the company, and nodded at the few who met his gaze. In a strange way, it felt good to be back in the clothes of a Ranger, the clothes he had spent so much time in. It was comfortable. And that feeling, whilst slightly welcomed, also horrified him at the same time.
"Move out," said Faramir, his voice pitched just right so that those beyond the barracks would not hear, and wouldn't realise something was amiss. He turned to the young Ranger. "Lead the way."
They headed out, their horse's feet clattering on the road that all too soon turned to dirt, muffling the sound. Passing through two soldiers apparently chatting by the side of the road, Faramir nodded at them and they stood to attention, saluting. He noticed the glint of blades by their sides, and sent an approving look towards Beregond. He had organised the perimeter well.
They turned off the road leading east, straight to where the burnt remains of Minas Morgul stood, and began to ride through the forests. The horses were surefooted and they travelled fast, weaving around dense thickets as they headed southeast into Ithilien.
Faramir spurred his horse forwards slightly so he was riding beside the Ranger. "Where were you when you encountered the tracks?" he asked.
"About a league or so north of those caves in the hillside," replied the Ranger. "The ones that were apparently used as food stores during the War." He sounded uncertain, though. He had not been in Ithilien for the longer expeditions that Faramir himself had been on, and thus knew the forests less.
"Did you pass through a small clearing with a stream running through it, where the stream pools slightly at one end of the clearing?" asked Faramir. "There is a willow growing next to the pool."
The Ranger was visibly relieved. "Aye, we passed through there, heading southeast and leaving the clearing to the left of the pool," he said. "It was only a minute or so until we then found the tracks."
Faramir nodded. "And they were heading straight northwest?" he asked. The Ranger nodded, and Faramir mapped it out in his mind quickly.
"Head further east," he said. "If I am right, we should meet their route at some point, and be able to catch them up." He tugged on the reins and with a swift nudge of his heels, led the company off to the east, finding paths that some of the others hadn't known had existed until Faramir led them down them. Apart from Mablung, and some of the Rangers who had died trying to defend Osgiliath, Faramir knew Ithilien the best out of anyone in Minas Tirith.
Beregond rode up beside him as the forest thinned enough for him to do so. "What will we do when we get there?" he asked.
"Hopefully," replied Faramir. "We will get to Mablung before he reaches the men. If not…" He sighed. "We will make it up when we get there."
"Right," said Beregond, with a nod. "Because that always works so well, my Lord."
Faramir refrained from rolling his eyes. He had become far more used to and familiar with Beregond over the year, to the point where his captain was beginning to become a close friend. He looked over at Beregond. "Just make sure the men have their wits about them. We need to be ready."
"Aye, my Lord," replied Beregond, and slowed his horse to speak to the company behind them.
Faramir's eyes flickered over the supposedly quiet forest as he rode forwards. His horse, having sensed the importance of what was happening, was behaving now, his ears not pinned back like they usually were.
An uneasy feeling welled within Faramir, and he cursed the fact that it felt so familiar. He had not been so naïve to think that the war had been completely finished when the battle was won, but he had at least hoped that he would not feel this sense of dread would not be felt again.
He didn't want to see any more people cut down by orcs. It was meant to be over.
It was meant to be over.
0-o-0-o-0
They had barely a few seconds before the shapes, now seen to be the men who had been haunting Ithilien, were upon them. Obviously they had not been heading straight for Osgiliath, or had noticed their tail and decided to act. The first one fell with Legolas' arrow in his eye, but others took his place. Belhadron had been right. There were over forty men, with only about ten Rangers in their company. They were heavily outnumbered.
Legolas considered pulling out his knives briefly, but discarded the thought just as quickly. The smooth wood of his bow felt comfortable in his hands, and he reached back for another arrow, his hands slotting it into the string of his bow without him even thinking of it. It had been a very long time since he had had to think about an action as simple as that.
Around him the Rangers were fighting, their swords glinting in the afternoon sunlight. Legolas caught sight of Mablung, battling off three men at once. Clouds of dust were rising around his feet as he spun, parrying another thrust and spinning to slice the edge of his sword across another man's arm, causing him to howl in pain and drop his sword.
Legolas' hand went to his back and in an instant his bow was in his hand. He nocked an arrow and fired. One of the men around Mablung dropped to the floor.
Mablung looked up, surprised, and then saw Legolas. He nodded briefly in thanks before turning and deflecting a blade coming towards him.
Legolas turned away and fired again, the familiar sing of his bow reaching his ears. He fell back into a familiar pattern, sighting and firing over and over again.
Suddenly there came the zip of an arrow as it passed his face, and he instinctively shot to the side, only to see the arrow embed itself in the chest of one of the men in front of him. Instantly he recognised the fletching, and turned to see Belhadron lowering his bow.
A swift grin came over Legolas' face for a brief moment, and he moved so he was closer to the dark-haired elf. Belhadron, stowing his bow, pulled out the elegant sword he always had at his side and cut his way through the group of men that had surrounded him, until he was at Legolas' side.
Legolas couldn't remember how many times they had done this, stood side to side or back to back against their foes. They knew each other so well by this point that Belhadron knew instantly to move to the side slightly so Legolas could get the full draw on his bow when he fired, and Legolas knew when he needed to stay still so Belhadron, pushing back against a parry, could use Legolas as an anchor.
Legolas fired again, dropping one of the men looming over a Ranger who had been tripped and fallen. The Ranger, seemingly unhurt, scrambled to his feet and nodded his thanks.
There came a roar from nearby and Legolas turned to see a giant of a man charging towards him, sword raised. He was an Easterling, his long unkempt black hair swinging around his face, and his clothes worn and stained with dried blood and mud.
In an instant, Legolas had his knives out, and raised them to parry, stepping away from Belhadron as he duelled with a particularly fast man.
Their fight was furious, the man's teeth bared in a snarl as he swung his sword. The force behind his first blow was enough to deflect Legolas' knives and the elf had to duck, spinning around and slashing deep into the gut of the other man who had been trying to come up behind him.
But that had cost him time, and as he came back up the man brought his sword down. Legolas raised his knives and managed to block the blow, the sword crashing into his crossed knives, but the force of the blow kept him on his knees, and he knew he was vulnerable.
Legolas heard a shout from behind him, a familiar voice tinged with irritation that would have made his eyes roll if he had not been exerting all his effort into keeping the sword above him away from his face.
Something suddenly flew over Legolas' head. It glinted in the afternoon light and then the pressure from the man's sword above him vanished as he stumbled back with a roar. A knife was embedded in his shoulder, and Legolas instantly recognised the carved ash wood handle as Belhadron's favourite knife.
Using the opening, Legolas jumped up, his knives raised as the man swung his sword with an angry roar. Even injured, the force behind the swing was enough to knock Legolas back, and the tip of the man's sword cut across his face.
Legolas could feel the slow trickle of blood running down his cheek, and his eyes narrowed. His knives flashed out, deflecting the next thrust and he pushed forwards, the pair of hunting knives in his hands almost more an extension of his arms. The light glinted off them as he struck, again and again, taking full advantage of the knife still lodged into the man's shoulder.
The man snarled at him again, shouting something unintelligible, and Legolas almost smiled, were he not so focused on the fight. His left hand twisted one knife and it flashed out to one side of the man. In his anger, the Easterling swung to face it, and thus did not see the second knife. Legolas twisted his wrist and the knife scored a gash along the man's side, deep enough to be painful and put the man on the floor, but not enough so he would bleed out. The man swatted at him, but Legolas just leant to one side and punched the man squarely in the face. He fell over backwards, the blood spilling out of his side and staining the ground.
But the fight was not going so well. A few of the Rangers were on the floor, their blood mingling with that of the men they were fighting. As Legolas watched, another Ranger fell, and the man loomed over him, ready to bring his sword down in a killing strike.
Without a second thought, Legolas threw one of his knives overhead at the man. He had never really used these knives for throwing, but still, he had been fighting with them for hundreds of years. His aim was true and the man dropped dead with one of his knives in his chest.
But now with only one knife, and no quick way of retrieving it, Legolas was at a disadvantage. Sheathing his remaining knife, he pulled out his bow again, the wood familiar in his hand. His hand went back to his quiver, selecting one of the few arrows he had left. He would be out soon, and then he would be in definite trouble.
A quick glance showed Belhadron still duelling with some man carrying an orc's blade, but he was easily holding his own. Legolas tried to move to the fringes of the battle, firing off arrows with deadly accuracy. He had only five left now; he needed to make them count.
His shots were not kill shots: he had done that enough in the long years of war in Mirkwood. But his aim was good enough to incapacitate the men, prevent them from fighting without actually killing them.
Unfortunately, Legolas knew too well how archers could sometimes attract unwanted attention. Besides, he was also an elf, which made him stand out even more. All too soon had to fall back to his one knife as three men charged at him. With only one knife, Legolas was hard pressed to keep them back, and he danced between them, striking shallow blows where he could.
Two more men joined them, and Legolas blocked blow after blow as best as he could. Even an elf couldn't fight against five men at the same time. He had been in situations like this before, when vastly outnumbered, but that was with elves around him, people who he knew exactly how they were going to move, how they would work together. He was rarely alone like this.
Something cut into the back of his calf and he stifled a cry, his left leg giving out from underneath him. He fell to one knee. He could feel the blood seeping quickly into his leggings, staining them a dark red. A sharp pain washed up his leg, but he knew instantly it was not anything threatening, and would only need a few stitches to heal. But it was inconvenient.
None of the men had delivered another blow yet. It seemed like they were enjoying this. Legolas gritted his teeth and his hand tightened around the white blade of his knife. They were making one massive mistake.
Knife in hand, he surged upwards. He caught one man on the chin with his fist and sent him reeling backwards. The knife flashed and the man fell down. Legolas spun on one foot, not trusting his other leg to bear his full weight, and another man fell.
But it was not quite enough. Even the best fighters, if heavily outnumbered, can be brought down. An Easterling charged once again at Legolas, and the blond elf briefly resisted the urge to roll his eyes, before wondering if Belhadron's attitude was rubbing off on him. Legolas turned, adjusted the grip on his remaining knife, and raised the blade once again. The sunlight glinted off the steel.
To Be Continued...
I'm so sorry. This wasn't actually meant to be another cliffhanger, but I forgot how long the fighting was (I actually wrote this bit quite a while ago). I actually didn't mean for this to happen, if you can believe me!
The next chapter will be coming on Friday. As always, reviews are very welcome :)