Lord Of The Rings

Autumn Falls

“While I could,” Nîneth had said. What had she meant with those cryptic words?

For a while, Boromir did not understand but as the days shortened and the nights grew cool, his disquiet increased. He could no longer find peace in lugging bricks. Where he would find the absolution he sought, he did not know but Linhir was not going to provide it — and neither was Nîneth.

One morning, when the air was crisp with the presage of autumn, he realized it would soon be time to journey on. Rumors had reached the town, stories of orcs hiding in the vales of the White Mountains, terrorizing outlying villages and destroying much-needed crops. Those people had need of his skill with a blade, not his might at carting stone. He could not stay in Linhir; he would travel further west, to Calembel or maybe Erech. He should be able to reach the end of the road before the thick of winter. After that, he was willing to let fate lead him.

How could he explain to Nîneth and Galwion he had to go, though? The question pressed like a weight on his mind, and the more he thought about it, the more the answer seemed to elude him. They relied on him; he could not desert them. And thus he lingered, restless and unhappy.

Shortly after the harvest feasts, while rain threatened on the horizon, he arrived home to find Nîneth waiting for him dressed in her finest gown. His eyes narrowed.

Nîneth smiled when she caught his look. “I believed I should dress my best for the occasion.”

“What occasion?” Had he overlooked something important? A birthday? A local custom?
“Your last eve in Linhir.”

Boromir shook his head. “I have no plans to leave.”

“Yes, you do,” Nîneth said. “I’ve always known you would not stay, and I have seen the longing grow in your eyes.”

It was then that he saw his shirts and breeches, all neatly folded, lying beside his saddlebags on the table. His sword, secure in its scabbard, was placed on top of the pile. He sought Nîneth’s gaze.

“You’re not content here, Erandír,” she said softly. “I see you suffer. Few came through the war unscathed but you’re still haunted more than most. I don’t know what it is you need, but I do know I’m not able to offer it.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she crossed over to him and placed a finger against his lips. “Do not deny it, man of Gondor. You know I speak the truth. You helped me, now allow me to help you. You’re free to go, you have made me no promise. Be sure, though, that you will take my heart with you, and that I have warmed myself in our friendship.”

Tears sprang into his eyes, tears of sorrow as well as of relief when she lifted the burden of responsibility from his shoulders. He pulled her into his arms. “I shall not forget you, Nîneth,” he whispered into her hair.

They stood for a moment, holding each other tightly. Then, with a small laugh, Nîneth eased herself from the embrace and stepped away.

“I have supper ready,” she announced. “You better go wash up, unless you want to enjoy your last evening meal in Linhir smelling like a boar!”

o0o

He did not want to desert her alone on his final evening in Linhir. But it might be his last chance for a while to send a message and so he excused himself after dinner, saying he had an urgent errand to run. Nîneth looked disappointed and curiosity shone in her eyes, but she did not protest or ask questions.

Boromir took long strides through the darkened streets of Linhir, leather boots resounding on the pavement. At last he found what he sought: the house of a scribe. He knocked, waited a moment and knocked again, rapping his knuckles impatiently against the wooden door.

“Yeh, yeh,” a voice grumbled inside. “I’m coming!” The door opened a crack and a white-haired man peered at him over the light of a candle.

“Sorry to trouble you at this hour, master pethran,” Boromir apologized, “but I have urgent need of your services.”

After thoroughly assessing Boromir’s appearance, the scribe stepped aside and opened the door wider, motioning Boromir inside.

“I would have some parchment,” Boromir said, “and a quill and ink. Also some wax to seal my correspondence.”

“Will you be writing the letter yourself?” the man asked, watching him with renewed interest.

“Aye.”

A few moments later Boromir squeezed his large frame into a seat before a small writing desk. Sheets were placed in front of him, along with a tiny bottle of ink and a feathered pen. The surface of the paper gleamed blankly in the candlelight. He stared at it for a long time, unsure how to start.

At last he dipped the quill in the ink and placed the point on the paper.

“To Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor,” he wrote at the top of the page, and a little below that: “Dear little brother…”

o0o

Although he had planned the epistle to be short, the watchman cried midnight by the time he signed it with a flourished B and sealed it with a drip of red wax. He had found himself divulging to Faramir not only his adventures so far, but also his deepest thoughts and doubts.

Once he finished the long letter, he took a new sheet, dipped the pen in the ink again, and began another note. Though he also addressed it to the Steward, he did not offer a salutation nor did he sign the second letter. Faramir would know who sent it.

After he had sealed the second document, he handed it to the scribe, along with several silver coins. “I trust you will see that this letter reaches its destination safely,” he said.

The scribe’s eyes widened when he saw the address, but he nodded without asking questions.

“I shall take good care of it, lord.”

Boromir started. “Do not call me that. I am but a messenger.”

“Of course,” the scribe said. He put the letter away. “A courier headed for the citadel is expected to pass Linhir in a few days, carrying missives from Dol Amroth and Lord Angbor of Lamedon. I’ll see that he takes your letter too.”

o0o

The day of his departure dawned and Boromir rose at first light. Nîneth, already awake, had prepared him a hearty breakfast of eggs and sausages, with bread still warm from the oven. They did not speak much. All the words that needed to be said had been spoken over supper the evening before.

An hour later, Boromir finished tying his pack to his saddle, and he mounted. Barangol pranced as he did so, eager to be off after long months of little exercise. Nîneth watched from the doorway, Galwion clutching at her skirts. The boy’s cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Why are you leaving?” he cried. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Shh, dear son,” Nîneth hushed him. “I explained to you yesterday why Erandír cannot stay with us.”

Galwion sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Will you come back?”

“If I can,” Boromir said, his own voice hoarse. The boy’s misery tore at his heart. The child had latched onto him like a father, and it would be hard for him to miss the second man he had come to see in such a role. “I promise, if I can, I will come and visit you some day. Now you are the man of the house. You have to look after your mother, all right?”

The boy nodded and visibly struggled to stop his tears.

Boromir turned toward Nîneth. “Remember what I told you: go to Minas Tirith. You can start a new life there, you and Galwion.”

He leaned down from the saddle and offered her the long letter he wrote the night before. “Take this. When you reach the City, have it presented to the Steward. The Steward only, do you understand?”

Nîneth’s eyes turned round. Her mouth dropped. “The Lord Steward? Erandír, I am but a simple woman. How can I–”

He held up a hand. “Please, I cannot tell you more. But do not worry; he will be expecting you. You should have no trouble getting an audience. Just promise me you will do as I ask.”

She looked at him for a moment. “Erandír is not your true name, is it?”

“No,” Boromir said. Something lodged in his throat and would not budge, no matter how hard he swallowed. “‘Tis not. My true name…” He squared his shoulders. “My true name matters no longer.”

Though her eyes softened at the sadness in his voice, Nîneth did not comment. Instead, she gave him an understanding nod. “I will do as you bid me. You have my word.”

With a nudge of his heels, Boromir urged the horse into a trot. Híril was bouncing along the street ahead of him, yapping happily at everything that moved. He did not look back; he wanted to be long gone when Nîneth went to tidy up the alcove and his bed and found the heavy purse he had left her, containing most of the savings he collected during his stay in Linhir. They would help her start the new life she dreamed of.

o0o

Boromir hoped he would reach Ethring on the River Ringló in five or six days. There was more traffic along the road than when he had departed from Minas Tirith, many months ago, but he no longer felt the need to hide, with the exception of the second day when a company of soldiers approached. Their banners announced that Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth traveled with them and Boromir had no desire to explain to his uncle how he came to be alive. He withdrew into the forest, hiding until the company passed and the dust had settled back on the road.

He quickly established a daily routine once he left the coast behind. He woke at first light to the twitter of birds. After a quick cold breakfast, he would mount a frisky Barangol; the horse was always glad to start the day after a night’s rest. He stopped briefly for his midday meal, and then rode again until near to evening when he would set up camp for the night. He ate what he could find along the road, sometimes stopping at a farm to buy bread and cheese; at other times quickly bringing down a hare or pheasant Híril startled into flight. His dried provisions he saved for more dire times.

The land in southern Gondor was rich and fertile. The road wound its way through the hillocks and dales that formed the foothills of the White Mountains. The tall white peaks that gave the mountains their name glimmered farther away to the north, where they rose high above forests of deciduous trees. Far to the south, the hills of Belfalas crowded together on the horizon. In the valleys, small farming villages lay scattered among forests of tall pines or oak offering shade or shelter. Boromir had been pleased to discover that over the months he spent in Linhir, the farmers had returned to their homesteads and were tending the land as if the war never happened. Oxen pulled plows to reveal a deep red earth, while womenfolk and children sowed winter barley and oats. Sheep, their coats not yet fully thickened for winter, roamed grassy meadows, while trees bowed down beneath their burden of sweet apples or fat late-season plums.

o0o

Five days out of Linhir, the weather changed. Boromir woke to a gray and dull morning. A leaden sky hung over the land. Low, thick clouds scudded along, driven before a chill wind that blew in from the Bay of Belfalas. Without warning, summer had vanished until it was but a memory; the wind and the clouds preceded the first of many autumn storms that would scour the land before winter set in.

By midday the wind had grown in strength until a forceful gale whipped the countryside. Trees swayed back and forth, their crowns groaning beneath the onslaught. Leaves — red, gold, and brown — tore free and danced around in wild circles. Boromir hunched in the saddle, shoulders raised high against the chill biting through his cloak. Barangol struggled to move forward against the strong winds that buffeted the large horse.

Then the clouds opened. Heavy sheets of rain pelted down, the drops flying almost horizontally, slashing at man, horse, and dog alike. They were quickly drenched. At last, when a gust of wind nearly unseated him, Boromir decided he had had enough. He would not reach Ethring today, and it was no use risking his life or that of the animals any further.

He dismounted, and, angling his body against the storm, led Barangol to a grove of leatherleaf some paces from the road. It would be safer to hide beneath the thick, glossy leaves of the bush than underneath an oak or chestnut, which could be dangerous in this sort of weather. A sudden gust of wind might find a weak branch or a rotten trunk to break. But Boromir hoped that the dense evergreen would provide less of a risk and offer some protection from the storm’s fury.

He tied Barangol’s lead to a nearby birch sapling before taking off the saddle and his belongings. The horse turned against the wind, sheltering his head in the sapling’s branches. Rain streamed down his flanks and the wind whipped at his tail and mane.

“Sorry, my friend,” Boromir murmured. “I wish I could provide you with a roof over your head, but alas!”

Barangol nickered softly and dropped his head, a picture of abject misery.

Boromir shoved blanket, saddle and bags underneath the shrub and squeezed himself in as far as he could manage. The ground, though damp, was not yet soaked and he drew his knees up to his chest. Híril wiggled herself into the small hollow beneath his knees, seeking his body heat. He wished for his oil skin cape, the one that had kept him dry during many a campaign on the East-borders. But he had lost it somewhere on the journey to Imladris and so far had failed to replace it. It was an omission he planned to rectify at the first opportunity — although he doubted any coat could withstand this deluge from the heavens. He tugged his wool cloak tighter around his shoulders. It would not do much to keep him dry, but at least it helped him stay warm.

Boromir resigned himself to his discomfort while he waited for the storm to pass. Water dripped down his face, leaving trails on his cheeks. He hated the forced rest. Not so much because of the physical misery — though that was bad enough — but because it gave him too much time to think. And as they always did when he had nothing left to occupy himself with, his unchecked thoughts perversely wandered down the too-oft-trodden path of self-doubt and remorse.

Had he done the right thing, leaving Nîneth and Galwion to fend for themselves? What if she had not believed him, despite her promise, and did not go to Minas Tirith? He should have stayed, should have taken her to the city himself, even if it meant giving up his secret.

Had he been selfish?

No! Boromir shook his head violently, disturbing the bush so water droplets flew everywhere and Híril started out of an uneasy slumber. The dog growled and Boromir rested a weary hand on the furry head, scratching her between the ears.

It would be too easy to give in to such thoughts. He had done all he could for Nîneth; he would not abandon his quest. What would his renewed presence offer those he loved most except more grief? No, if he ever wished to return to Minas Tirith, he would need to make amends first.

o0o

The storm raged through the night, keeping him awake with its fury. It wasn’t until sunrise — perceived only through the scant lightening of the dark clouds that still obscured the sky — that the heavy rain began to let up, changing to light drizzle. Boromir shivered, grateful for the meager warmth Híril’s small body provided. The dog had burrowed beneath Boromir’s cloak some time during the night, nestling herself against his chest, and he had welcomed her presence.

His trousers clung to his body as he crawled out from beneath the leatherleaf. Boromir reached for his saddlebags and tried to pry open the clasps. His fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold but at last he managed to take out the spare set of clothes. They were clammy — even the thick leather bag had not completely kept out the moisture — but they were drier and warmer than the wet tunic and breeches he wore.

Breakfast was a cold affair of soggy bread and a few red apples. He longed for a cup of hot tea to warm him but the rains had soaked every piece of wood. Kindling a fire would be impossible.

I should not have lingered in Linhir so long, he scolded himself. I could have reached the end of the road before these autumn rains.

He used his discarded tunic to dry off Barangol as best as he could before draping the saddle blanket over the horse’s back. The results did not well please him, but at least the animal’s developing winter coat had kept him warm.

Chagrined to find that the tack had suffered the same fate as his clothes and food, Boromir apologized to his mount for using a damp blanket. “I would walk,” he said while tightening the straps, “if I had the time. We need to find shelter and warmth. Ethring is about a day’s ride away. But I promise you, you will have a nice, dry stable tonight, with plenty of clean straw and sweet oats.”

Barangol snorted and shoved him with his head. Boromir chuckled, his spirits lifting a little. “Sometimes, I can believe you understand my every word.” He offered the horse the last slices of his apple, which the animal gobbled eagerly, and hoisted himself into the saddle. A cluck of his tongue, a nudge with his heels, and they were on their way.

o0o

The road was deserted; anyone with any sense was settled somewhere dry and warm. The clouds continued to leak drizzling rain. Many new streams ran out of the hills and across the road, muddy brooks that formed to drain off the water from the deluge and eventually carry it to sea. Boromir led Barangol gingerly across the slick surface of the road, their speed of travel slowed to such a snail’s pace that he began to fear he might not arrive in Ethring that day at all. His black mood darkened even further when he stopped after a few hours of travel and inspected his horse’s withers. Though barely noticeable yet, the animal’s skin showed the first signs of sores developing where wet straps rubbed his fur. He cursed the autumn storm below his breath. If only it had waited another day, he would have reached Ethring before it broke and he would have been dry and comfortable while waiting out the storm. Now, he was chilled and miserable, and his throat hurt with the onset of a cold. Worse, he was causing injury to his horse.

Mayhap I should seek a farm, he thought, where they will allow me a place near their fire to dry out my belongings and where I can take proper care of Barangol.

Unfortunately, he did not see signs that anyone lived nearby. The road swerved through a dark pine forest of tall trees, on soil sandy and harsh. Nobody would try to farm in such country. Briefly he considered an attempt to start a fire, but quickly dismissed the thought. It was still raining, and everywhere around him he could hear the drips of water trickling through the trees. No, his only option was to go on — and hope the developing sores would not get much worse until they could be dealt with properly.

Though he knew it was not much use, he tried to shift in the saddle as little as possible in an attempt to relieve the pressure on the sensitive areas of his horse’s back. The animal, though wearied, was steadfast and continued along the road as fast as Boromir dared to go. Even Híril’s spirits seemed to have dampened in the dreary weather and she never left the horse’s side.

Suppertime drew near and the gloomy day was growing even dimmer when the houses of Ethring finally appeared over the crest of a steep hill. Boromir let out a sigh of relief and swung himself from the saddle. He could walk the last stretch and give his horse a respite, however small.

At the bottom of the hill, the road crossed the River Ringló; Ethring lay high on its western bank. He grimaced at the thought of having to cross the cold, wet river — although in all truth, neither man nor beast could get much wetter than they already were.

After he led his horse down the incline, Boromir stopped at the river’s edge. With rising dismay, he watched the ford. The heavy rains had swollen the river until it seemed near impassable; although the river ran level and wide at the crossing, its current was swift and filled with debris torn down from higher elevations. Even as he watched, an uprooted tree almost as tall as a man came rushing past.

Beyond his view, he heard the river tumble headlong down a steep slope further south. The roar of the falls added to his discomfiture. A waterfall of such size would surely kill him and his mount if they lost their footing. He shivered at the memories of how he nearly drowned in the Greyflood when he was riding to Rivendell. He had lost his mount then, and never did learn what had happened to the horse the Rohirrim had lent him.

But it was growing dark. His stomach was growling and the lights of Ethring beckoned on the opposite shore. Their cheery brightness promised fires to drive the chill from his bones, of warm stew for his belly, and of a dry stable for his horse. Another deluge threatened on the horizon where black clouds were gathering strength. If the next storm broke, the river would become impassable for days, maybe even weeks. And Boromir had no desire to spend another night out in the cold and damp.

In the day’s dying light, he studied the fords closely, trying to determine the best route across. He would have to hurry, though, for when darkness had fallen completely, it would be a fool’s labor to try and cross the angry waters. He tugged on the reins, leading Barangol to the edge of the river, where he swung back into the saddle. The horse danced restlessly, surveying the swift stream with distrust.

“Come on, boy,” Boromir urged him. “Remember that stable I promised? Just a little further, and then you can rest.” His soothing tone, if not his words, convinced the horse to trust his master and slowly he walked into the river.

Boromir gasped when the frigid water splashed up. Coldflood, indeed; the Ringló was aptly named, he thought glumly. Although he had been cold all day, he was not so chilled he could not feel the icy touch of the river’s water slowly seeping into his flesh. He consoled himself with the same promise he made his horse: just a little further, and then he could get rest in a dry and warm place.

Much to his relief, they reached the opposite shore without incident. But as he stood shivering beside his horse, puddles forming around their feet, he realized something was amiss.

“Híril? Here, girl!” He whistled, and was answered with a distant bark. Boromir peered into the dusky evening. His heart sank when it occurred to him that Híril had not forded the river with them but was still on the opposite bank.

“That wretched cur!” he grunted, though it was really himself he blamed. The river was too deep for the dog to wade across and the current too swift for her to swim. If he had not been so cold and tired, he would have remembered it sooner. The only way for Híril to reach Ethring was for him to go back. For an instant, he was tempted to abandon her and give in to the lure of the town’s warm fires. But then he sighed and began to wade back into the cold stream. He had no choice; he could not desert the dog.

The Captain’s Company, Part 1

Faramir rubbed his burning eyes with ink-stained fingers. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, hearing his spine crackle. Shaking his head to loosen the muscles in his neck, he sat forward again. With heartfelt loathing, he glared at the piles of letters on his desk, willing them to dwindle. He had thought, once the king’s crowning and wedding were over, things would settle a bit. Never had he imagined that governing a realm involved so much paper. And it wasn’t that he was averse to reading, not at all — he loved the written word. There was nothing more enjoyable than strolling through the library, taking this book or that ancient scroll from the shelves to study it.

But those were instructive, or at the very least, entertaining. These writings, on the other hand…

He grabbed the nearest sheet, scanned it, and threw it back on the desk with a disgusted snort. A shopkeeper’s complaint about custom lost during the siege. And here. He snatched up another page. A plea for the king to intercede in a neighbors’ quarrel. And then this! He pulled a third page from the pile. A request for nails to be allotted to the carpenters rebuilding the gates. He was the Steward of Gondor, and he was spending his time signing orders for the distribution of nails. How did the foremen think a wooden gate ought to be mended? He had already confirmed the work order for the repairs; it should have been sufficient.

Dare they not make any decision on their own any longer? At this rate, I will soon be busy deciding how many hammer strokes the workers are allowed to use on their precious nails.

He ran a hand through his hair, longing for the simple days when he was Captain of the Ithilien Rangers and written reports were of true consequence. Faramir did not recall his father ever being inundated beneath such frivolous petitions and letters as covered the current Steward’s desk, although Denethor had been burdened also with many responsibilities. But it was as if, with the threat of war ended and the promise of a prosperous future made, trivial matters had gained such importance they needed the eye of the country’s highest authorities. The worst of it was, it took his attention away from the truly important things. Such as separating the king’s assets from those of the steward’s, as they had become terribly entangled over the centuries. Or starting on the restoration of Ithilien so more crops could be produced to feed the populace.

Something needed to be done about it. Come tomorrow, he decided, he would see to hiring more clerks. His hours were simply too short to handle every detail himself, much as he might feel responsible for Gondor’s well-being. The clerks could sort the letters into matters a trusted aide could handle and those he himself needed to see to. If he did not, the citizens of Minas Tirith and their petitions would wound him as much as any Southron arrow had — but these would see him succumb.

He slumped back with a tired sigh. Perhaps it had been a mistake to stay in Edoras for as long as he had. After Théoden’s funeral, while Aragorn accompanied the hobbits as far as the Gap of Rohan, he should have returned to Minas Tirith forthwith instead of remaining until he could return at the king’s side. The number of requests, dispatches and orders waiting for him to be perused, signed, or forwarded to King Elessar after the long weeks of absence had been staggering.

Yet, he deemed the time in Edoras well spent. Unbidden, a smile curved his lips. He had passed many a pleasant day with Éowyn, riding across the golden fields of Rohan, discussing plans for their wedding and their future together. Free from the demands of war and office, they were able to unbend and rejoice in each other’s company — despite the ever-present chaperons his future brother-in-law seemed to believe were needed. As if he would ever do anything to disgrace his betrothed… But Éomer had been right; for people of their rank, the appearance of propriety was as important as propriety itself. He could not wait, though, for the wedding. Six more months, until next spring. It felt like an eternity.

Outside, rain slashed at the windows; wind howled around the Citadel. Unbeknownst to Faramir, this very same storm had kept his brother prisoner beneath a leatherleaf bush overnight before it had blown north and reached the capital late in the morning. But that was hours ago and it had long since grown dark. Inside, however, his study was warm and well lit, for soundless servants had put down lamps to cast the room in a golden glow and started a crackling fire in the hearth.

He could not recall what hour had been called last, but his stomach told him the evening was growing late. Pushing the delightful memories of the visit to Rohan from his mind, he went back to work, determined to finish one more pile of papers before pursuing dinner.

He had just signed the last order with a firm Faramir Denethorion, Steward of Gondor and was sprinkling sand upon the ink, when someone knocked on the door.

He looked up with mild surprise at the sound. ‘Twas a while ago that he had given the clerks leave to retire to their homes for the evening.

“Enter,” he called.

The door opened slowly. A page stuck his head in.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the boy said. “A messenger has arrived, carrying dispatches from Lord Angbor of Lamedon and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. Chamberlain said you might wish to see them right away.”

Faramir suppressed a sigh. He had no desire to see even more paper make its way into his office. Still, news from the southern lands was always of concern. And his uncle, at the least, could be trusted not to burden him with trivialities.

“I will take them,” he said, waving the page in. The boy gave him a packet wrapped in leather stained dark with rain, bowed and made to depart the room.

“The storm is quite fierce. Has anyone seen that the courier has a chance to warm up after his journey?”

“Yes, Lord Steward. Chamberlain sent him to the kitchens and ordered the cooks to provide him supper.”

“Good.”

Faramir waited for the lad to close the door before loosening the ties that held the package closed. He pulled out the large sheaf of documents, adding them to the piles on his desk. He shifted through the dispatches quickly, determining whether they could wait until the morning, or if the news they held was so important that it needed the king’s attention right away.

His breath caught when his eye fell upon the handwriting on a sealed envelope. He knew that script — it belonged to Boromir. What could be so important that his brother would risk discovery? Boromir would know there were others at the king’s court beside Faramir who might recognize the hand. Then again, none would expect to see the dead practice their penmanship. He shook his head wryly at the thought; he still did not agree with Boromir’s decision.

His fingers trembled a little with excitement when he broke the seal and took out the letter. It consisted of a single page with only five lines. “I will send you a woman by the name of Nîneth,” Boromir wrote without preamble. “She will carry further word from me. She and her son Galwion have suffered much in the war. I place their fate in your care and trust in your judgement regarding them. Nîneth can tell you more.”

Faramir read the words three times, as if by reading them repeatedly, he could make them tell him more. “Leave it to my brother to give me a morsel and then make me wait for the rest of the tale,” he muttered below his breath. Still, he smiled. Boromir was alive and well. That was of main import. For the rest, he would just have to wait until this mysterious woman presented herself. He folded the letter and carefully tucked it inside his tunic.

o0o

Boromir opened the door to the stable behind The Tumbling Falls inn in Ethring and stepped inside. The mixed odors of manure, hay and horse assaulted him. It seemed dark after the bright light of day outside and he waited for his eyes to adjust. Barangol nickered softly in greeting.

“Hello my friend,” Boromir replied. “How are you today?”

He entered the horse’s stall and ran a hand over the animal’s withers. Except for a bald spot on the horse’s hide, with downy new hair growing back in, the sores had faded; a week’s rest and ointments provided by the inn’s mistress, Miluien, had done their duty. A day or two more, and Barangol would be fit to be ridden again.

Boromir nodded to himself in satisfaction. He wished to leave Ethring soon. He planned to travel to Erech at the end of the South Road and he hoped to do so before winter’s snow closed the pass at Tarlang’s Neck. He did not yet worry about where to go from Erech; the winters were cold so high in the mountains, too cold for travel. A season’s stay in Erech would provide him with plenty of time to reflect on the matter.

The horse turned his head, nostrils flaring. He smacked his lips and started nibbling on Boromir’s sleeve. Boromir laughed. “You do have a nose for treats, eh? Well, you are right. I did bring you a nice carrot.” He pulled the carrot from his tunic and broke it into pieces before offering them to Barangol.

Behind him, the stable door opened again. Yapping, Híril barreled in, followed by Gahir, the innkeep’s son.

“Oh, hello, Master Erandír,” the boy said. “I took Híril outside, that we might play together. I hope that was all right?”

“It certainly was, Gahir,” Boromir answered. “It seems she has taken a liking to you.”

Gahir shrugged and offered a shy smile. “I like her too.”

“I am glad you were there to look after her,” Boromir continued, “while I was not well.”

The mere thought of illness brought back the urge to cough; he forcefully suppressed the tickle in his throat while appraising the dog who cocked her head as she looked back at him. He had come very close to losing her during the crossing of the Ringló.

The water had seemed colder still on his second crossing and by the time he reached Híril, he was soaked to his skin, his fingers stiff and useless. He had had no choice but to tuck her under his arm before tackling the frigid waters a third time. About mid-river, a smooth stone hidden beneath the froth had caused him to slip and in regaining his balance, he had let go of the dog. Only a reflexive grab for a hind leg had prevented the animal from being swept away toward the sea far south.

He had soon learned that his swim in the biting waters of the Ringló and the storm’s icy rain remained not without consequence: while Barangol mended in the stable, Boromir spent most of his days cooped up in bed or wrapped in a blanket beside the warm fire in the common room, miserable and feverish. Luckily, Mistress Miluien’s generous care and her spicy soups helped him recover quickly until his chest no longer hurt with each breath and his head no longer pounded.

He added some hay to the horse’s fodder trough and checked the water in the pail. He gave Barangol’s neck a final stroke before leaving the stall. Híril, with the young canine’s usual impatience, jumped up at him, demanding his attention. Boromir knelt to scratch her ears. In reward, he received several sloppy wet licks from a pink tongue and, with a laugh, he pushed her away.

“That’s quite enough, girl!”

Híril gave a single bark and ran back to Gahir, giving him the same treatment.

“Are you going to the gathering tonight, Master Erandír?” Gahir’s eyes sparkled when his gaze met Boromir’s over Híril’s furry head.

“What gathering?”

“Have you not heard?” the lad exclaimed. “Orcs have been sighted, not far to the north. Môrohîl wants to put together a company to chase them out of the Ringló Vale.”

“Orcs?” Boromir straightened, his interest piqued. The gossips in Linhir spoke true, then, about orcs roaming the foothills of the White Mountains. Will it never end?

“Aye! A great host, they say. I can’t wait to join the company and fight those Mordor spawn!” The boy was quiet for a moment, then heaved a sigh. “Mother wouldn’t allow me to go with Lord Dervorin and the soldiers to Minas Tirith.”

“Your mother is a wise woman,” Boromir muttered. “War is not a game.”

He eyed the boy dubiously. Barely sixteen years of age, the lad’s voice still cracked when he got excited. And while he was good with the animals and no doubt could wield a frightening axe to cut firewood, battling orcs was quite a different matter. Yet, Boromir could not fault him. He himself had killed his first orc at sixteen. His father had patted his shoulder when Boromir’s captain gave the report, and his eyes had gleamed with pride. Denethor never spoke a word of praise, but he always treated Boromir more like a man after that.

“Where is this gathering taking place?” Boromir asked.

“In the town hall,” Gahir said. “‘Tis at the market near the fords. Will you go with Môrohîl too?”

The action would do him good after the unsought bed rest. And was not battling the remnants of evil what he had set out to do?

“I might,” Boromir murmured. “I just might.”

o0o

After supper, Boromir wandered down to the river and followed along its bank until he reached the fords. The surge from the heavy rains had drained away and though the river was still swift, it no longer resembled the furious, debris-filled stream he had crossed a week ago.

When he arrived at the town hall, a lot of Ethring men were already assembled. Short and swarthy they were, like the folk who lived in the foothills of the White Mountains. Their faces were grave and determined and beneath their stern exteriors, Boromir sensed a mixture of energy and tension.

Trying to avoid attention, he hovered in the back of the hall, content to listen and watch with a careful detachment. He caught a glimpse of Gahir. The boy was standing with a couple of other lads his age, their faces excited and their eyes gleaming. He noticed Boromir watching him, and waved in greeting. Boromir acknowledged him with a nod, and turned away to study the rest of the crowd. While the boys looked excited, the men appeared more doubtful. These were tanners, carpenters, weavers; men that were not used to discussing orc bands or battle tactics.

Boromir also noticed several woodsmen in the crowd, grim people dressed in garments of green and brown. They, at least, look like they might wield a blade with some skill, or fire an arrow without catching their thumbs on the bowstring.

A man jumped on a bench at the front of the room. He was young, barely in his twenties, with long dark hair that hung to his shoulders and the stocky built of the Ethring people. After a few moments, the hall quieted and the young man had everyone’s attention.

“Men of Ethring,” he called, his voice carrying easily. “Most of you know me. But for those who don’t, my name is Môrohîl. My father Galdor served as constable to the old lord. I’m afraid I bring you bad news. You have all heard the rumors. And they are true: orcs have been sighted in the northern reaches of the Vale.” Some of the mountaineers who lived in the Vale nodded in confirmation.

“It seems,” Môrohîl continued, “that they are traveling south along the Ringló. They could reach Ethring soon.” A wave of appalled gasps and murmurs ran through the hall. Many people shifted uneasily and cast quick looks about them as if they expected a band of orcs to come crashing through the door any instant.

“We must send for help!” someone cried to a chorus of ayes.

“Send a messenger to Calembel, to Lord Angbor. Or ask Dol Amroth for their Swan Knights to help us.”

“Those are good suggestions,” Môrohîl said. “But it takes time. It will be days at least before either can muster a force to help us. And the orcs are moving ever closer.”

He gestured for another man to join him. A short fellow with a thick black beard and garbed in the earthy hues of the forest people clambered upon the bench beside Môrohîl.

“My name is Gladon,” said the newcomer. Boromir had to strain to hear him as he spoke softly and his voice did not carry as far as Môrohîl’s.

“I lived with my wife and sons in the mountains north of Ethring; our home is some ten leagues up the Vale. Three nights ago, the orcs came upon our house–” Gladon’s voice caught for a moment while a horrified ripple ran through the room at his words. When he spoke again, the hall was as silent as a tomb. “I tried to fight them, but they were too many. At least a score, maybe more. I hit my head in the battle and passed out. When I woke again… My wife was dead. My strong boys were murdered.” He brushed at his eyes. “I don’t know why I was not killed also. ‘Twere better had I died with my family.”

Whispers filled with fright and shock rose from the assembly. “Only ten leagues,” people murmured. “Three days ago.”

Môrohîl let them talk for a few minutes before he demanded their attention again.

“You heard Gladon’s tale. We cannot wait for Lord Angbor or Belfalas while the evil hordes find us. Will we let them lay ruin to our homes? Will we stand by while they murder our families?” He paused for a moment. “No, I say! We shall revenge Gladon’s wife and sons! We shall pick up arms and find those demons before they come close to those we hold dear. We can defend ourselves!”

Shouts echoed in the hall. “Death to the orcs! Let’s go kill them!”

It was a good speech, Boromir conceded. Short, to the point and arousing. Perhaps the lad knows more than his age suggests.

Gladon’s tale worried him. If it was true — and he had no reason to believe it was not — the Vale was in trouble indeed. These people were not used to such danger lurking on their doorstep. They lived far enough from the coast that Corsairs had never bothered them. And although in the past, orc bands occasionally had made it across the Anduin, the soldiers patrolling the west bank of the river usually stopped them before they could cause much havoc.

True, Ringló Vale men had come to the Pelennor when Gondor needed them, three hundred strong. But see where it had left them: their lord’s son dead, as were many of their most-capable men. And still, with the enemy troops having fled from the battlefield in every direction, peril they were ill-equipped to handle threatened the Ethringers. Boromir was anxious to see what course of action the town’s self-appointed militia leader would propose.

“Tomorrow, at first light,” the young man was saying, “I will set out north. I will find the orc horde and slay them to the last monster standing. Who will come with me?”

The men’s inexperience and fears did not hold sway over their bravery. Or perhaps it was fear for their families that strengthened their resolve. Young men and old, the strong, the healthy, and the weary, they all spoke up. “I will!” “Me too!” “I’ll come with you!”

Boromir’s heart swelled with pride at their courage. The people of Gondor had never retreated before the threat of Mordor and even now, with the war over and Sauron defeated, they were not inclined to do so. But the pride intertwined with concern for their fate. These are not soldiers! a voice in his mind cried. They do not know what daunting task they take upon themselves.

Not one to sit idly by while good people plotted their own doom, he pushed himself up from the bench he lounged on and made his way to the front of the room.

“How, exactly,” he raised his voice to be heard over the din, “do you plan to fight this host?”

“How?” Môrohîl repeated. “With whatever weapons we have available. They can’t be allowed to reach Ethring.”

Boromir shook his head. “That is not what I meant. What strategy will you follow? What is your plan?”

“We will go and meet them head-on,” Môrohîl answered. “We’ll show them we’re not afraid. It’s the strategy the commanders applied on the Pelennor Fields. And look what they did to the forces of Mordor.” He puffed up his chest, daring Boromir to contradict him.

Boromir smiled ruefully. It was a great simplification of the battle but he could see how it might have seemed to be this way to the young man.

“Those commanders had the entire Gondorian army under their command,” he said calmly, “as well as the Rohirrim cavalry to aid them. I do not see any such force here.” He did not mention that such direct tactics were a desperate move, applied only when the battle commander was out of other options. This orc-band was not as big as Sauron’s entire army but they were battle-seasoned veterans with nothing left to lose. An army of craftsmen and herders would be no match for it.

Môrohîl glared at Boromir. “Do you question our valor, stranger? Because I would have you know I fought alongside the lords of the Vale, and so did many here.”

Others turned angry looks on Boromir as well. “You can call me Erandír,” he said, unperturbed, “so I am a stranger no longer. And I do not doubt your courage, master warrior. The men of Gondor have ever been valiant in the face of danger. No, it is your grasp of battle tactics I question.”

For the first time since the meeting began, Môrohîl looked a little uncertain. “You have experience with such matters?”

“Aye,” Boromir confirmed. “I do happen to know a thing or two about planning for battle.”

He could hear the murmurs traveling through the crowd. Several people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of him. He hoped that unfamiliarity with his features combined with his shorter hair and a thicker beard would keep his identity undiscovered.

o0o

Môrohîl studied the older man in front of him. He was not from the Vale. Tall, as a Dol Amroth knight, and broad of shoulder, he carried himself with an air of great confidence. Môrohîl was glad he was still standing on the bench or he would have had to crane his neck. This was clearly not a man to be trifled with. But why would a stranger want to involve himself in their perilous business? And what kind of name was Erandír, anyway?

But I do believe him, when he says he knows about war. He has the look of a professional soldier.

The well-trained troops of Gondor’s standing armies had stood in stark contrast with the militia fighters from the southern fiefs; Môrohîl recalled them clearly. Unfortunately, the reminiscence brought with it the memory of the stark terror he had felt on the battlefield, the reek of blood and smoke, the screaming of the wounded, the chaos and confusion, and how glad he had been when somebody told him what to do. He suppressed a shudder.

He had to be truthful with himself: he did not know anything, really, about strategy and tactics. On the Pelennor, and later in front of the Morannon, he had gone where they told him to go and wielded a sword when they told him to wield it. He was proud to have come forward when his country called, and even prouder that he had managed to slay two of their enemies and wound several others.

But he was no soldier. Yet, he had no choice. Lord Dervorin was dead and the orcs would be upon Ethring before help could arrive. So perhaps this stranger, if he truly knew about the art of war, was the Valar’s gift to the people of the Vale. It would not hurt to hear him.

“What would you do?”

“First of all,” Erandír said, “we need more knowledge. Are they Mordor orcs? Or do they have Uruk-hai with them? What weaponry do the orcs have? And we need scouts to locate the horde. We want to fight them where we can hold the high ground.”

There was more than one kind of orc? Môrohîl winced inwardly at the barrage of questions. He should have asked those himself. They were good questions, about things that had slipped his mind. Important things.

“I can tell you,” Gladon said. “I may have run like a coward but I have seen the orcs with my own eyes. And I will be your scout, if you allow me. I know these woodlands.”

“I shall go with Gladon,” another man offered. “Two see more than one. Tarandor am I,” he introduced himself. “My home is in the north Vale also. After Gladon reached us with his warning, I brought my family here, to Ethring.”

Although Môrohîl was aware he had already surrendered to the foreigner’s authority, he was surprised to find the foresters accept him so readily, also. The men from the mountains were not a trusting sort of folk and oft wary of strangers.

Erandír nodded at Tarandor before he grasped Gladon’s shoulder.

“You did the right thing,” the tall man said. “No single man can stand up to such a host.” A strange shadow washed over his face but it was gone before Môrohîl could decide what it was. “With your information, we can better prepare ourselves. We shall slay those orcs and revenge your family. This I promise you.”

Gladon gave a detailed account of the attack on his family and told Erandír everything he could about the orcs. Môrohîl listened closely, as did the foreigner. He interrupted Gladon a few times to ask questions about the number and size of the orcs, their armor and weaponry, and he wanted to know the lay of the land north of Ethring. Then he grew silent. He appeared to mull over the information while an expectant silence hung in the hall. Nobody seemed to dare break it and everyone, Môrohîl included, waited for Erandír to speak again.

“All right,” he said at last. “Be glad there are no Uruk-hai. It makes our task easier. Orcs from Mordor do not like the daytime, so they will burrow in at sunrise and wait for nightfall. Most likely in those caves Gladon described. If they do, that is where we will attack them.” He began to explain his ideas to the men of Ethring, pushing aside the benches to make room and drawing large diagrams on the hall’s wooden floor with charcoal from the fireplace.

It took a while before everyone understood their role in Erandír’s battle plan, but once he was satisfied that they knew what to do, the meeting concluded.

The Captain’s Company, part 2

Boromir woke an hour before sun-up. He broke his fast by candlelight in the common room where Miluien offered him a plate of sizzling ham and bread with freshly churned butter.

“You cosset me,” he said, then hastily chewed and swallowed the last bite, washing it down with a cup of cool cider.

Miluien smiled. “My husband would not begrudge it you. ‘Tis the least we can do for someone who is about to walk into danger to keep us safe.”

She cleared away the crockery while Boromir examined the edge of his sword for minuscule notches one last time. You take care of your blade, and it will take care of you. That was one lesson his old armsmaster had taught him he always heeded.

Finding the blade sharp along its entire length, he shoved it back into its scabbard and buckled it on. Miluien offered him a package.

“Some meat pies,” she said, “and bread and cheese.”

He accepted the food with a grateful nod and stuffed it in his pack. “As I said, you are pampering me. But I thank you, mistress. It will be most welcome after a long march.”

Gahir hovered near the door, hopping from foot to foot in eager impatience. “Are we going yet?”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” his mother said. “The stables need mucking, and I would have more firewood. What would your father say if he knew I let you run off to play soldier while there is so much work to do about the house in his absence?”

The lad gave Boromir a pleading look. Boromir remembered his own desire to go to battle and sympathized, but without proper training a lad like Gahir had no place in a war-party routing out orcs. He would only get himself killed.

“Your mother is right.” The lad’s face fell. “Someone needs to stay and stand guard against any orcs that might slip through our net.”

Gahir looked at him for a moment, trying to make up his mind whether he was being patronized or not. Boromir met his stare, kept his features straight, and finally Gahir nodded, if somewhat reluctantly.

Híril sat on the doorstep of the common room. Stirred by the general air of excitement, her tail was swishing with gusto.

“You too, eh,” Boromir chuckled when she began to follow him out. “Stay!” he commanded. “A skirmish is no place for a dog.” She might alert their foe before he had his troops in place.

Híril cocked her head and offered Boromir a doleful look that made him smile. Even Gahir had to laugh.

“Don’t worry, sir,” he said. “I will look after her for you. Come here, Híril!”

With a bark, the dog ran to the boy, jumped up and begged him to scratch her ears.

With an amused chortle, Boromir stepped outside and breathed in deeply. The night air was tinged with the cool of early autumn and the sky was clear. Bright stars glimmered in the darkness overhead. He could identify only a few of the constellations; he had never paid as much attention to their names as to how the stars could aid him in navigating unfamiliar land. Yet in the southeast was Menelvagor, still detectable though fading fast while the eastern sky lightened until fiery Borgil was the last to remain visible. And in the north, barely perceptible over the peaks of the Ered Nimrais, hung the Valacirca, the seven stars that formed the Sickle of the Valar.

Boromir grinned in grim satisfaction. It would be a perfect day to go orc-hunting. Not a single fiend would venture out of its hiding on a day as bright as this would be.

He set off in the direction of the market just as the sun peeked over the horizon in a fierce red flame. The rays made short work of the autumn dew, which had gathered on meadow and bush, and for a few moments white mists curled up in the sky.

o0o

When Boromir reached the town square, little more than two score of men were gathered. They carried axes or rusty pikes. A few wielded a sword experimentally, and others were testing the strings on their bows.

He frowned. This was a mere fraction of the crowd that had assembled last night and agreed to go after the orc horde. Would their numbers be enough? Was there even a choice, with the orcs approaching the town?

He was not truly surprised; these people were mostly gentle citizens of a small town, and it was much easier to speak bold words after rousing speeches than it was to find courage in the clear light of morning, when one had to say goodbye to wife and child. And what business did bakers or saddlemakers and smiths have in a battle with war-hardened demons?

Among those gathered were the men from the wilds. So they had come, at least. They possessed woodland skills and knew the lay of the land. They also knew how to handle a weapon. Môrohîl and some of his comrades who had fought with Dervorin on the Pelennor Fields were also present. They were not many, but they were good men. If fortune were with them, they might see the job done.

Môrohîl saw Boromir approach and pushed his way through the gathered men to greet him. “Gladon and Tarandor have not yet returned with news. Should we wait for them?”

“No,” Boromir said. “We have not the time to spare. The weather is to our advantage but who can say how long it will stay so. We will start out north. We should meet them on the way.”

“Then we are ready.”

“Good.” Boromir nodded and grinned. “Let us be off and kill some orcs!”

It appeared as if the entire populace of Ethring had come to see them off. Women, men and children waited at the fords to watch them cross the Ringló. They shouted encouragement, or passed provisions to the men. Yet Boromir recognized none from last night’s meeting; shame held those men home while the company departed.

Once they reached the eastern bank, the townspeople quickly fell behind and the small group began to walk along a narrow path north into the mountains, following the river upstream. Soon, Boromir’s gratitude for the presence of the mountain folk grew beyond appreciation for their weapons’ prowess — they managed to find trails where he saw none. The going grew more difficult; oftentimes they needed to make a path of their own when even the foresters could not find a deer’s or boar’s trail. Brambles and stinging nettles grew in thick clumps, forcing them to go around. Boromir worried his men’s strength was failing — they were not making as quick progress as he wished. They might not reach the orc den that day. And he did not desire to spend a night in the forest with untrained companions and orcs on the loose.

At noon, he called a brief halt. They stopped at a small stream, a tributary of the Ringló that could be crossed without getting one’s feet wet. Rocks in the waterbed provided easy stepping stones. On the northern bank they found a small glade with a floor of lush grass where the men plunked onto the ground or mossy hillocks to rest their weary feet.

Boromir, however, could not find the peace to sit. Neither of the scouts had returned and his misgivings about the entire undertaking were increasing by the minute. Was he going to get them all killed in an ill-advised attempt to quell a pocket of evil? Should he perhaps have advised the townspeople to flee while they sent for soldiers instead of leading them to battle?

He wandered to the edge of the clearing, peering into the darker forest, trying to see what lay ahead.

A shadow moved beneath the trees and he stiffened, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his weapon.

“It is I, Gladon.”

“‘Tis good to see you,” Boromir said and relaxed his stance. “You were keenly awaited.”

“I apologize for my lateness,” Gladon said while he walked out into the sunlight. “You were right. The orcs have burrowed in the caves. I stayed for a few hours after sunrise to ensure they were not moving. Tarandor is still there, hiding, keeping an eye on the demons.”

“How much further is it to the caves?”

“Not far. Another stream runs out of the east hills less than a league from here. After we cross it, we can follow it upstream for a mile, and we’ll have reached the glen where the orcs are hiding.”

The answer renewed Boromir’s faith in the endeavor. It would take another two hours, mayhap three if the terrain remained hostile, to reach the dell. In any case, they would arrive in the clear light of day, long before sunset. He would have time to scout the area, and to rest his men, letting them regain their energy after the march north. By sundown, when the orcs dared venture out, his company would be well rested and in place.

He gave the men a few more minutes before he called an end to their break and gestured for Gladon to lead them out.

o0o

When they reached the tributary, the sun was still high, although the shadows were lengthening. Boromir halted his company. Gladon pointed upstream.

“The caves are but a little further east.”

Boromir squinted. The forest seemed quiet and deserted. There was no sign of orcs.

They crossed the stream and followed it east. They had not gone far when Tarandor appeared, emerging out of the undergrowth with all the skill of an experienced huntsman. He grinned at the startled gasps of some of the men before he turned to Boromir.

“The orcs haven’t moved,” he reported. “You’ll find a meadow beyond the trees. The caves are a little uphill, on the north cliff face.”

“Thank you.”

After sending Tarandor off to get himself something to eat, Boromir waved Môrohîl close. “Have the men take some rest. I will have Gladon show me the site. We will go over the plan one more time when I return.”

“Yes sir.” Môrohîl saluted and walked off.

“This way.” Gladon disappeared into the undergrowth, moving through the forest making barely a noise. Trying to imitate the mountaineer’s stealth demanded all of Boromir’s attention, leaving him no chance to dwell on the salute. He found himself admiring Gladon’s proficiency; he had never fully mastered the Rangers’ skill of stealth, much to Faramir’s amusement and his own chagrin.

They reached the treeline. Shielding himself carefully behind a cluster of stunted birch trees, Boromir took in the terrain. A grassy sward with a few scattered autumn blooms amid boulders and debris washed down from the mountain lay between the riverbank and a steep slope. The hill was bare, and at its bottom scree had piled up. Boromir suspected winter avalanches swept away any sapling daring enough to take root.

About halfway up, the incline became steeper and stark cliffs rose vertically. At their feet, dark shadows hung, though the hill itself basked in the autumn sunshine.

Gladon indicated the shadows. “Those are the caves.”

Boromir contemplated them. The cliff faced southwest, which meant the sun would light it until it sank below the trees. If I can get them to leave the caves early…

He would change his strategy. He would not wait until nightfall when the orcs abandoned the caves. No, he would lure the beasts from their den and fight them at the time of his choosing. The orcs would be at great disadvantage in the light, facing toward the sun while negotiating the treacherous slope. And his ragtag army needed every advantage he could give them.

“Go back and bring Môrohîl and Tarandor,” he told Gladon. “I will stay and watch until you return.”

o0o

A short while later he heard them come. Or rather, he heard Môrohîl scramble through the forest while the mountain folk were as quiet as wraiths.

“Gladon said you wanted to see us?”

“Yes. I have an idea.”

“I thought you explained your plan yesterday?”

“Aye, so I did. This is a new plan.” He turned his head to meet Môrohîl’s gaze. “A good commander will amend his strategy if the situation calls for it; no plan is ever final before a commander has seen the site for himself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Môrohîl, you take half of the men and go up the ridge.” He pointed east. “See it?”

“I see it.”

“Have your men spread out along the rim. Make sure you take the best archers along, and put them where they have the clearest shot.”

“Aye, captain.”

Boromir, startled, glanced sideways, unsure how to read the honorific. He cleared his throat before he turned to Tarandor. “You are in command of the rest of the men. See where the slope angles off? And those bushes growing along the edge? That’s where you must take them. I will draw the orcs out while the sun is still up. We need to engage them in the glade, where we have room to maneuver. Wait until they reach the bottom of the slope. Then attack upon their flanks. We will crush them between us. Understood?”

“Aye.” Tarandor also offered a salute, and Boromir cringed inwardly.

“Do we go now, sir?” Môrohîl asked.

“No,” Boromir said. “Wait another hour before moving out. Make sure the men use the respite to relax and get some rest. When the sun is low enough, we will attack. You will know the time to take your positions has come when you see me enter the clearing.”

o0o

Boromir did not move. His hand rested easily upon the hilt of his sword; his gaze never wavered from the deep shades that marked the caves while he waited patiently for the orcs to notice him. It was obvious they had not set a guard, or they would have spotted him already. He stood in clear view among the lengthening shadows on the grass below the caves, knowing that in the fading daylight he made a prime target. It was a risky ploy, but he had to draw the orcs out of their hiding while giving his men the advantage of surprise. He prayed the orcs would not fire an arrow at him from their hiding place; he was too familiar with the devastating force of those black-feathered darts and the light leather cuirass he wore would offer scant protection against them. But he wagered curiosity would get the better of them. A single man’s obvious challenge, like the one he offered, would be too much to bear. As long as there were indeed no Uruk-hai among them…

As the sun dipped low, the waiting ended and he was proven right.

Something moved inside the caves, so slight it would be barely noticeable, but Boromir, who had been staring at the shadows for close to a quarter hour noted it immediately. Black shapes shifted in the darkness. A murmur of guttural voices drifted down, speaking a language he had hoped never to hear again on Gondorian soil. A puff of wind brought the stink of orcs and Boromir scrunched up his nose.

“Foul-smelling beasts,” he murmured. He loosened his sword in its scabbard and adjusted his grip.

An orc stepped from the caves. His misshapen features twisted in a derisive grimace. “You must be the local fool!”

“They call me Erandír. I have come to chase you out of this vale, and out of Gondor. These lands belong to King Elessar and the people of the Reunited Kingdom. Be gone, or learn the bite of my sword!”

Other orcs gathered beside the first and they roared with laughter. Boromir knew he appeared absurd, standing here alone and boasting such big promises. But it was part of the lure, and the orcs must fall for it. If they did not…

He could almost taste the tension that wafted up from Gladon, hidden in the tall grass behind him. He hoped the troops on either flank were as ready.

“Bite sounds right,” the orcs’ leader said. “You’ll do nicely for dinner. How ’bout putting man flesh on the menu tonight, lads?”

The other orcs howled their agreement and poured out of the cave. The black horde came bearing down on him, scrambling over the loose rock, careless of their own safety. Encouraged by several successful raids over the past few days, they saw no danger until it was too late.

Boromir drew his sword and held it before him. He counted out loud. “Three. Two. One! Now!”

Arrows flew through the air, firing into the orcs from both sides. Not all made their mark but the unexpected attack threw the orcs into frightened disorder.

“Elessar!” Boromir shouted, charging. “For Gondor! For Gondor!”

Behind him, Gladon jumped up and followed, screaming the name of his wife and sons. From both sides, men ran onto the sward, falling upon the confused orcs.

“For the Vale!” they cried. “For Ethring!”

Within moments, the peaceful clearing turned into a chaotic melee of men and orcs. Swords flashed. Axes fell, hewing through flesh and bone. Arrows flew. Men screamed and orcs howled in pain. Boromir’s sword danced among the escapees from Mordor.

Slash! One orc down.

Thrust! A second died on his blade.

Parry! Hew! Another black body fell. The stench of blood mingled with the reek of orc and the screams of men and demons.

Three — no, four orcs advanced on Boromir. He parried their attacks as well as he knew how, but he was slowly losing ground under the onslaught. His only salvation lay in the fact that they yet failed to combine their efforts in a coordinated attack. He saw a hooked blade descend in a flash of orange sunlight and threw up his sword to meet it. The force of the impact jarred his arm to near numbness. With a double-handed grip, he hewed left, barely seeing what he was doing, and sliced off an orc’s sword arm. Blood spurted and the orc fell back, howling with pain. An arrow whisked by Boromir’s ear, catching a second orc in the throat.

He did not get the chance to see whose arrow aided him. The two remaining orcs renewed their attack, driven by desperation and bloodlust. The sheer power of their thrusts forced Boromir further backwards. The trees were at his back. He needed to stay in the clearing — the trees’ closeness would limit his freedom of movement considerably.

He aimed his sword at the closest orc’s belly and lunged. The weapon connected, and the tip of his blade sliced open its gut.

The last orc growled. “You will die, whiteskin. I will send your severed head to your king as a farewell present.”

Boromir laughed. “You would, Mordor spawn.”

He thrust forward but his opponent deflected the blade and engaged in a counter attack. The orc blade came swinging down and desperately Boromir brought up his own weapon. He managed to deflect the orc’s sword enough that it did not separate his head from his body but the flat side of the blade hit his skull hard enough to make his ears ring.

While he was trying to regain his senses, the orc pushed the advantage and his blade came up again. Boromir was forced to take a step back. His boot caught on a rock, half-hidden in the dirt, and his ankle twisted. The ground rushed up to meet him while a surprised yell escaped him. His sword slipped from his hand.

Boromir’s eyes darted around, searching the growing darkness for the lost blade. He looked back up at the orc, panting for breath. The demon bared his fangs in a triumphant grin.

“Prepare to die, whiteskin.”

Suddenly, Boromir was transported back to another place and another time — on his knees, his executioner grinning down at him, taller than this orc but with the same evil gleam in its eyes while it drew back the string on its bow, tightening it slowly, relishing the moment…

So, Death has caught up with me at last.

Another arrow whizzed past. It hit neither Boromir nor his attacker but thudded into a nearby tree, yet it was enough to break the spell. Boromir shook his head, trying to clear the memories. He tore his eyes away from the orc’s hideous face and searched again for his sword.

There!

He dove for his weapon the same instant the orc’s blade descended; it would have split his head if he had not moved. The orc grunted when its blade met no resistance and instead cut deep into the rocky ground where it lodged firmly.

The orc growled, abandoning its weapon and lunging at him before Boromir could get a firm grip on his own sword hilt. Boromir landed on his back, the heavy orc on top. Yellowed teeth snapped at his face while sharp talons squeezed his throat. He fumbled for the knife in his belt, drove it into the orc’s belly. It howled in pain and its grip lessened.

A pale red-golden blur streaked through the air, snarling, striking the orc and tearing it off of Boromir.

“Híril?” Boromir was too shocked to believe his eyes.

The dog ignored him. Her jaws tore at the orc’s throat although it was already dying. Once the demon stopped twitching, she let go. She kept continuing to growl at the corpse as if daring it to get up.

“Híril! You disobedient cur!” Boromir grinned. He grabbed the dog’s jowls, ruffling the animal’s fur. “How did you get here? Did I not tell you to stay with Gahir?”

She reached up, attempting to give him a lick. He pushed her off, having no desire to let her tongue, slick with orc blood, anywhere near his face.

“All right!” he laughed. “All right, you did well. You are forgiven.”

o0o

Darkness had fallen by the time the battle was over and Boromir ordered a roll call. One man had his hand sliced off, and he looked gray from bloodloss and pain. Another suffered an ugly cut to the leg that might leave him with a permanent limp. Several more men had sustained injuries but most were superficial and would heal easily with proper care. Their losses were not as great as Boromir would have feared; they had been very fortunate.

Only Gladon was found missing.

A quick search among the bodies located the woodsman at the foot of the slope, a hooked black blade buried in his chest. His glazed eyes stared up at the newborn stars, unseeing.

Boromir knelt at his side. He removed the blade and pressed the man’s eyes shut. “You have your revenge,” he whispered. “Be at peace. May you find your family again.”

After a moment’s silence, he turned back to the others. “We will make camp down the stream,” he said. “Tomorrow we will burn the carcasses so they will no longer contaminate our land.” He paused a moment. “You did very well, men of Ethring. You are all worthy soldiers of Gondor.”

The men hollered and clapped, looking quite pleased with themselves and with his praise.

o0o

They returned to where the small stream met the Ringló. Fires were kindled quickly. Some of the men used the supplies they brought to prepare a thick stew, the smell of which made stomachs growl and mouths water. Their voices were loud, cheerful, while they recounted their role in the skirmish. The tales grew bigger with every telling.

Boromir sat a little off to the edge of the camp with his back against a tree, Híril at his feet. He had pulled out his whetting stone and was slowly running it along his blade.

Môrohîl brought him a bowl. “You should eat something, captain.”

“Stop calling me that,” Boromir snapped. “I am not your captain. I’m nobody’s captain. Understand?”

Môrohîl looked startled at Boromir’s vehemence. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and shut it. He gave a hurt little nod and set the bowl at Boromir’s feet.

The stew would have gone cold, untouched while Boromir stared off in the distance, if not for Híril’s eager tongue.

The Pass At Tarlang’s Neck

Boromir escaped Ethring three days later. He left some silver in his room as payment for bed, board and good care, hushed Híril and slipped out of the inn so early in the morning that even Mistress Miluien was not yet awake. He could not bear the gratitude and adulation the Ethring people were heaping upon him any longer. He had stayed for Gladon’s funeral, made sure the injured were cared for, and, at the insistence of Môrohîl and Gahir, had partaken in the celebration of their victory.

But where once he would have enjoyed being the hero of astonishing tales or the teller of grand stories, it now made him uncomfortable. There was no heroism or special prowess involved. He had merely done his duty, letting common sense and years of training dictate his actions. And when Môrohîl told him they planned on sending someone to their lord with the suggestion he be asked for command of the town’s small militia, Boromir had had all he could bear. He understood their desire; the death of Lord Dervorin had left them without a capable captain — but they would have to find someone else.

He snuck into the stable to saddle Barangol, pleased to see that the last marks of the animal’s injuries had faded, and proceeded to lead the horse through the dark streets as quietly as possible. The clop of the hooves sounded loud and he hoped nobody would wake from his passing. But the festivities had lasted until deep in the night and the people of Ethring slept the sleep of the secure, helped along with good amounts of ale and wine imbibed during the merrymaking. More than a few of the orc-hunters would wake with a pounding head and no memory of their last few waking hours. They had been the center of the celebrations and everyone had joined in the effort to make sure their cups never went dry.

At the edge of town, when he was about to embark onto the main road, the nightwatch challenged him.

“Who goes there?”

“Erandír.”

“Oh, hello, captain. You aren’t leaving, are you?”

Wincing at the honorific he had failed to obliterate from Ethring’s vocabulary — though not for lack of trying — Boromir replied, “Aye, I am.” He lowered his voice. “I am needed in Calembel. Your people are safe, now.”

“That they are, thanks to you,” the watchman said. “We’ll be sad to see you gone. Fare thee well, captain. You be safe too.”

Boromir swung himself into the saddle and spurred Barangol into a trot.

He was following the South Road again. The sun rose behind the clouds and the world was revealed slowly. The foliage on the trees displayed a myriad of bright colors: oranges, yellows, reds, deep purples. Gusts tore the leaves from the trees, making them pursue one another in swirling winds. Híril found it fascinating; she snapped at the dancing foliage and often ended up spitting out mouthfuls of leaves. The air was cold and smelled of the snow on the White Mountains. Boromir pulled his wool cloak closer about him. The fair weather had not lasted long and he feared he would have need of his new raincape before long.

By noon, his fears proved well founded. Boromir was immensely grateful for the oilskin Miluien had given him on the night after the orc-hunt. She’d laughed when she offered it, saying she might not be at hand to nurse him back to health with her chicken broth and honeyed teas when next he got himself soaked to the skin in a rainstorm. But he had seen the brief glint of pain in her eyes when she added that the cloak once belonged to her brother, a soldier in Lord Dervorin’s small army who had died before the walls of Minas Tirith. It made the gift invaluable in Boromir’s eyes. Hers was the only reward he had accepted out of the many tokens the grateful people of Ethring tried to bestow on him, for to refuse it would have been an insult to the soldier’s memory.

o0o

Calembel was built on a hill, overlooking the fords of the river Ciril. A long, sloping meadow ran from the gates to the river’s edge where, across the stream, the dark ribbon of the road twisted westward through hills and groves until it faded from sight in the gray distance. The town was larger than Ethring, protected by an earthen wall topped with a rough palisade. Here and there the tiled rooftops of large merchant houses peeked over the rim of the wall.

Dusk was falling when Boromir nudged Barangol up the hill to the gates of the city. Entering the fiefdom’s capital would be risky, the fear of recognition still ever present. But he did not have a choice. His desire to leave Ethring in stealth had prevented him from taking on supplies and he needed provisions. He wanted to cross the mountains over the pass at Tarlang’s Neck before the winter snows closed it off. And as far as he recalled, the land between Calembel and Erech was wild and inhospitable, with no inns or taverns and barely any farms along the way.

The rain began again before he reached the gate, giving him the excuse of pulling his hood closer about his face, hiding his features in the shadows. The pair of soldiers at the gate huddled in their guardhouse and waved him through after a cursory glance. A year ago, he would have reprimanded them on their carelessness, reminding them of their duty to their people. As it was, he did not complain and quickly entered the city.

It had been many years since he had last visited Calembel yet he still recalled that the road left of the gate led further up the hill to the citadel where the lord of Lamedon resided. After a glance uphill, Boromir turned right, riding deeper into town until he found a small inn where he took up residence for the night.

o0o

The next day dawned cold but clear, the first bright day since the day they killed the orcs. Boromir rose with the sun. If he left early, he could make most of the day’s fine weather. He ate a quick breakfast in the common room before he walked to the market. Vendors were busy putting up their stalls and welcomed his early custom. Soon his arms were filled with the necessary provisions.

He stopped last at a stall selling large, red apples.

“Last of the season, sir. You’ll find them sweet and juicy.”

Boromir bought a sackful and added the load to his other purchases. The apples were heavy but up in the pass little greenery grew and Barangol would be grateful for the addition to his diet of grains and meager forage. Besides, Boromir enjoyed the sweet tartness of the fruits himself. He handed the man his coin.

“Going to Erech? Or will you be traveling to Ethring, sir?”

“Erech is where I’m headed,” Boromir said. “Is there aught you can tell me about the road across Tarlang’s Neck?”

The man’s face turned thoughtful. “You best be careful in the Neck, sir,” he said. “I’ve heard a band of Haradrim waylay innocent travelers sometimes. Lord Angbor has sent out several parties to apprehend them but so far the Southrons have evaded the scouts.”

“Haradrim?”

“Aye. Odd, isn’t it? With the battles over and all, one would expect them to return to their strange land and leave the roads safe for innocent people.” The vendor shrugged. “Me, I never go far from the city. Much safer here. Out there you have those Haradrim, wolves, and who knows, mayhap one of the King’s Dead lingers down there by the water.” He pointed to the river. “That’s where they camped when they came out of the mountains. Still, ’tis best not to dwell on such matters. Here you go, sir.” He gave Boromir his change and tipped his hat. “Safe travel, sir.”

Boromir accepted the change and well-wishes absentmindedly. Haradrim, this far west in Gondor’s lands! They must fled from the Pelennor and believe their way home blocked by Gondorian soldiers patrolling the banks of the Anduin. They would not know of Aragorn’s mercy.

Perhaps he should delay his departure and see if he could offer his services to the troops looking for the Haradrim.

No. As soon as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it. Angbor knew his face. He could not risk discovery. And the lord of Lamedon was a capable and cunning soldier. He did not need Boromir’s aid.

o0o

By the time he led Barangol across the river, it was near mid-morning. The sun hung low in a pale blue sky, another sign that winter was approaching. The air was brisk, and Barangol’s breath gusted in white plumes before the horse’s nostrils.

Yet, he was fortunate; though it was rather cold for the time of year, the clear weather lasted for the next few days.

Boromir reached the foot of the pass on the third day, around noon. The sun was growing dim, veiled with thin, high layers of haze. Over the tops of mountains, heavy clouds formed, gathering strength before being pushed in front of the wind over the realm of Gondor. In the few moments during which Boromir watched the clouds, they grew in size, obscuring the white peaks within their gray folds.

He muttered a curse. If he did not hurry, an early snowstorm might catch up with him in Tarlang’s Neck. Despite the need for haste, he dismounted. It was important to be prepared for every eventuality, especially when traveling through treacherous mountains.

The timberline was near. Up ahead, where the road ascended the pass, nothing grew but a few scraggly bushes and mosses. Around Boromir, though, small, stunted pines and birches still grew. He did not know their names but their dried, dead branches would burn hotly. And the brown needles on the ground would make for good kindling.

He gathered a pile of deadwood and bundled it onto Barangol’s strong back. The horse shied at first at his strange burden but a few calming words and stroking of his neck relaxed the steed. There was no room left for Boromir, though, and he realized he would have to walk.

He glanced once more to the north where the clouds had grown to black masses. Perhaps he should not attempt to cross the pass under these conditions. However, a storm such as was forming in the mountains could linger and keep him pinned down here for days. There was no proper shelter nearby. He could brave the pass and hope the weather would hold long enough for him to reach Erech; or he could return to the lower lands around Calembel. But if he turned back, he might not have another chance to leave until spring. He did not wish to stay in Lamedon’s main city for such a long time.

With a cluck of his tongue, he urged Barangol into motion, leading the horse by his guide rope while they climbed the sloping path toward the pass.

o0o

Before long, Boromir started to doubt the wisdom of his choice. Within the hour, the ominous black clouds swooped down and obscured the sun. The temperature dropped sharply and a strong wind began to blow. The cold bit at his exposed skin and he pulled the hood of his cloak as close about his head as he could. He moved to the other side of the horse, where the animal’s large body would provide some protection against the wind.

Soon the first flakes began to fall. The wind whipped them beneath his hood, the cold sting on his face brief but unpleasant.

The snow thickened and within moments, the world was covered in white, an even layer that obscured landmarks and made it dangerous to continue. The path through the pass was far less-traveled than the road between the capital and the coastal cities, and not so well maintained. It was barely more than a rutted track. It would be easy to stray off the road, have Barangol step into a hole and break a leg. And then where would he be?

Caught up in worries about his horse’s well-being, Boromir failed to notice the hidden scree, broken off from the cliff wall at some time in the past, until he planted his foot upon it. The rubble gave way beneath his weight, his right boot slipped, his ankle twisted and he bit down at the sudden pain.

He clutched at Barangol’s saddle, trying to regain his balance, and cursed the pain that lanced through his leg when he tried to put his weight upon his injured foot. He would not be able to continue further today. The need for shelter had suddenly grown dire, and he had better find it soon. He squinted into the swirling whiteness dancing before his eyes.

Limping, supporting himself against Barangol every time he needed to put his weight onto his injured leg, Boromir made very slow progress. The sky grew dimmer still; darkness approached, and he began to despair as to whether he would find a suitable place to spend the night. Then, though almost afraid to believe his eyes, he noticed a triangle of deeper gray among the snow-shrouded cliffs.

“Thank fortune.”

The cliff did not jut straight up but formed an inverted incline with the top hanging over, providing a sheltered recess into the mountain’s side. It was hidden from the wind and most of the snow was carried past it; deep inside the hollow damp black earth still showed in patches through the snow.

Boromir limped toward the overhang and crawled beneath it. Instantly, the wind tapered off, only the occasional gust finding its way into the hollow beneath the cliff. If he could get a fire going, he could wait until morning when, hopefully, the rest made his ankle feel better. And with luck, the storm would have abated also.

o0o

A small fire soon burned beneath the cliff wall, its heat reflecting off of the rock and making the hollow a pocket of warmth in a world of freezing cold. Boromir relished the heat; he had not realized how chilled he had become. He put on some water and while he waited for it to boil, he prodded his ankle with a finger, wincing. He did not dare take off his boot out of fear he would not be able to put it back on. His flesh felt tender through the sturdy leather, but he did not think he had broken any bones. Best to keep the boot on for what little support it offered.

The water in the small pot started to bubble and he added some dried meat stores along with spices and a few greens from his provisions. Híril sniffed, inching closer to the delicious smell that wafted up from the stew.

Boromir chuckled. “Hungry, are you?” He dug up another piece of dried meat and gave it to the dog. Powerful jaws closed around it, tearing off a strip, while Boromir rummaged around in his satchel for grains and apples for Barangol.

The hollow was too small to accommodate the horse’s body and he hovered outside, as close to the warmth as he could come, his hindside turned outward and his large body shielding the makeshift shelter further from the storm.

With the fire in his face and the smell of broth in his nose, Boromir could almost forget the throb in his ankle or the cold snow that kept falling. Tonight, at least, he would neither starve nor freeze to death.

He was stirring his soup with a wooden spoon, deciding it was almost ready, when Híril let go of her strip of meat and growled deep in her throat. Boromir dropped the spoon and looked at the dog.

“What is it, girl?”

The dog got up, hackles raised and teeth bared. Another low growl reverberated in her throat. Barangol snorted and stamped, tossing his head.

Boromir pushed himself to his feet, careful to rest his weight upon his uninjured foot. He placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword, ready to draw the blade in an instant, and peered around the horse into the deepening night and swirling flakes. He could not see beyond a few feet in any direction and could not tell what danger the animals had detected.

Híril barked at the same instant that Boromir saw two — no, three man-shaped shadows approaching.

“Who goes there?” he demanded, his voice getting lost in the storm. Of a sudden, he remembered the stall-keeper’s warning and he unsheathed his sword. The blade glimmered golden in the flames. The three shapes stopped.

Good. If they feared the sting of a sharp sword, at least they were not phantoms. Men, he could fight, but he’d be helpless against malicious spirits.

For long moments nobody moved. The wind howled, Boromir’s fire softly crackled and Híril continued to growl. Then one of the shapes slowly walked closer, until Boromir could see his suspicions confirmed.

The man was one of the Haradrim. He wore long, tattered robes of red silk, lined with purple. Dark eyes, nearly black, peered out from beneath a headdress of the same bright red as his tunic.

“Put down sword, please,” the man spoke in halting Westron. “We want food and fire.”

“And slit my throat while you’re at it, no doubt.”

The Southron began to shake his head but Boromir interrupted him. “Do not bother,” he said. “I know your kind. I may be alone but I can assure you, I am quite skilled with my blade. And Híril here–” he indicated the dog with a nod, never taking his eyes off of the Haradrim, “–has tasted orc flesh. I do not think she would object to a chunk of Southron meat, do you?”

The black eyes shifted to the dog, who bared her fangs even further, before they traveled back up to Boromir’s face. “Please.” The man from Harad spread his arms. “No weapon. War over. My friend is hurt. So cold.”

Boromir hesitated. Common sense said he chase the Haradrim off, or better yet, run his sword through their bellies and end their threat once and for all. But whereas he never suffered many qualms about killing an orc, it was a little harder to murder a Southron, especially one who claimed to be unarmed.

“Have your friends show themselves.”

The stranger said something in his own tongue and Boromir tensed. The other shapes came closer, slowly. When they were near enough, Boromir saw one was leaning on the other for support. His tunic, as frayed as that of the others, was stained at the shoulder with dark, dried blood.

Boromir studied the three men. They were lean, with gaunt faces pale beneath their sun-darkened skin. It gave them a sickly gray look and their black eyes stood out in sharp contrast. Their thin robes were unsuitable clothes for this sort of weather, and they were shivering hard.

He sighed and lowered his sword, resting its tip in the snow. He shifted ever so slightly, transferring some of his weight to the weapon.

“I suppose it will not do great harm to let you share my fire,” he said at last. “The war is over, indeed.”

o0o

The men hunkered as close to the fire as they could without suffering burns. Híril rested beside Boromir, her watchful gaze on the strangers. With the dog’s vigilant eyes turned upon them, Boromir felt strangely secure. Any sudden move that might be construed as an attack would have Híril at the attacker’s throat in an instant. The three men knew it also, for they took great care to stay to their side of the fire, moving slowly and carefully.

He shared his broth with them, a little startled at the speed with which they devoured their share. While he watched them wolf down the meal, Boromir pondered the strange twists of fate. A year ago, he would not have hesitated to kill the Haradrim. Nor would they have had a moment’s doubt before they slew him if given the opportunity. Yet, here he sat sharing a fire and a meal with them.

The one who spoke a few words of the common tongue peeled away a stained bandage from his comrade’s shoulder. He revealed a ragged hole in the man’s flesh.

“That’s an arrow wound!” Boromir said, sitting up straighter.

The Southron nodded. “Aye. Your soldiers, they chase us into mountains. Four days ago.” He described the banner the soldiers flew.

“Angbor’s men.”

It made sense. The fruit seller had said Angbor was aware of the Southron soldiers on his lands, and had spoken of parties sent out to capture the strangers.

He watched while the man cleaned his friend’s injury and re-bandaged the shoulder with a new strip of red silk torn from his tunic.

“Why have you not returned to Harad?” Boromir could no longer hide his curiosity. “The war was ended many months ago.”

The other man settled himself on his haunches beside the fire and told him their tale. They had been part of a company of archers assigned to one of the mûmakil. They had been safe from harm, high up on their gray mount, until Aragorn and his host of wraiths disembarked from their ships. A stray arrow had killed the animal’s handler and it had panicked amid the fray, stampeding off at a gallop, the archers helpless passengers on its back.

Before the beast had collapsed from sheer exhaustion, it had taken them many leagues west, deep into the foothills of the White Mountains, far from the Anduin and their way home. All summer long, the archers — he said they had been five, but two had died — had attempted to find their way back, coming up on soldiers time and again. Slowly they were forced further and further west. “We die here,” the man said at last. “We will not see our home again.”

“Do not be so certain,” Boromir found himself saying, as much to his own surprise as to that of his uninvited guests. “There is but one way: you must give yourselves up.”

“They kill us!”

“Nay, they will not.” His compatriots would not kill unarmed men who came to surrender. “Tomorrow, you must go east. Follow the road until you reach Calembel. Surrender yourselves to Lord Angbor and tell him you will put yourself at the mercy of King Elessar. You will find that the King of Gondor is a good man.”

o0o

Dawn arrived late the following morning, with dark clouds still hanging low in the sky. The storm had been fierce, but mercifully brief; the wind had abated and the snow had stopped falling. The temperature was rising and soon the white blanket would disappear. Already, the sound of dripping water was everywhere.

Boromir watched the Haradrim, once his sworn enemies, now men like himself in search of a way home, plod through the slush toward the east. He hoped they would take his advice and give themselves up to Angbor. It was their only hope. Aragorn was anything but a spiteful man, and it was more than likely he would have them escorted to the border of Harad, and there set them free.

When they disappeared from view, the trail in the snow the only sign of their passing, Boromir turned west, where his own road was leading him. His ankle was still plaguing him, but the swelling was down, and with most of the wood burned to ashes, he would be able to ride in the saddle today. He planned to reach Erech by nightfall.

New Beginnings

“Look, Mama!” Galwion climbed up on the railing, eyes glittering with excitement and red spots coloring his cheeks. He tottered precariously, holding on with one hand while the other pointed forward, beyond the bow of the ship.

“Get down!” Nîneth snatched her son up and hugged him close. “You don’t wish to fall into the water, do you?” she chided him.

“No,” he said. “But look!” He wrung himself from his mother’s arms and again pointed.

Nîneth followed his tiny finger. Far ahead, shimmering in the distance, white walls gleamed. They seemed to cling to the side of a mountain while a tall tower spiked high above the city, reflecting the light of the afternoon sun.

“Minas Tirith, mistress,” a voice to her right said.

Nîneth looked up to see the speaker was another passenger on the river boat, a small, rotund man with an easy smile and red cheeks. “It’s not far now,” he added. “Do you remember the address I gave you?”

“Aye, I do,” Nîneth said. “On the fourth circle, the second street past the gate. And I wish to thank you kindly once more for your help.”

He laughed and gestured with his hand. “Ah, ’tis nothing. Always pleased to help out a fellow cloth expert.”

Nîneth couldn’t help but smile at his easy manner. She had met the merchant, a dealer in fabrics, in Pelargir when she boarded the Swift Winds for Minas Tirith. He told her that linens, silks and brocades filled the holds of the ship, goods he was planning to sell in Minas Tirith.

“With the king returned, and all those fancy lords flocking to the city, and bringing their ladies too, there is much demand for clothiers. And clothiers can’t make clothes without cloth, if you catch my meaning.” He had laughed heartily at his own joke and Nîneth had taken to the man instantly.

During the journey, she told him about her skill with a needle. And when he heard she had no kin in the city but hoped to make her own fortune, he had insisted that she go see his wife’s sister.

“She’s an established seamster in the capital. Dear girl, you must go and talk to her! I bet good coin she would be most grateful for your help. And she is no niggard, she’ll pay you well.”

The winds, however, had not done the ship’s name proud. They had been anything but swift and instead of bringing the balmy southern breeze that would have made for a speedy journey they had blown from the north, cold and fierce. The ship was hard-pressed to sail against both the Anduin’s current and the wind. It had taken four days before the walls of Minas Tirith came in sight and Nîneth was glad to see her long journey was finally over.

Almost three weeks ago, she and her son had set out from Linhir, determined never to return to the fishing town that had brought them such grief. Hidden within the folds of her skirts, she carried a leather purse filled with silver coins. When she discovered the heavy purse that Erandír left for her, she’d cried like she had not done since they carried her husband’s broken body home. His gift of coin, along with her savings, helped advance her dreams greatly, and she was able to leave Linhir not long after Erandír’s departure.

Hitching rides with traders’ wagoners and carriers, or walking when none would take her and her son, they had traveled to Pelargir and embarked upon one of the many ships sailing north on the Anduin.

The cloth trader was right; not much later after they had first spotted the white walls of the city the ship moored in Harlond. Nîneth gathered their few belongings, said her good-byes to the merchant, thanking him once again for his kind help and assuring him she would go see his wife’s sister, and went in search of a carrier who would take her and Galwion to the city.

o0o

From his perch high upon the sacks of flour, Galwion’s head swiveled in all directions. It was a joy to see her son so curious, so excited. There was so much to see, he could not decide where to look first. The crowds awed him, as did the general air of resolute bustle or the many carts traveling to and fro between the harbor and the gates. Their wagon crossed the Pelennor Fields, most of which were bare of crops, the harvest season over. But everywhere people were busying themselves on the land, preparing the soil for next season’s seeding or repairing fences and sheds. It was hard to imagine the fierce battle fought here so recently.

Ahead, the city walls grew ever more imposing until at last they loomed high over the travelers. Before the gate, wagons queued up. They were filled with goods and merchants who wanted to enter the city but would have to pass the scrutiny of the guards first.

“You might’s well step down and continue on foot,” the carrier suggested. “It’ll be a while, and you and your boy won’t give the guards reason to stop you for long, I should think.”

“Aye,” Nîneth said. She clambered down from the wagon and reached up to lift Galwion from the pile of sacks. The wagoner offered her the small pack that held all her belongings.

“Here you go, mistress.”

“Thank you.” She hoisted the pack high on one shoulder. “And thank you for taking us.”
He gave a shrug. “My pleasure. Do you have a place to stay? ”

“Nay. I was hoping to find someone who rents out rooms. I cannot afford an inn, really.”

“Try the third circle,” the driver said. “Go left, after you passed the circle’s gate, then right. Ask for Meleth. She’s my brother’s wife’s cousin. She sometimes takes in lodgers. Tell her I sent you.”

A grateful smile formed on Nîneth’s face. It was good to learn there were many kind and helpful people in the world. “Thank you again, good sir. May the Valar reward you for your kindness.”

The wagonmaster, a short, squat man with a loud voice and fists like mallets, blushed beneath her words. “You are most welcome, mistress. Take care of the little one.”

Nîneth nodded, hitched the pack higher upon her shoulder, and took Galwion by the hand. They walked past the line of wagons to the gate where the guardsman gave them a cursory glance and waved them through.

They passed the gate — and stopped dead in their tracks. If the city was impressive on the outside, it was more so within its massive walls. The buildings were tall and crowded close to the street. Nîneth had to crane her neck to see the rooftops. Beyond the roofs, on the higher circles, rose even taller buildings. She could still see the damage of the war, though. Gaps between the fronts marked the sites of collapsed houses but the rubble had been cleared and wide-shouldered men carried large blocks of stone to repair the damage. A pang of longing pierced her at the sight. What would Erandír be doing right this instant? Was he all right? Was she ever going to see him again?

Around them, people bustled in and out through the gate, jostling Nîneth and her son impatiently.

“Out of my way, woman!” a wagon’s driver shouted, guiding his horse-drawn cart so close past them Nîneth had to jump aside, dragging Galwion with her. She glared after the man but he disappeared into the crowds without looking back.

“Lost, are ye?” Nîneth looked at the speaker, a one-eyed man who gave her a gaptoothed grin. “I can take ye. Where’s you want to go?”

“I’ll find my own way, thank you,” Nîneth said. She did not like the way the man leered at her or slyly eyed her few belongings. Galwion shrunk from the stranger, clutching her skirts; she gathered the boy in her arms, quickly scurrying away without caring much where she was going.

o0o

A little while later, she had to admit that she was lost for true. The streets formed an impassable warren of back-alleys and dead-end side streets. She’d stumbled accidentally upon the gate leading to the second level but was unsure how to find the third. When the ancient builders of the city did not place the gates in a straight line, they did so to deny any invading enemies easy access — but for one of Gondor’s own citizens, grown up in the Hills of Tarnost, it was as impossible to find her way through the labyrinth.

When she found herself in yet another dead-end street, which stank of stale ale and garbage, she sighed and put Galwion down. The boy was growing too big to be carried long, and her pack grew heavier with each footstep. She would have to ask for directions. She looked around in search of some kind citizen who might steer her to the third circle where she would have to find Mistress Meleth.

Unfortunately, the two men who approached her did not appear to be friendly citizens at all. They were unsavory, unshaven, their clothes tattered; a reek of cheap wine hung around them. One of the men toyed with a knife, tossing it from hand to hand.

“Your pack, missy,” he said, “and we won’t hurt ya.”

“Mama?”

She shoved Galwion behind her skirts and clutched her pack possessively. Except for the purse hidden beneath her clothes, the pack held everything she owned, including the set of thin bone needles her mother had given her upon her wedding, and she refused to give it up without a struggle. Though her heart thudded in her throat with fear, she told herself she had survived whoring in Linhir’s dockside taverns; a pair of ruffians would not do her in just when she was starting a new life.

The men approached slowly, blocking the alley and the escape to the wider street at its end.

“Stop, or I’ll scream!” It was the best threat she could come up with and she was painfully aware of its inadequacy.

The men laughed and moved another step, relishing the fear they induced.

“Hey!”

Another man appeared at the mouth of the alley. He wore a black surcoat over his mail, like the guards at the gate. Embroidered upon his chest was the Tree of Gondor and a sword was girded to his hips. Under his arm, he carried a helmet.

“What’s going on here?”

The two thugs backed away from Nîneth.

“Nothing. Nothing. The girl’s lost. We’re just offering our help.” They turned and bolted past the guardsman, who snorted and glared after them before he turned back to Nîneth.

“Are you all right, miss?” he asked. “They did not harm you, did they?”

“Nay,” Nîneth said. “But I believe your arrival was timely.”

She knelt to pull Galwion in her arms. Tears streaked the boy’s face and he hid against his mother’s breast. “Shh,” she hushed him. “We are safe now.”

The guard let out a breath. “The lower circles of Minas Tirith are not a safe place for a lone woman to wander around in. We of the Tower Guard do our best, but so many people are coming to the White City these days, there are bound to be some rogues among them.”

Nîneth met his gaze over Galwion’s curls. “I thank you, sir. If you could do me one more good turn?”

“What do you wish, good lady?”

“I do seem to be lost. I am looking for Mistress Meleth on the third circle, who may provide lodgings, and then I have a letter I need to deliver to the Lord Steward. Could you tell me where I may find either of them?”

The guard’s eyes widened and he laughed. “Aye, mistress, you are in luck. I can take you to the third circle and I can deliver your letter, as I am myself on my way to the citadel. My duty starts in a few minutes’ time. If you give me the letter, I will see it safely delivered.”

Nîneth shook her head. “I thank you for your offer, but I was instructed to give the Steward the letter personally.”

She set Galwion on his feet again. He stayed close to her, not letting go of her hand but staring curiously at the guard and the long sword at his side.

The laughter faded and the man frowned. “Steward Faramir is a busy man, mistress. So unless you have an appointment with him, I think you would be better off giving me the letter to deliver.”

Nîneth sighed and her shoulders slumped. From the moment she had promised Erandír she would present his letter to the steward in person, she had feared it would come to this. How was she, a simple woman from a small town, going to convince the guards of the citadel that she needed to see the Steward of Gondor?

“I was told he would be expecting me,” she said uncertainly. “I made a promise to a dear friend I would deliver the letter myself.”

“Hmm.” The man thought for a few moments. Then he shrugged. “Well, I suppose it won’t hurt if you come with me to ask if the steward has indeed been notified of your coming. Come, I will show you the way.”

The guardsman quickly led Nîneth and Galwion through the maze of streets on the lower levels, steering them through one gate after another, ever going upward, until at last they passed through a long lamplit tunnel that led into the citadel’s courtyard. The guards, dressed like Nîneth’s guide in armored livery and black surcoat, stopped them. The gates stood open, and through the arched entryway she could look into the wide plaza behind, with a sapling in the middle and a tall tower behind it.

“State your business,” one of the guards said.

Her guide answered. “This is Mistress Nîneth and her son, Galwion. She has traveled from the south, bearing a letter for Lord Faramir. She says she must deliver it in person, and that she is expected.”

The second guard eyed her dubiously and Nîneth was keenly conscious of her plain traveling garb. “Wait here.” He walked away to confer with his colleagues.

A moment later he returned.

“Mistress, you are expected. If you wait but a moment, someone will be here to escort you to the Steward’s office.”

Nîneth blinked and nodded dumbly, startled into speechlessness with the sudden ease how something she had worried herself over for many weeks appeared to resolve itself so smoothly.

o0o

Some minutes later, while dusk was cloaking the courtyard in gray shadows, a page came hurrying to the guardhouse. “Mistress Nîneth?”

“Yes.”

“If you would follow me, please.”

She thanked the guardsman who guided her for his help and followed the page, forcing herself to stop gaping at the splendor of the buildings surrounding the courtyard. To the west stood the tall, white tower she had first seen from the river. From her new vantage point at its foot, it was even bigger than she had imagined, and when she looked up, she noticed that, while the city was already shrouded in twilight, the tip of the tower glowed red with the setting sun. Behind the tower, she glimpsed a magnificent stone building, the banners on its roof flapping in the evening wind. And to her right was another large, multistoried building with many windows.

“That’s Merethrond, the Hall of the Feasts,” the page told her, following her gaze. He pointed to the building with the banners. “And that’s the King’s house.”

It was impossible not to feel awed by the grandeur of the citadel and the power being wielded from behind the walls of the seventh level. This was where the rulers of Gondor lived, where they decided the fate of the country and where they had plotted and won the war. For a moment, she mused on the strange turn her life had taken and wondered about Erandír. Her imagination, inspired by the solemn atmosphere of the citadel, fancied that the girls at The Merry Fisher had been right after all: that Erandír was an important man on a critical but secret mission for the king. Her more practical half chided her for the bare nonsense. He could not have such mission; if not for her prodding, he would still be lugging bricks in Linhir.

The page took her past the grand buildings, and turned left, where smaller buildings stood side by side. “The House of the Stewards,” he explained.

He led Nîneth and Galwion up three stone steps and preceded them through a large door. The hallway they entered was lit with many candles whose light reflected on the paneling covering the walls. The wood was dark with age. Paintings hung in a row, depicting stern-looking men with strong features and gray eyes.

The page caught her look. “Those are the Stewards of old,” he said. “Every one of them, all the way to Mardil Voronwë, who was the first Ruling Steward.” He smiled, pleased with the opportunity to display his knowledge.

The faces in the portraits seemed familiar; however, Nîneth was afforded no chance to dwell upon the odd impression.

“This way, please.” The page knocked on a door and when a voice answered from inside, he opened it. “Mistress Nîneth and her son to see you, my lord.”

“Send them in.” The voice sounded firm but not unkind.

On the doorstep, Nîneth hesitated, apprehensive. She smoothed her skirts nervously, pushed a wayward curl behind her ears and combed her son’s dark locks with her fingers until he shrugged her away impatiently. She was acutely aware that she was about to meet the second most powerful man in the entire kingdom. Never in her life had she dreamed that she, Nîneth, daughter of a tradesman from the Hills of Tarnost, would have reason to interact with such important people.

But she had a promise to fulfill.

She squared her shoulders, took Galwion’s hand and walked into the study. A man was seated behind a desk littered with papers. He stood up as she entered and she realized he was tall, wearing a long, dark-green tunic embroidered with gold thread. He was younger than she had expected but she could see a strong resemblance to his forebears in the portraits in the hallway.

She dipped a curtsy. “At your service, my lord Steward.”

“Mistress Nîneth.” The steward smiled and his eyes twinkled. “I have waited for your arrival eagerly, ever since I was first informed to expect you.”

Nîneth blinked. “My lord?”

He chuckled. “You carry a letter for me?”

“Aye, lord.” She fumbled through her pack, inwardly cursing herself she had not taken the letter out earlier, and handed him the sealed envelope. She was chagrined to see it was crumpled from the long journey, but the steward did not seem to mind. He tapped the envelope in his palm thoughtfully. Then he waved at her to take a seat while he tore the seal.

Nîneth glanced around and for the first time noticed the chairs drawn up near the desk. She cautiously settled herself in one and heaved Galwion onto her lap before he could slither away and explore the study. The room was silent except for the occasional hiss from one of the lamps or the crackling of the small fire in the hearth.

The steward was deeply engrossed in the letter, sometimes frowning, now opening his eyes wide in indignation, even chuckling at one point. While he read, Nîneth took the opportunity to look around the study unobserved. Dark, heavy velvet curtains hid the windows and prevented anyone from seeing in. Bookcases lined one wall, filled with leather volumes that looked old and worn. Among the books, other things took up room on the shelves. There were silver goblets, finely wrought; half-unrolled maps; a chessboard with stone pieces set meticulously in the center of their squares; a simple white rod whose purpose she could not determine, and, strangely, one cloven horn. She wondered for a moment why someone would keep a broken instrument.

At last, the steward put the letter down and turned his eyes upon her. He gazed at her intently and she forced herself not to shrink from his scrutiny. She feared what Erandír might have said about her past in this letter; yet even as the thought crossed her mind she silently admonished herself for her foolishness. Undoubtedly someone who wrote letters to Gondor’s Steward had more important issues to speak about than a whore.

“So, you have lost your husband and home in the war,” he said at last, surprising her. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands before him.

“Aye, my lord.”

“And I am beseeched to see that you are compensated for your loss and help you start anew here in Minas Tirith.”

Nîneth wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or annoyed. “Is that what Erandír says?”

“Erandír?” He frowned.

“The man who wrote you the letter, my lord.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” For a moment he looked worried.

“I know that’s not his real name,” Nîneth said in an attempt to put the steward’s concerns to rest. “He said it no longer mattered.”

Gondor’s second in command made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. He muttered something below his breath, so softly that Nîneth failed to catch it. Again, she wondered who her friend really was, and then decided she did not want to know. It was best never to meddle in the affairs of others, especially those of mighty lords. The thought scared her.

“I’m very grateful to Lord Erandír for his concern but I truly have no need for your help,” she hurriedly added. “I am a skilled seamstress and I’ve been told where I might find work. We will be fine, Galwion and I.”

She lifted her son from her lap so she could stand up. “I have delivered my letter and kept my promise, so I believe I should best be on my way, my lord. ‘Tis getting late and you must have more important things–”

“Whoa!” He held up his hands. “Not so quickly, mistress. I would hear your tale, if you please. I understand you spent quite some time with… Erandír. Can I send for some refreshments?”

He rung a bell and an instant later a maid appeared in the doorway. The steward ordered sweet cakes, fruit tarts and mulled wine. “And some cider for the boy,” he added at the last instant. The maid curtsied and the door closed.

A short while later, Galwion was hungrily stuffing himself with the delicacies the steward had ordered while Nîneth spoke. She quickly discovered that Steward Faramir was an easy man to tell a tale to; he listened intently. More so even than Erandír, in whom she had recognized a kindred spirit; someone who lost everything, including himself, in the war that had ravished the country.

Hers was a long tale, and while she spoke, her son, exhausted from the long journey and full with sweets, dozed off in the chair beside her. She had almost finished her story, telling the steward about how she had found the purse Erandír had left her, when muted voices sounded in the hallway. The door banged open without further warning and a tall, dark-haired man strode in. He wore dark gray trousers and a long-sleeved tunic of expensive-looking burgundy silk. Intricate patterns in white and yellow embellished the hem and collar.

“Faramir! You are not working still, are you? I unexpectedly find myself with an evening bereft of duties and–” The newcomer caught sight of Nîneth. “My apologies. I did not know you had a visitor.”

The steward had sprung to his feet and Nîneth thought it wise to follow suit. Someone dressed as lavishly, who could just walk into the steward’s study without even bothering to knock, had to be an important person.

“My lord,” the steward said, “may I present Mistress Nîneth from Linhir?” Was it her imagination, or did a soft blush creep onto his cheeks?

Nîneth had no chance to dwell on the observation for long. When his next words sank in, it was her turn to blush furiously while she tried to curtsy and smooth her skirts at the same time.

“King Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Lord of the West–”

“Enough with the titles, Faramir,” the king chided his steward. “You are frightening the poor woman.” He turned to Nîneth. “Do not look so perturbed, mistress. I do not bite.”

Nîneth swallowed, searching for her voice.

“Are you a real king?” a small voice behind her asked. She whipped around to see her son rub the sleep from his eyes while he stared curiously at King Elessar. “Like in the stories?”

“Galwion!” Nîneth hissed. But the king laughed.

“Yes, I am,” he said and knelt before the chair to look the boy in the eye. “I even have a real crown with jewels.”

“You do?” The boy’s brow furrowed when his gaze lifted to the top of the king’s head. “Where is it? Why are you not wearing it?”

“Because,” the king lowered his voice and explained in a conspiratorial tone, “such a crown is very heavy. It makes my head hurt. But shh, do not tell anyone, all right?”

Galwion giggled. “All right. I promise.”

The king straightened. “I will leave you now,” he said, “so you and Faramir can continue your conversation. I shall see you tomorrow, Faramir.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Nîneth found that her knees were shaking badly and the curtsy she gave upon the king’s departure turned into a rather undignified drop onto the chair. Fortunately, the door had already closed.

Galwion was pulling on her sleeve. “Mama! That man says he is the King!” His eyes sparkled

She offered her son a tremulous smile but did not yet trust her voice enough to speak. Strangely, it seemed as if the steward was also shaken by the king’s sudden appearance. Something in his demeanor had changed and he seemed far less amicable. He no longer smiled; there was nothing that hinted at his earlier interest when he refolded the letter she had given him and put it back in its envelope.

“Do you have lodging?” he asked.

“Eh… Yes, my lord.” His abruptness startled Nîneth into a stammer. “Aye, I was going to see a woman on the third level. I’ve been told she takes in lodgers.”

Steward Faramir shook his head. “It is late,” he said. “You cannot go present yourself to a woman’s boardinghouse at this hour; she would be most unwise to open the door for you. Here,” he plucked a gold coin from his pocket and slid it across the table. “I have kept you past a reasonable hour and thus kept you from finding a place to stay. I will have one of the guards escort you and your boy to the Moon And Stars. It is a very respectable inn where you will be safe for the night.”

Nîneth hesitated a moment before she took the coin. “Thank you, my lord. You are most kind.”

A hint of a smile returned to his face. “I must thank you, mistress. You do not know how much I enjoyed hearing your story.”

Thieves In The Forest

“‘Tis been a long winter, Master Erandír.” The innkeep wiped at the table’s surface with a piece of cloth, though it shone brightly already, reflecting the candlelight. The common room was empty except for Boromir and the inn’s proprietor. Despite the candles, the room was gloomy, although it was the middle of the afternoon. A winter storm howled outside around the corners of the building, whipping sleet through the snow-filled streets.

“Aye,” Boromir agreed. The winter lasted long indeed. Long enough for his increasing impatience to slowly become unbearable. He was impatient to be on his way again. Near to four months had gone by since he came down through the pass at Tarlang’s Neck to the Morthond vale. Though he had hoped to be able to travel further before winter, the unpredictable weather quickly made him change his mind.

Winters were always long in the White Mountains, with summers hot and brief. This year winter had set in quite early. Two days after he reached the Morthond, on the morning of his intended departure, he had woken up to a leaden sky from which wet flakes drifted down. They cloaked the deserted Hill of Erech in white until in the late afternoon a watery sun melted the snow and left the earth damp. With the cold season so close on his heels, he did not dare risk being caught in its icy claws somewhere in the wilds; although many folk dwelt in the fertile Morthond Vale, the land further west was desolate and sparsely populated.

So, reluctantly, he had stayed in the Morthond vale, where he had found a simple and cheap establishment in a narrow alley near the bridge over the river.

“A very long winter,” he repeated. His funds, never much to begin with because he left his summer savings with Nîneth, had quickly dwindled further. He had paid for his stay in kind, providing venison for the inn’s tables, hunted during brief spells of bright weather, or doing menial work around the town when he could find it. He did not mind such work — it kept his mind off of other things — but his restlessness was increasing until he felt ready to burst with impatience.

“‘Tis said that the Vale has not seen such a harsh winter since my Grandda was a young man,” the innkeeper continued after a moment.

Boromir cast a look at the man’s silver hair and gray beard, and surmised that must have been a long time ago indeed.

“‘Tis also said the Dead Host are the cause of it, because they left the Haunted Mountain last spring.” The innkeeper gave a shrug. “People’ve always blamed those phantoms for their misfortunes. I think it’s plain bad luck. What say you, Master Erandír?”

“Bad luck, would be my guess also,” Boromir answered absently.

The old arrow wounds in his left side ached; mayhap the pain announced a change in the weather. He rubbed the scars through his tunic when a thought occurred.

“What date is today?”

“Today? ‘Tis the sixth of Súlimë, sir.”

Boromir’s flesh crept. Not surprising he was feeling so restless, then. It was a year to the day that he should have died. A year to the day when he had been given a second chance. And what had he so far done to redeem himself? No longer able to sit, he pushed back his chair and began pacing the room.

The snows would melt soon, he could sense it. Spring would be upon them in a few weeks. It would shortly be time to move on.

At least the long winter had provided him many opportunities to study sketchy maps of the country ahead, and make inquiries of the trappers who knew the woods well. He believed he had learned the lay of the lands as well as any stranger could hope to. The old South Road ended in the Morthond vale; from here on his path would lead through wilderness, along animal trails and herdsmen’s footpaths. He would follow the foothills of the Ered Nimrais, cross the Lefnui and head for the pass into Drúwaith Iaur. Then he would continue until he reached the Isen. Once he crossed the mighty river, he would have left Gondor’s soil and passed into the northern realm of the Reunited Kingdom. Where he would go once he arrived, Boromir had not yet decided; he could not think so far ahead.

o0o

Two days later, the storms broke at last, taking winter with them. The sun grew stronger each morning until its warmth melted the snow, and the first shoots of new grass and a few hesitant snowdrops poked their heads through the slush. Boromir began to prepare for his departure. He acquired enough provisions to sustain him during a long journey through the wilderness and discovered Barangol needed his front shoes replaced.

“No problem, sir,” the village farrier said after examining Barangol’s hoofs.

“I have no coin left to pay you with,” Boromir admitted.

The smith frowned for a moment, slowly shifting his gaze from the horse to Boromir, then his face brightened. “You can repay me by chopping some of that into firewood,” he said. He pointed to several thick tree trunks.

“Hand me the axe.”

Though winter still lurked around the corner, it was warm enoughthat Boromir’s shirt clung to his back by the time he straightened after chopping the final block to small pieces. He wiped the moisture from his face with his arm.

“You’ve chopped the entire pile!” The smith blinked at the neat pile of logs, ready to stoke his fires high. “That wasn’t necessary. Your horse only had his front hooves reshod.”

Boromir shrugged. Perhaps he had overpaid the smith, but he had enjoyed the physical toil after many long months of being forced stay indoors.

o0o

Finally, the day came that he rode out of the town. Soon the Hill of Erech fell behind and he entered the dark forests covering the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. It did not take him long to fully appreciate the earlier ease of riding along a road, even one constructed a long time ago and no longer well maintained. The wet ground, soggy with snowmelt, made for difficult progress and while he was used to traveling twenty miles on a good day on the road, he counted himself fortunate if he made five miles a day through the woods.

One evening, several weeks after he left the valley of the Stone, he made camp beside a nameless stream, which raced out of a narrow gulch it had cut through the hills. Rain had fallen far up in the mountains for several days, and the river was swollen. Boromir managed to find enough dry wood for a fire and it was kindled quickly. Within minutes, a hare was sizzling on a spit over the flames. Boromir was alone with his horse; as soon as he started to set up camp, Híril had run off, following a scent only a dog’s sharp nose could detect.

The evening was quiet, almost balmy, whispering promises of warm summer days to come, and Boromir took off his wool cloak. He draped it over a branch to keep it off the muddy ground before he settled back to cooking dinner. Overhead, the clouds were breaking up and while the western sky still glowed dark pink, bright stars sparkled to the east.

Something rustled in the underbrush nearby; startled at the sudden noise, Barangol whinnied. A squirrel darted into the clearing and zigzagged around the horse’s hooves before it raced up a tree trunk. Spooked, the horse reared, front legs slicing the air, and he tore loose his picket.

He disappeared among the trees.

Boromir swore at the squirrel as he hurried after Barangol. The last thing he needed was to lose his horse. Fortunately, though the rodent had startled him into flight, Barangol was not easily given to panic and did not run far. Soon Boromir had caught up with the animal. He reached for the reins, uttering soothing nonsense words, and began to lead the horse back to his camp. He re-staked Barangol in a small meadow near the river before he returned to his fire.

As soon as he entered the clearing, he froze, all senses on edge. Something was wrong. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword even as his mind tried to determine what it was that alerted him. He wished for Híril’s presence; her keen nose and sharp hearing oft alerted him to danger. Then he noticed the spitted hare was missing — as was his cloak.

Thieves? In the middle of a vast wilderness?

Anger surged through him but he kept his temper in check. He did not know how many bandits there were, or what kind, and the first rule of warfare was to know the enemy.

Though he was learning fast, his tracking skills were still slight — he was like a new recruit compared to Aragorn’s abilities — but he quickly found the tracks and realized they were easy to read. The ground, soft after the rains and covered with soggy moss, revealed a single pair of small barefooted prints. They led away from his camp, following the river uphill.

Daylight was fading quickly, and he should hurry if he were to catch up with the thief before complete darkness was upon him. Once true night fell, he would no longer be able to follow the tracks, clear as they were. He raced up the hill, keeping one eye on the prints and the other on where he was going. His large strides carried him quickly to the summit.

A soft noise, near inaudible over the rushing waters below, reached his ears. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of dark green near the rim of the gulch. His cloak!

“You!” he shouted. “Stop! Or I’ll use my blade.” The figure froze where he stood.

The thief was small, Boromir noticed, and scrawny. The cloak was several sizes too large for his frame, and the hem dragged in the mud.

“Please, don’t kill me.” The voice was in tune with the thief’s frame, light and trembling with fear. “I’ll give you back your cloak.”

“And my dinner.”

“I… I can’t do that. I ate it.”

“Already?” Boromir said. “‘Twas not even fully done.”

The thief turned around slowly, revealing himself as a boy of perhaps twelve winters old. His hair, dark brown, was unruly and matted with dirt. His eyes appeared gray, like those of many of the men in Gondor.

“I was hungry?” he squeaked.

Boromir’s anger at being robbed was melting quickly at the sight of the scared, thin child. And while he was pondering how to respond, something red pelted through the undergrowth.

“Híril, down!” Boromir warned. The long hours he spent in Erech training her paid off and she obeyed him instantly, skittering to a stop.

But it was already too late.

Frightened into panic, the young thief let out a long squeal, floundered backwards and tripped on the hem of Boromir’s long cloak. The soldier snatched for him but only caught a handful of air. The boy tumbled over the side and plummeted into the river.

Híril whined.

“Not your fault, girl,” Boromir said absently. A few fast steps took him to the edge. He hardly dared watch and reluctantly cast a cautious glance into the dark gully. Below, downstream from where he stood, he caught a dark blotch bobbing up and down amid the white foam glistening in the moonlight. Incredibly, the boy was still alive and clinging to a pile of rubble lodged in a tree branch that jutted out over the water.

“Hold on!” Boromir yelled. He sprinted down the hill to the river’s bank.

“Help!” The child sounded terrified. “Help me.”

Trying to find his way through the darkness among the trees was not easy and Boromir concentrated on the sound. The boy was hanging on for dear life but slowly yet surely losing the contest with the current. Boromir grabbed the tree with one hand and leaned forward as far as he could, reaching with the other hand.

“Take my hand,” he instructed.

With the last of his strength, the boy managed to do as he was told and cold fingers wrapped themselves around Boromir’s. With a mighty pull, he hauled the boy onto the shore, where they both lay panting for several minutes.

Boromir’s waterlogged cloak clung to the boy’s slim form and he was shivering violently.

“Come on,” Boromir said once he had caught his breath. “You need to get out of those wet garments before you catch your death.”

o0o

He took the boy back to his camp and warm fire, and told him to strip and put on some of his own spare clothes. They hung awkwardly on the boy’s narrow frame. Boromir tied a rope around the child’s waist to hold up the breeches and helped him roll up the sleeves and pant legs. He looked like he was playing dress-up, but at least the boy was dry.

Boromir heated some water and prepared a thick soup, using some of his precious dried stores. His stomach growled at the smell that wafted from the stew, a reminder he had not yet eaten dinner. The boy eyed the soup with large, hungry eyes and Boromir offered him the first bowl. He ladled it down quickly, not caring that it was hot.

“You seem starved,” Boromir said, spooning up the last of the soup himself. “What are you doing here, anyway? There is nary a village near, is there?”

The boy shrugged. “No. My mother died when I was real little so I live with my da. He’s a trapper. He left for Erech right after the first frost night. Winter was early this year and he wanted to sell some pelts and buy food before the snows locked us in. I haven’t seen him since.”

“You survived the winter by yourself?” Boromir did not know what to say. Some mishap must have befallen the boy’s father; it was unlikely he would ever return. If the man could, no doubt he would have come back already. At least it explained why the youngster had been hungry enough to steal Boromir’s supper.

The boy shrugged again. “I’ve been alone before.”

“Where do you live?”

“We have a house,” the boy said proudly. “My da built it.”

“Then let us go there,” Boromir decided. “It will be better for you than here outside.” He scooped some dirt over the fire to extinguish the flames, gathered his belongings and his horse, and gestured for the boy to lead the way.

“Do you have a name?” he asked. “You can call me Erandír.”

“Hallas.”

“That is a good name,” Boromir said absently. The name tugged at his memory and he wondered why. Several minutes later, trampling through the darkened forest by the light of a single torch, it came to him: one of his forebears was named Hallas.

A short while later they reached a crumbled dwelling in a small, grassy clearing. It was a shack more than a house and built so low that Boromir could not stand up straight without his head touching the thick beams holding up the roof. The single room was chill, dark, and sparsely furnished. A stuffed mattress covered with a torn quilt lay in the corner. Before a cold, blackened fireplace stood a wooden chair and a small table. One of its legs was crooked, so the table’s surface was tilted.

“Let us get a fire going,” Boromir said, pointing to the hearth. “You do have firewood, do you not?”

Hallas gave another shake with his shoulder. “Yes. But I used the last of the kindling, and it’s been raining for days. I thought my da would be back by now.” His voice cracked on the last sentence and he was still shivering, despite wearing some of Boromir’s dry clothes.

Boromir grabbed the thin, dirty blanket from the bed and wrapped it around the child’s small frame. “We will worry about your father later. First, I need to get you warm.”

Full night had fallen, and though the moon was up, it took Boromir a while to find enough wood that was dry enough he might start a fire. Yet at last, yellow flames flickered in the hearth and Boromir heated up water so he could make the boy some tea to warm him up.

o0o

Still, as Boromir had feared, the next morning Hallas woke with flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with fever. Boromir resigned himself to staying for a few days and playing nursemaid to the boy.

The question of what he should do with the youngster once the fever was gone was never far from his mind. It turned over and over in his brain while he cooked hot soup and gently washed a fevered brow. One thing was evident: he could not leave the child to fend for himself. It was a wonder in itself that Hallas had survived one winter; the Valar must have truly smiled on the boy. Boromir doubted the child would be so fortunate again.

“How old are you?” he asked on the fourth day. The boy’s fever had broken, but he was weakened and his face was pale.

“Twelve.”

“That’s old enough.” Boromir helped him sit up on the thin mattress and handed him a bowl of broth.

“Old enough for what?” A hint of wariness crept into Hallas’s voice.

“Old enough to be a squire, of course.” Boromir grinned. “I have been traveling alone for a long time. I could use an extra pair of hands and eyes. Or someone to talk to. Someone who does not reply with woof-woof.” He imitated Híril in the hopes of bringing a smile to the boy’s gaunt face.

It worked. Hallas chuckled, which caused him to cough violently. Boromir quickly grabbed the bowl and waited for the fit to pass before handing the broth back.

“What about my da?” Hallas asked. “What if he comes back, and I’m not here? I have to find him!” He shoved his bowl at Boromir and flung away the blanket.

Boromir set the half-empty bowl down. He reached out a hand to steady the boy, who stood swaying on his feet. Gently, he pushed Hallas back onto the mattress. “Do you not think,” he said quietly, “that your father would have returned by now, if he were able to do so? The snow has melted a while ago.”

“Are you saying something happened to him? That he died?” Hallas sniveled. ” Maybe he is fallen sick and can’t come home yet.” Maybe… maybe…” The boy faltered, searching for excuses.

Boromir sighed. “Hallas, I do not know what happened. But I do not believe your father will return. You cannot stay here alone.”

“You lie! My da will come home! He promised.”

Boromir did not know what else to do but draw the child into his arms and hold him awkwardly while the boy cried for his lost father. Twelve years old, and an orphan. What was he going to do with him?

“Here now,” Boromir said when the racking sobs abated, “dry your eyes. Squires do not cry. They do, however, learn how to handle a sword.” Trying to distract the boy from his grief, he handed over his blade, hilt first. “How does that feel?”

Hallas took the sword in both hands and nearly dropped it. “It is heavy!” he said in surprise.

Boromir laughed. “Aye, it is. It is made of the hardest steel the sword makers of Minas Tirith can produce. The better to cleave orc heads with.

Hallas gazed up at Boromir with curiosity. “Did you kill many orcs?”

“Yes, I did,” Boromir confirmed. “Though not as many as I would have liked.”

“Did you ever see the king? My da said he came through the Haunted Mountain and was not afraid of the ghosts. He said that he killed the most orcs of all the soldiers.”

Boromir’s mood sobered at the memories of the war. “Aye,” he confirmed reluctantly. “The king did kill many of our enemies. Now, give me that again before you cut yourself.” He took the sword from the boy and slid it back into its scabbard.

“Eat your soup. You need to regain your strength if you hope to ever wield a blade like mine.”

Enmities

Híril noticed first that something was amiss, her senses far more developed than those of her master. A soft growl formed deep in her throat and she snarled, pulling back her lips to reveal sharp canines.

“What’s wrong with her?” Hallas, perched high above the ground on Barangol’s back, twisted in the saddle to look at the dog.

Boromir glanced up at the boy. A long winter of scarce nourishment and the fever after his fall in the icy river had weakened him so Boromir often let him ride while he himself walked, leading the horse by the bridle. But gradually, color was returning to the boy’s cheeks and he did look a little stronger every day.

Grief for his father still showed in his eyes, yet he had not put up much resistance at Boromir’s suggestion he come along, after that first, tearful outburst of denial. Well, the lad was twelve years of age, old enough to face the realities of forest life, painful to admit as it was.

“I do not know,” Boromir said. “She must scent something.”

He signalled for the dog to keep close; he did not want her running off on her own to investigate. Something about her behavior worried him and the way she bared her teeth told him she did not merely scent a hare’s burrow or a fox’s den. Whatever it was that put the dog on edge distressed her enough to raise the hackles on her back.

Boromir kept a hand near the hilt of his sword, scanning the surrounding countryside and keeping half an eye on Híril. They continued cautiously, winding their way through pine trees and scattered thickets of birches. The river Lefnui flowed past somewhere on the left, mumbling soothingly. They followed its course upstream, hoping to find a place to ford the river. A ridge of impassable hills had forced them far south and by the time they reached the Lefnui, it was too wide and deep to cross, thus leaving no choice but to backtrack north. Boromir was determined to head west as soon as they crossed the cold stream, to search for the pass that would take them over the southbound arm of the White Mountains and into Drúwaith Iaur.

A cool breeze came down from the mountains, carrying a whiff of an unpleasant stench on its wings. Boromir stopped in his tracks as he inhaled, tasting the air. Híril repeated her warning growl.

Yes. There it was once more. That smell, though diluted with fresh mountain air and spring flower fragrance, was awfully familiar. He would have recognized it from among a thousand foul odors: orcs!

“What is it?” Hallas looked around, bewildered when he could not see anything wrong.

Híril was quivering with eagerness to go and confront the danger. Yet in the time spent together, Boromir had trained the dog too well for her to run off without his permission. Barangol snorted nervously and pranced, tugging on the reins in Boromir’s hand.

“Orcs,” Boromir muttered. He gestured at Híril. “Stay.”

The dog whined softly but settled herself on her tail, still trembling with suppressed anxiety. Ears pricked forward, she kept her eyes fixed upon the eastern hillside and never stopped the low grumbled warning. Boromir followed her gaze and studied the sun-bleached hill. It was a clear spring day, and the grassy slope was sprinkled with pink and purple crocuses; yellow daffodils; a white flower whose name he could not remember. Rocks and crags cast shadows but he could see no caves. If there were orcs here — and there must be — they could not number many. There simply was not enough shade for them to hide. Still, he dared not risk continuing without knowing more about his eternal enemy.

It was an unpleasant surprise to find orcs so many leagues to the west. He had expected to have left the last remnants of the surviving hordes far behind. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. “You stay with the animals,” he told Hallas.

“I want to come!” the boy complained. He readied himself to drop from the saddle.

“No. I need you to make certain Híril does not get in my way and that Barangol does not spook and run. Understand?” He refrained from adding that the boy was too young, too weakened and too inexperienced to confront anything as fierce as an orc.

“All right.” Hallas nodded, reluctantly.

Boromir’s gaze had detected a narrow crevice near the top of the hill that looked promising as an orcish hiding place. He began climbing the slope, mindful of the loose rock that littered the grass.

The stink grew stronger the closer he came to the shadowy opening, and he heard shuffling in the darkness. There were none of the usual snarls and growls, however, that he had come to associate with orc bands.

His brow furrowed, and he pulled his sword from its scabbard. With the weapon at the ready, he took a deep breath and stepped into the gap.

o0o

The floor in the small crack between the rocks was rough and uneven. Her body shook with fevered chills that sapped the last of her strength. Even so, soft noises from the darkness urged her to try to gather her strength; her litter, three younglings strong, mewled with hunger. In a little while, she knew, their soft whimpers would change into demanding shrieks echoing around the mountains.

“Gôsh! Be quiet!” Her voice was a rough snarl but it lacked conviction.

It was not the cubs’ fault; the whelps were too young to realize the danger of drawing attention. She should get up and feed them what little she could — although it would not be enough. Days had passed since she last managed to venture out of the den and find sustenance for herself. She was dying, and when she died, her offspring would die with her. The pups could not yet survive on their own, and there was no one else to care for them.

Still, in a way, she considered herself fortunate. When her tribe lived in the shadow of Lugbúrz, the sick were put down without mercy. Those who cannot work, are no-good burdens, so the captains commonly held, and only fit to be fed to the winged steeds of the Nazgûl lords. But here, in the mountains with the snow-capped peaks of the Ered Nimrais towering high above, she was alone. The Nazgûl were destroyed and could no longer terrorize her into obedience; there was no rival female coveting her small nest. And she was far from the white City of Men. Nobody would kill her before her time. Her whelps might have a chance to continue her line — if she could manage to hold on to life long enough to give them a decent start…

Such illness as hers was an uncommon occurrence for her breed. The race of the orc was stalwart and rarely got sick. But a fever had haunted her since the end of last summer, when she birthed her litter. It slowly drained her strength until she was a mere husk of the powerful female she used to be. And though it was likelier that her fever was the result of a birthing in squalor, or exhaustion and malnourishment, she found it more satisfying to blame the new king of Gondor, who, in defeating the Great Eye, had caused an end to the only existence she had ever known.

“May Her Ladyship feast on his flesh.” She had uttered the curse below her breath before recalling that the fearsome spider was likely long dead.

Yet, while she struggled to gather enough energy to feed her children, she found it easy to muster hate and her eyes shifted toward the two boys in her litter. “You would make mighty warriors,” she told them. “Warriors fit to kill the nasty tark and filthy whiteskins!” They gurgled in reply. How could they understand what she meant? They were so young.

Her head turned back until she gazed at the wall opposite. She licked her lips. “They taste good. Sweet and juicy.” She chuckled, and the chuckle turned into a round of coughing that racked her body and left her gasping.

A tiny claw curled around her wrist and Karguk, her eldest, hauled himself onto her chest. She grinned with motherly pride and used some of her meager strength to help him up further. An instant later, sharp fangs closed around a teat. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position while her son struggled to draw the nourishment he needed so badly.

She gave a deep sigh. “Oi, bold Karguk, I fear you will never learn the taste of Man-flesh.”

The future had not always seemed as bleak as it did today. “Before were the good days,” she told the suckling whelp. “Sauron, the Great Eye, watched over us and the Lord of the Nazgûl promised treasures beyond imagination. We’d find it in the Men cities and Elven realms, he said. Sparkling riches and more meat than we could ever dream to eat.”

She drifted with the memories, never noticing how Brugagh replaced Karguk at her breast after a short but fierce struggle for dominance. In her mind, she was back before the walls of Minas Tirith, reliving the battle lost. A staggering defeat that had cost the race of the orc their future and forced her to flee far from her home.

o0o

It was not much later when a moan escaped her and she woke with a start from her nightmares. The stark fear she experienced on the battlefield that day held her frozen so it took her a few moments to realize she had been dreaming, that it was no longer real.

But it had been real, once. The arrival of the wraiths, led by the Man-king, causing sheer panic to race through rank upon rank of black orcs, catching them all up in its terror. The Nazgûl lord fell and, when his power no longer kept them together, they ran. She had spared no thought for where she was going; terror drove her on, fright for herself and her unborn litter, still safe in her womb. She had stumbled blindly, farther and farther away, until much, much later she came to her senses and found herself among green, rolling hills with white mountains looming high above.

She was alone, insulated from news, yet instinctively knew when the war was over. The orcs had lost. Their fate was sealed, their race doomed. If Men or Elves found her, she would suffer a terrible end and her whelps would never be born. She did not dare turn back, and so she ran on, deeper into the forest, higher into the mountains until at last she could run no more.

And that was where she found herself now. In a narrow crack between the rocks, feeble with fever and three brats clamoring for her attention.

She turned her head away from the wall to look upon her spawn and she flooded with pleasure in spite of her dire situation: she had produced three strong cubs, an unusual number. Two of them sturdy sons and one fine-looking daughter with long arms and wide hips. Yet she despaired at the world they had to survive in. Hunted by the victors, chased to the end of the world and beyond, with no place left to hide — what future was it that they could look forward to?

But it no longer mattered. They had no future. Soon, she would die, and they would die with her. The line of her foremothers, the lineage of Skullgrinder, would be wiped away forever with the passing of its last daughter, Drukh from Nurn and her three babes.

Still, life was tenacious. Drukh was not yet ready to give up the fight and she clung to what little hope she had left. When Silge in her turn pulled her brother away and took his place at her breast, she strained to sit up. Her daughter was sucking hard in an attempt to draw what she could from her mother’s dried glands.

Something blocked the entrance to the small cave, casting a shadow to fall over them. Drukh looked up in alarm and a sharp hiss escaped her when she saw a Man standing in the opening. It was a sign of the shape she was in that she had not scented his presence or heard his approach with senses honed through generations until he revealed himself.

Drukh pushed Silge off of her, despising herself for trembling in the face of the enemy. The pup whined in protest even as her mother’s hand searched for a weapon. But Drukh was too weakened to move much and could only stare up in hatred while the Man gazed down upon them. In her eyes, he was hideously fair, like so many of his kind. Tall, broad-shouldered, strongly muscled. She knew he was no weakling. This Man was a warrior, and she was certain her end was near. She was like unto a helpless suckling, an easy kill, and while she prayed for a swift end, she waited for the blade to come down.

Yet, though his sword was unsheathed, he did not raise it. Numerous expressions crossed his features but she could not read any of them. Drukh had no experience with the faces of Men. At last, he cursed in the Elven tongue she despised so much and turned away, leaving a ray of sunlight to fall onto the floor.

Her yellow eyes blinked in surprise. She gaped at the empty spot where he had been standing, trying to comprehend. Why was she still alive? Why had he not used his sword to spill her insides onto the cave floor? It could not be fear that kept him back, of that she was convinced. He had the look of a warrior, and even a Man couldn’t be as blind as to not see her frail and helpless state. So, why, then? Perhaps this was a cruel game like the descendants of Ungoliant played with their prey. She shuddered. He would be back soon, and her end would be all the more terrible for the delay.

But time went by, and he did not return. He was still outside somewhere, though, not far away, waiting. This she knew, for she could scent him now she had learned of his presence. Panic assailed her and she tried to shift her limbs. She had to leave! She should take Silge and Karguk and Brugagh and find another hiding place. But her strength was waning and she could move only a feeble arm.

o0o

It took Boromir’s eyes a minute to adjust to the gloom inside the crevice after the brightness of the spring day. He tensed, expecting to be set upon any moment, but no attack came. Once his vision had adapted to the dark conditions inside the cave and he could determine what it held, he could scarcely believe what he saw. Instead of finding a band of orcs, he found a single adult and three… baby orcs?

Did orcs produce offspring?

He had never given the matter much thought. He lived by a simple truth: orcs existed, a bane to Man. They embodied evil and it was his obligation to slay each one that he found. Yet, he hesitated. His sword was in his hand, the blade sharp and ready; all he needed to do was raise it and plunge it down into the orc body slumped at his feet. Still, strangely, he found himself holding back. It was an orc, and as such deserved death. Yet, it was also, by the looks of it, a mother.

“Valar forsake me!” he swore and turned away, unable to bring himself to cold-bloodedly murder a defenseless mother, even an orcish one.

“Erandír? What is it? What did you find?” Hallas called up. He had dropped from the saddle and tied the horse to a tree. A tense Híril sat near his feet. He shaded his eyes from the sun as he peered up at Boromir. Surprisingly, his voice held more curiosity than fear.

“Stay there!” Boromir called back. He stood for a long moment, torn with indecision, before he began to pace on the meadow in front of the orc den. His long, quick strides betrayed his agitation. The green grass crumpled beneath his boots, releasing a fresh spring scent that banished some of the reek emanating from the cave.

The decision should not be so difficult. Inside the crevice, hidden from sight and the sun in their stony lair, were four of Gondor’s enemies. Foul beasts that would not hesitate if the situation were reversed. Four determined slashes with his sword would extinguish their lives, and his land would be the safer for it. It should be so easy; it was what he had trained to do all his life.

Except nothing had prepared him for a situation like this. Three of the orcs were helpless whelps. And the fourth was a female, a mother, and if his eyes did not deceive him, a very sick creature. Hardly the kind of ruthless enemy he was used to.

He stopped walking to wipe his brow with his sleeve; the day had turned warm, filled with the promise of summer soon to come. Perhaps, he decided while he turned his gaze toward the shadow that marked the orcs’ hiding place, perhaps all he needed to do was wait. He did not know much about orc anatomy — aside from the most effective way to kill them — but even in the gloom of the cave, the she-orc had appeared to be on the brink of passing. If she died, no action was needed on his part and nature would take care of the problem all by itself.

“Erandír? Are you not hungry?”

The voice startled Boromir from his wishful thoughts. He realized he had forgotten all about his young charge. He glared at the boy, though he was unsure whether he was upset with himself for being caught off guard, or with the boy for disregarding his order to remain with the animals.

“I’m sorry,” Hallas said upon noticing the scowl. “I know you told me to stay with the horse but you’ve been up here for the longest time, walking back and forth. Nothing happened, so I thought you would want something to eat and have some water.” He held out Boromir’s water flask and a package wrapped in cloth, like a peace offering.

Boromir had to admit his stomach was feeling rather hollow, and the thought of food made it rumble in anticipation.

“Thank you.” He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a cooked rabbit’s haunch left over from yesterday’s catch. He tore off a strip of meat.

“Did you find any orcs?” Hallas took a curious step further up the hill.

“Stop,” Boromir said. “I do not want you to go there.”

“But–” Hallas began, when his protest was cut short by a loud ruckus coming from the crevice. With the attention of man and boy diverted, Híril had no longer been able to withstand the scents that had been assaulting her senses for a long time. She had slipped past them to the cave. She barked furiously at the darkness, then suddenly she yelped in pain.

Boromir swore beneath his breath. “Accursed mongrel!” He ran to the crevice, grabbed a handful of hindquarters and pulled Híril back.

His anger dissipated when he noticed the animal’s snout. It was bloody where sharp fangs had pierced the sensitive skin of her nose.

“Is she all right?”

Híril whined and tucked her tail between her legs as soon as Boromir let go of it. “She will be. Let me see those bites, girl.”

He reached for his water flask and poured a generous amount over the animal’s nose, holding on tight to her fur with one hand while ignoring her struggle to get away. He hoped plain water would be enough to clean the wound so it would not become infected. Orc bites could be nasty.

“Are those real orcs?”

Boromir cast a glance over his shoulder to see Hallas peer into the blackness of the cave. His voice held no fear, only wonderment.

“Yes,” Boromir confirmed. He let go of the dog and climbed back to his feet. “You would do well not to stick your nose in. Did you not see what happened to Híril? That ought to be a lesson for you.”

“She scared them,” the boy said, slowly inching further forward. “What’s wrong with the big one? Is that the mother?”

Boromir rolled his eyes. The boy was full of questions today. “I do not know. But I suppose yes.”

Hallas was making soft, soothing noises while creeping even deeper into the cleft. Tense, ready to pull the boy away in an instant, Boromir decided not to interfere just yet. If Hallas did not want to heed his words, perhaps he would have to learn the hard way.

But the anticipated attack never came. Hallas crawled back, unharmed, cradling a baby orc in his arms. Its misshapen face crinkled at the scent of the dog’s blood and cooked rabbit. It snapped its fangs at Boromir.

“They are so little,” Hallas said. He looked up at Boromir. “I think the mother is dead. Can we keep them?”

For a long moment Boromir was too stunned to reply. Then, not sure whether to laugh or be angry, he replied curtly, “No. Put it back with the others.”

“But they’ll die without their mother!”

“Precisely.” He softened his voice. “Hallas, orcs are vicious, nasty creatures. Has your father not taught you such?”

Hallas hesitated. “Yes, that’s what he said too. But I’ve never seen an orc before. And these don’t look very dangerous.”

Boromir chuckled. “I believe Híril would disagree with you.” The dog was licking her paw, running it repeatedly over the injured nose. She kept a wary eye on the little creature in the boy’s arms. A soft growl emitted from her throat every time the orc shifted.

“She attacked them first,” the boy said with stubborn logic.

And for good reason, Boromir thought, but did not say. “What would we do with baby orcs?” he asked instead. “We can barely find enough to eat to sustain ourselves. And when they grow up–”

“But we can’t leave them to die!” Hallas cried. “Look! It’s hungry.” Much to Boromir’s amazement, the small orc suckled Hallas’s thumb. Boromir cringed inwardly, expecting the wickedly sharp teeth to sink into the boy’s flesh at any moment.

“True,” he agreed. It suddenly dawned on him what he would have to do and he wondered what made him hesitate before. Was he growing soft-hearted?

“Put that back with the others,” he said. “Then take Híril and Barangol and walk ahead. Leave the orcs to me. Perhaps you can find the nest of those ptarmigan we saw, and raid it. I would not say no to fresh eggs with dinner tonight, would you? Whatever you do, do not come back here. I will find you. You hear?”

“What will you do?”

“What I must,” Boromir replied. “What I should have done hours ago.”

For a long moment it seemed as if Hallas would disobey but then he bowed to Boromir’s authority. He dropped to his knees and cautiously shooed the orc back into the crevice with its siblings. “Bye, little one,” he muttered.

He gave Boromir a last glance before he trotted down the hill and untied Barangol’s reins. At a gesture from Boromir, Híril ran to the boy and followed him when he began to lead the horse through the trees. The soldier waited until the child and the animals had disappeared into the forest. He pulled his sword free and tested its sharpness with his thumb. He gave a last look to make sure Hallas complied with his orders and had not come back, then took a deep breath of fresh air, stooped and entered the orcs’ den.

o0o

Hallas stared into the flames of their cooking fire without saying a word. He had been quiet and morose ever since Boromir caught up with him. When he had finished his dinner, he set his bowl aside and poked the burning logs with a large stick until sparks shot up into the night sky. Híril, dozing patiently beside the fire, opened one eye to watch the flames. When satisfied she was not in danger, the eye closed again and the dog heaved a sigh.

“You killed them, didn’t you?” the boy asked at last.

“Aye.”

“Why? They were harmless.”

Boromir sighed. “Today they were,” he said. “But once they grew up, they would have become our enemy, delivering death and torment to the people of Gondor. The way their kind has since time immemorial.” He put his own plate down and turned to face the boy.

“Hear me well, Hallas. Every terrible story your father told you about orcs is true. And they are tenfold more vicious than he could ever explain to you in words. Consider yourself fortunate that you have never had to see with your own eyes what orcs can do to a person.”

His voice drifted off and he was talking more to himself than to the boy. “Countless are the scenes I have witnessed. Farms burned to the ground, their occupants still inside. Women, children, maimed and butchered. Soldiers, torn limb to limb.” He suddenly looked up and caught Hallas’s eye. “They feast on the flesh of their victims, devour them raw, did your father tell you that?”

Hallas’s eyes grew round and he shuddered despite the warmth of the fire. Boromir felt a pang of guilt at frightening the boy, but it was important he understood why Boromir had done what he did. That sometimes a soldier had to make choices that might not be to his liking, but that were the right thing to do regardless.

“You lie,” the boy said, but his tone betrayed it was a token protest.

“I would wish,” Boromir said. “They hate us, you see. It is in their blood.” He paused for a moment. “I do not know why. You know we could not take them with us. And with their mother gone, they were doomed. Would it have been kinder to let them die slowly of hunger?”

Hallas shook his head, gazing at the ground. “I suppose not,” he mumbled.

Riders of the Mark

“One, two. Counter! Aye, that’s it! Three, four, good! Watch your feet. Keep them moving. Remember, tread lightly.”

Panting with exertion, Hallas tried to follow Boromir’s rapid instructions. The sounds of his gasped breath mingled with the noise of wood on wood.

“Ow!” Boromir grunted. Following a particular unusual riposte, Hallas’s practice sword had slipped through his defenses and struck his forearm. He rubbed the sore flesh, seeing a bruise already form. Inexperienced recruits were the most dangerous to train; they always did the unexpected. “That’s enough for now.”

“I’m sorry!” Hallas said, dropping his sword. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”

“I would hope you did,” Boromir said with a smile. “That is the entire purpose of a sword. Just mind this lesson and I will consider a bruise a small price to pay: even if you believe you know what your opponent is going to do, you should always be prepared for the unforeseen. You did well.”

Pink rose to the boy’s cheeks and Hallas beamed with the praise.

“At the next smithy we find,” Boromir continued, “we must see about getting you a real sword. I believe you are ready.”

“Really?” Hallas said. He was bobbing with delight. “Then will you also teach me how to kill orcs?”

Boromir laughed. “All in good time, son. All in good time.”

It was not long ago that the boy had wanted to adopt baby orcs and raise them like pets. But Boromir’s warnings about the viciousness of orcs had not gone unheeded. Neither had some of the stories the boy demanded he tell.

“You are still a long way away from killing anything. Let us start by acquainting you with the feel of a real blade in your hand, all right?”

“Can’t I try with yours?”

“My blade is not fit for you,” Boromir said. “Your arms are shorter than mine, and you do not yet have the strength of a grown man.”

Secretly, he was rather proud of his young pupil, who had made remarkable progress in wielding his wooden sword. The boy had taken to handling the weapon like a natural-born swordsman; he was a joy to teach. Not even two full months had passed since Boromir rescued Hallas out of the river, yet he could barely recall the days spent alone. He had never realized how lonely he had been with but a dog and a horse to keep him company until he found the orphaned boy and took him under his wing. With his youthful zeal, never-relenting questions and keen interest in learning new things, Hallas provided a much-needed diversion from Boromir’s own glum thoughts. And though he did not want to admit it, Boromir was especially glad to have found someone to whom he could pass on his extensive skill with a blade. Hallas had proven an eager pupil, as eager to learn how to handle a sword as Merry or Pippin.

“Erandír?” Hallas broke in on his thoughts.

Boromir realized he had been staring off in the distance, seeing the past, for several long minutes. He shook himself.

“We better pack up,” he said, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. “There are some hours of daylight left. We can still get a few miles beneath our feet.”

“Aye.” Hallas collected the makeshift practice swords in one hand, hoisted his small pack upon his shoulders with the other and was ready to go on. The days had grown long and hot, the nights short and warm as spring was about to give way to summer; the travelers wore linen undershirts and breeches, and not much else. Boromir’s wool cloak and rain cape were stuffed deep inside Barangol’s saddlebags, no longer needed.

Each day brought more sunshine, and the open spaces among the trees were bright green with new growth, dotted with white and yellow daisies, red poppies and purple violets. The forest was alive with birdsong and chicks called for their parents among fresh shoots. Barangol enjoyed the new grasses while Híril had a grand time chasing buzzing bees or squeaking rodents hither and yon, her antics often eliciting a laugh from her masters. They made easy progress in the dry weather, although Boromir paused each afternoon for an hour or so. He used that time to instruct his pupil further in sword fighting. One day he tried to give the boy an archery-lesson, but he quickly learned that Hallas was his better with bow and arrow and Boromir had nothing to teach him.

“My father often took me hunting,” the boy explained after he struck the target three times in a row, “when I was still very little.”

Thus Boromir confined his lessons to swordsmanship and war tactics, or told the boy old battle tales. Hallas took it all in with an enthusiasm that brought his younger brother to Boromir’s mind, in earlier days when Faramir was allowed free run of the libraries of Minas Tirith and absorbed the history of Gondor as if the fate of the world depended upon it.

o0o

Despite the abundance of life, people were scarce in the thickly forested vales between the hills of the Pinnath Gelin and the White Mountains. Sometimes, a week or more would pass without them seeing another living soul. Occasionally they came upon a small farm or trapper’s house, and villages were even scarcer. The people they did meet were a suspicious lot, not welcoming to strangers. Thus, even when a hamlet was nearby, Boromir and Hallas rarely stayed for longer than a brief visit to buy supplies, and camped beneath the stars.

The people who lived in the vales were generally small of stature with wide faces and it was obvious that the blood of the Púkelmen ran still in their veins. Gondor’s cities were many weeks’ riding away and the hillfolk kept to themselves. They were farmers or huntsmen and indifferent to Gondor’s politics. Yet, when a pair of wargs had strayed far from their usual haunts in the Misty Mountains and was terrorizing a small farming community, the local men had been glad for the addition of Boromir’s sword to their arrows and knifes. He had killed one of the beasts single-handedly, leaving the villagers awestruck. Little children hid behind their mothers’ skirts, much to Boromir’s chagrin, while Hallas strutted around filled with pride about his master. He told everyone who would listen about Boromir’s many mighty deeds, embellishing his tales until they took on epic proportions and Boromir ordered him to silence.

“What can we give you in return?” the village chieftain, an elderly man with white whiskers and deep-set eyes, had asked while the last ashes of the incinerated warg corpses drifted away in the wind. “We wish to repay you for your help.”

“A horse,” Boromir answered, not needing long to think. “For my fanciful friend.”

“‘Tis a fair price,” the chieftain said. He took them to the stables where Hallas chose a pale dun animal. Though not quite large enough to be called a horse, the pony was sturdy and strong, and reminded Boromir of Sam’s faithful Bill.

“You’ve made a good choice,” the headman agreed. “My own daughter likes to ride him sometimes. He should not give you much trouble.”

o0o

More weeks passed. With both Boromir and Hallas riding their own mount, they made even better progress and it was not long before they reached the Gondorian border.

Boromir halted Barangol when the horse crested a hill. Far below, a silver ribbon glistened among the trees. It meandered from north to south in an erratic course, always seeking the lowest land. To their left, the river faded into the murky distance, and on the right it disappeared among the hills it sprang from.

“That’s a big river,” Hallas said. “Is that the Anduin?”

“The Anduin?” Boromir chuckled. “I should hope not. No, this is the Isen.”

He dismounted and drew some lines in the dirt. “See? This is the Isen River. It is the western border of Gondor. We are here.” He marked the ground with an X. “The sea is to the south. If you follow the river with your eyes as far as you can see and look closely, you can just make out its waters. The Anduin is far to the east, about here.” He drew another line in the dirt.

“Show me where my house is,” Hallas said. “And Minas Tirith? I would like to see the White Tower some day.”

Boromir made two new marks and pointed with the tip of his knife. “This is Erech. And Minas Tirith is here, near the Anduin, on the eastern edge of the Ered Nimrais.”

Hallas studied the makeshift map for a moment. “Oh,” he said, not able to hide his disappointment. “That looks far away.”

Boromir laughed. “It is. It would take many months to travel to Minas Tirith. Perhaps some day you will visit. But for now, I am taking us further west, out of Gondor.”

“Will you tell me again about the Tower?”

“Ah, the Tower of Ecthelion.”

Boromir turned away from the river and stared off into the distance, gazing east the way they had come as though he might see the walls of Minas Tirith if he looked hard enough.

“The Tower is a thing of beauty that rivals the Elven cities of myth. It glows red in the dawn, when the first rays of the sun strike it and the city at its foot is still cloaked in night. It is white in the glare of a summer’s day, so white it can pain the eye, sparkling as brightly as those peaks you see to the north. And at night… At night the Tower burns with silver beneath the moonlight. Aye, the White Tower of Minas Tirith, how I wish to lay eyes on it again!”

“Then why aren’t we going there?”

Boromir shook himself out of his memories. “Maybe some day,” he said curtly. “For now, we should get down this hill and find a place to cross the Isen.”

o0o

The river was wide and deep, and they were forced to follow it north for many leagues, looking for a place Boromir deemed safe enough to cross with a boy and a pony in his party. They rode on until they came upon the Adorn, a large side river that added a substantial amount of water to the Isen’s flow. Boromir had no choice; he would have to ford the Adorn first. Once he did, he would have left Gondor and entered Rohan, a realm he would have preferred to bypass altogether.

But perhaps, relieved of the inflow of its tributary, the Isen would prove less of an obstacle.

They spent the night on the southern bank of the river Adorn. His last night in Gondor; tomorrow he would leave his homeland behind once again — and this time perhaps for good. Boromir was awake for most of the night.

o0o

Still more days passed and they had yet to find a way to get to the west of the Isen. Meltwater from the mountains kept the river swollen, even at the height of summer, and the banks were steep and dangerous, the stream swift and deep.

Boromir watched their continued travel north with growing unease. Soon they would approach the Fords of the Isen, at the Gap of Rohan. It would be a simple matter to cross the river at the fords and head west through the Gap; however, the Rohirrim would have set a guard. He did not desire to meet the horselords. Someone might recognize him for Gondor’s former Captain-General; though his visits had been more rare than he had liked, he had stayed in Edoras often enough that it was a just concern.

But while Boromir looked ahead with trepidation, danger came from behind. A company of riders appeared in the south-east, following along the feet of the White Mountains. Boromir noticed them too late to find shelter before they were detected. He and Hallas were traveling across the open plains of the Mark; the nearest hiding place was a copse of trees they might have tried to make a run for if their horses had not been weary from long days of travel. Boromir did not want to risk being caught while appearing to flee. The Rohirrim were bound to experience the occasional attack from Dunlendings still; they would likely fly arrows first, and ask questions later. And none could shoot from the saddle like the horsemasters.

He brought Barangol to a halt and turned his horse to await the riders. He would have to chance meeting them, and hope for the best.

Hallas inched his pony close to Boromir. “Who are they?” he asked. There was a slight tremor in his voice.

Boromir couldn’t fault the boy. An éored bearing down at full speed was a frightening sight indeed. They left a great dust cloud to drift gently in the wake of their passing.

“There is no need to worry,” he told Hallas. “They are the Rohirrim. They have ever been friends to Gondor. Their king, Éomer, has fought side by side with King Elessar.”

His initial fears eased, the boy sat up straighter on his pony, and an interested glint appeared in his eyes.

When the riders came closer, and he could make out individual horses and riders, Boromir realized that his initial tally was wrong. The group was more likely half an éored, sixty men. Still, it was a force to be reckoned with. The riders’ pikes stood tall, their banners of the white horse on green flapped proudly, and the sun glinted off of shining armor.

They watched as the mass of horses and riders came to a stop in a flurry of dust. Their captain urged his horse forward and took off his helmet. Boromir was relieved to find he did not know the man whose golden hair fluttered in the wind.

“In the name of Éomer King, state your name and your business in Rohan.”

“My master is Erandír,” Hallas said before Boromir could reply. In the face of Boromir’s reassurances about the Rohirrim friendship to Gondor, he seemed to have lost all fear of the powerful riders. “And I am Hallas. My master’s business is his own.”

Boromir was not sure whether to laugh or cuff the boy’s head in annoyance. By the look on the captain’s face, the rider was equally in doubt, taken aback by the child’s forwardness.

“We are travelers from Gondor,” Boromir said. “We seek passage across the Isen.”

“From Gondor?” the captain said. “‘Tis a strange path you have chosen to travel. Most travelers use the Great West Road nowadays. The roads are safe while the wilds are not.”

“My master has nothing to fear,” Hallas piped up. “He has fought in the war and slain many orcs. He killed a warg all by himself a little while back.”

“Be still!” Boromir snapped. This time, he would have boxed the boy’s ears if he had still been within arm’s reach. But his pony had stepped sideways.

“The lad’s exaggerating,” he said with a shrug. “Though I did fight for the White City when it was besieged.”

“Then you are a friend of Rohan’s,” the captain said. He gestured at his men to lower their guard. “I am Wulfwine of the Westmarch. We are on our way to the fords to bring relief to the troops guarding it. You are welcome to ride with us.”

o0o

They shared the riders’ fire and supper near the fords that evening. Hallas was beside himself with joy at being in the company of such mighty soldiers. Much to everyone’s amusement, he demonstrated his new sword skills and he never stopped asking questions of anyone who was willing to answer them. He wanted to know about their weapons, their horses, the emblem on their banners, and was most eager to hear about Éomer King and the battles of the war.

After supper, Boromir soon lost sight of him altogether.

“He’s not your son, is he?” Wulfwine asked Boromir over a cup of ale from the garrison’s stocks.

“No,” Boromir answered. “He’s an orphan.” He explained how he found Hallas.

“I took him along. I could not leave him. And he seems quite happy as my ’squire’.”

“That he does,” Wulfwine agreed. “So. Where are you headed, Master Erandír, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Boromir lifted a hand and gave a vague wave toward the land on the opposite bank of the Isen. “West. I do not know yet where my path will take me.”

They were silent for a while. Then Boromir gathered his courage. “What news can you give me of Minas Tirith?” he said. “I left not long after King Elessar was crowned and much must have happened in the city since.” The desire to hear of his home had been on his mind since he first detected the riders and he was not sure it was wise to broach the subject. It might lead to questions he was not willing to answer. However, the need to know had outgrown his concern.

“Aye, I would imagine. I fear I cannot tell you much, though.” Wulfwine paused to collect his thoughts. “‘Twas with the funeral escort for Théoden King that I left Gondor. And that is all but a year past. I would like to visit your city again in better times. I suspect that I will, too, with the new kinship bonds between our king and your steward.”

It took Boromir a moment to digest the words. “What?”

“Oh, you are bereft of tidings indeed!” Wulfwine exclaimed. “I believe I can give you some news after all. Aye, this spring the Steward of Gondor wedded the Lady Éowyn, sister to Éomer King. And,” Wulfwine grinned, “it is whispered that one of the finest ladies of Gondor has captured the heart of Éomer. The women of Edoras expect another wedding soon.”

Boromir was speechless. Before he left, Faramir had mentioned something about a white lady from Rohan who stayed in the Houses of Healing but truth be told, at the time he had been too occupied with his own woes to pay his brother much mind. He did recall the Lady Éowyn from his visits to the Golden Hall; a pale, aloof woman of cool beauty, with a hint of sorrow buried beneath her grave demeanor. And now she was his kinswoman. Sadness for all the important events he had missed warred with happiness at the joyful news. He longed to know more but did not dare ask. He could not stop the slow smile breaking on his face, though.

“Those are good tidings! I thank you for your news. I will travel with a lighter heart, to know that things are well in Gondor.”

“I suppose it cannot be easy to leave your land behind,” Wulfwine said. He gazed into the fire for a moment. “I would have no desire to depart the golden plains of the Westmarch for such an uncertain journey as yours. But if you must, you best stay on the road,” he changed the subject. “As I said, the roads are safe, but many evils live in the wilds still. Not all vermin of Isengard have been accounted for. And the Dunlanders still dislike us as much as ever.”

“Hence the many riders here at the fords,” Boromir understood.

“Aye,” Wulfwine confirmed.

Hallas returned to their fire and forestalled any further soldier talk. He stood swaying on his legs a little. Boromir narrowed his eyes and sniffed. “Have they been feeding you ale?”

“Aye.” Hallas giggled. “And they taught me a song about the war. Listen, Erandír!”

“Raise a jug for the wizard gray
all praise to his long sight,
and the dwarf with the axe whose fierce attacks
beat back the orcish horde.

Here now dear, bring another beer…”

Wulfwine laughed. “The lads learned that song in Gondor,” he said. “I did not know they sing it still. But you’ve got the words wrong, boy. This is how it goes.”

The captain began to sing the words in a surprisingly melodious baritone.

“Drink when day is done to the Steward’s son,
the Captain-General bold,
To defend the small he gave his all,
and his deeds will long be told.”

The words hit Boromir like an arrow to the chest. He felt the blood leave his face, and all of a sudden found it hard to draw breath. Wulfwine sang on.

“For the valiant Pip we’ll take a sip
of the ale that’s Gondor’s pride,
Then drink to the fame of Merry’s name,
When he stood–”

“Excuse me,” Boromir croaked, interrupting the Rohirrim captain mid-verse. He could feel Wulfwine’s startled gaze on his back as he stumbled away from the fire.

The song was mistaken. It was wrong! He did not deserve to be mentioned in such a song of heroes. What would people sing about him if they knew the truth?

Hallas tugged on his sleeve. “Are you all right, Erandír?”

Boromir took deep breaths, trying to get his emotions under control.

“Yes,” he barked hoarsely. “I am fine. Now, get yourself some sleep and forget that nonsense they taught you. We haven taken up enough of the Rohirrim hospitality, we leave at first light.”

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