Apologies (again) for the long delay in getting this written and posted.   I’m afraid, in reply to the nice readers who’ve asked, that I can’t really give any good estimate of how long it’ll be in between chapter postings, what with the usual madness of life.  But if you want an update on that in the future, then email me, and I promise to at least let you know how it’s looking at the time I email you back!

            This chapter’s a bit shorter than previous ones, and it ends with a scene that a lot of us have been waiting for … 

I hope you enjoy!  Things should be really getting fun in the chapters ahead!

Chapter Thirteen:  The Defence of Waterfront

           

            We rode into the dark, our horses’ hooves striking sparks from the paving stones of the Rammas road.

            Eighteen rode in our party, counting Svip and me.  With us were Cirion and our other comrades on the journey from Lilla Howe, minus the wounded Thorolf.  As well there were twelve other Rangers of Captain Cirion’s command.  Their names I did not yet know, but most of them I remembered seeing before.  Some, I thought, had accompanied Cirion when he made his reports to the Council in Minas Tirith, and some I remembered from our escape from Cair Andros.

            We had parted from Mithrandir at the gate of the Forts.  He had delivered me into the Rangers’ care, informing Cirion in a portentous tone that the Lord Boromir’s life depended on getting back to the River, and that if Cirion failed, he’d have a Wizard’s wrath to deal with.

Cirion was clearly not among those who held the Grey Wanderer in any dread.  He had snorted and remarked that he would be a lot more worried about the Lord Denethor’s wrath.

As we galloped through the gate I glanced back, and saw Mithrandir leap down from Shadowfax and stride toward the House of Healing.  Already those few wounded who could yet walk were limping out-of-doors, toward the waiting carts. Many more were being carried out from the House.  It wrenched my heart to see them, to hear the tormented murmurs of a few and to see the deathly stillness of so many others.

            I could not help but wonder if bringing them home to Minas Tirith would do them any good.  If the skills of our healers here and the wisdom of Mithrandir could not wake them from this black slumber, there was little hope that the healers and herb masters of the City would have any more chance of success.

            Yet come what might, we could not desert them to the ravages of our foes.  That at least was an indignity we could spare them.

             Just outside the gate, we turned south and east, along the road that traces the inside perimeter of Rammas Echor.

            Svip huddled close against me as we rode.  The bay horse seemed far more skittish from Svip’s presence than had the steed we rode from Osgiliath to the Forts.  I had the sensation that she might bolt off the road at any moment, in the attempt to shake this unknown creature from her back. 

Svip, I was sure, sensed it too.  He clung to me, trying not to move or do anything that might startle the horse.

As we rode farther from the Causeway Forts, the sounds of combat faded into black silence.  At none of the milecastles had any enemy yet been seen.  We rode in the faint light of torches along the wall.  In my imagination our shadowy company seemed like some band of ghosts out of legend, slain warriors doomed to ride patrol for eternity along a frontier that they had once failed to defend. 

At first we still saw occasional bursts of fire behind us, from explosions as the foe sought to tear further breaches in our wall.  Soon they too were swallowed by the darkness, and we were left to imagine what fate might be overtaking the comrades we had left behind.

At each milecastle we halted in reply to the guards’ challenge.  Eleven of these towers line the wall between the Causeway and the Harlond.  Each brought some minutes of delay to our journey, for at each I commanded the guards to abandon the milecastle and join us. 

It galled me to leave the Rammas thus unguarded.  But worse was the prospect of leaving the tiny garrisons isolated on the wall, to be cut off from retreat when the enemy swarmed over our fields. 

The soldiers at the milecastles did not greet me as a vision or a ghost, for the news of my return had journeyed before me.  The garrisons had been minimally reinforced by three Men at each, sent by Lieutenant Siriondil from our troops withdrawn from Osgiliath.  They had brought with them tales of the Captain General’s miraculous reappearance, and now their comrades greeted me with enthusiastic cheers, as I arrived to prove the truth of the tales.

I did my best to act as though nothing were amiss with me.  But I was sure that if any Man looked at me too closely, I would appear more a ghost than a Man. 

Certainly I felt near enough to being disembodied.  I barely even felt cold any longer, which I suspected was not a positive sign.  The only way I could tell that I was trembling, was when I saw my hands shaking as they gripped the reins.

Svip turned cautiously once to look at me when we were halted at one of the milecastles.  Apparently he did not like what he saw.  When we rode on he began speaking to me, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of our progress.  He was talking, I supposed, in the attempt to keep me awake, as he had when he dragged me back from my near-fatal walk in the hills near his home. 

I did not think, this time, that I was in danger of losing consciousness as he thought I was.  Then I realised that he had just repeated one question several times over before I had truly heard him. 

Perhaps Svip was right after all.  At the moment, I thought, I would trust his opinion on the matter much farther than I would trust my own.

I tightened my grip on the reins in the attempt to make myself feel something, but sight was the only sense that told me my hands had moved at all.

Right, I told myself.  You are going to stay awake, and so you are going to talk.

So I answered Svip’s questions, and found myself talking as well of things that I could not remember how I had begun speaking of them, whether any question of Svip’s had led into them or not.  I spoke of childhood visits to Belfalas, of the gigantic sandcastle that our parents and Uncle Imrahil built once on the beach of Dol Amroth with Faramir and me, of the way that the Tower of Ecthelion catches the sunlight in the first rays of dawn, of Merry and Pippin and Frodo and Sam and the tales they had told of life in their far-away Shire. 

By the time we reached the last milecastle before the Harlond, it was all I could do to halt my wandering reminiscences, and focus enough on the necessary words to command the garrison to abandon their post, ready their horses and accompany us.  I believe that I managed to give those orders.  But the moments that followed, as we waited, turned into a distant blur.  I felt as though I were under water looking up, watching the events taking place above me in the world of light and air. 

Another horseman rode up beside Svip and me.  I recognised him as Captain Cirion, and understood that he was looking at me in concern.  But although I heard speech exchanged between him and Svip, I could not catch the meaning of their words.

Then a new sensation made its way through the mists enclosing my mind.

The River, I thought. 

I was sure I could smell the River.  I could smell the water, smell its rich, dark mud, smell the breezes that dance over Anduin’s silver ripples, bringing with them a whisper of the distant sea.

“Boromir,” Svip said in an insistent tone, his words suddenly making sense to me again.  “We’re nearly to the River.”

“Yes,” I heard myself answer him.  “Yes, we are.”

As we rode, bit by bit the mists surrounding me seemed to fade. 

I still could feel nothing.  But the sounds seemed returning with a clarity greater than ever before.  We seemed riding through a brilliant tapestry of sound: the drumming of hooves upon stone and the jangling of our equipage, the horses’ breathing and the pounding of my own heart, and above and throughout all the rushing of the River – though when I truly listened I did not think I could hear the River at all, except within my mind.

From the wall ahead of us glowed a sudden increase in the number and frequency of torches.  I saw the forms of Men standing silhouetted upon the wall, and saw the dark outline of the Harlond Gate.  And from beyond the gate came noise, that I felt sure was real, not from inside my mind. 

It sounded as though some great merchant vessel had just docked, and the crew and workmen were busy unloading the cargo.  There were shouts in many voices, occasional laughter and curses and even a snatch of song, creaking and rolling sounds as of barrels being rolled down ramps from shipboard onto the dock.

I am still imagining things, I thought.  The Merchant Adventurers of Gondor had always claimed they would work on through any challenge or peril, but even they were   not likely to sail a cargo in to port with the Enemy’s darkness all about us and the hordes of Mordor pounding at our gates.

Our company rode in to the nearest of the huge stables that stretch out to either side within the Harlond Gate.  A trumpet sounded from the wall above us.

As I dismounted and turned to help Svip, it occurred to me that I had some feeling in my limbs again.  I had felt my feet land on the hard dirt floor, and as I set Svip down I felt a hint of his warmth against my hands.

Cirion hastened up to us.  He began, “My Lord – ” reaching out to grasp my arm.

I interrupted him, trying not to let my desperation sound too clearly in my voice, “Forgive me, Cirion.  I must get to the River, now.  Find out what is happening here; when I return we will take council to determine our next move.”

“Aye, My Lord.”  He saluted, then called one of the others to take charge of my horse.  I hurried from the stable toward the gate.  My heart seemed thudding madly within my skull, and I could feel again the palsied trembling in my hands.  Svip scurried at my side, and I noticed after a few moments that Cirion was following me as well.

At least, I thought, there will be someone larger than Svip to try and catch me if I swoon.

I walked through the gate, which stood open, into a scene of near-frenzied activity.  At the great warehouse just to the south of the gate, Men were carrying crates through the wide doorway and heaving them into a crazily varied selection of carts and wagons, from one of the largest canopied wains down to a vehicle scarcely larger than a dog cart.  Barrels were being rolled down a long wooden ramp from the loft of the warehouse into one of the larger carts, and from my left came sounds as though the Harlond had turned into some gigantic smithy or a carpenter’s workshop.  The din of metal hammered upon metal blended with duller hammering on wood.

Before I could begin to make sense of what I saw and heard, a booming voice hailed me, “My Lord Boromir!  My dear Lord!”

I found myself slapped on the back with a force that nearly knocked me off my feet, then my hand was seized and shaken vigorously, well nigh enough in my weakened state to shake my poor brains from out of my skull.

As tall as I and nearly twice as broad, Ivarr Son of Yngvar, Leader of the Innkeepers’ Guild and Landlord of the Orc’s Head Tavern grinned madly as he shook my hand.  He looked torn between bursting out in song and breaking down in joyful tears.

“My Lord, this is marvellous!” he effused.  “Valar’s balls, it is good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back, Ivarr,” I managed, gritting my teeth and trying to convince my head to stop spinning.

His eyes narrowed and he finally stopped shaking my hand.  “You look hideous,” he declared.  “Are you ill?”

“Something like that,” I said.  Reflecting that I was probably going to get as tired of explaining this as I was of explaining how I’d come back from the dead, I said wearily, “I have … contracted a condition that requires me to be in contact with River water on a regular basis.  I’m sorry, I need to take a quick swim.  I’ll be back soon, and you will tell me what is going on here and what we can do to help.” 

Another thought occurred to me; I was going to have to bring a hell of a lot more River water with me to Minas Tirith than I’d brought to the Causeway Forts, if I expected to spend any time there at all, and perhaps to last out a siege. 

I did not know even if my survival would be possible on such terms.  Perhaps it did not matter how much water I had with me, if I stayed too long, too far from the River itself.  But I would have to try.  Current events were not such as to make lingering by the River particularly healthy either.

“Ivarr,” I continued, “have you two or three empty barrels that I could purchase from you?”  I remembered that I didn’t have any coin on me, but that shouldn’t matter; my credit had always been good at the Orc’s Head.  “I’ll need to take some River water to the City with me.”

“Of course!” exclaimed Ivarr.  He grinned and shook his head, adding, “It’ll be the first time I’ve served Your Lordship water.  You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer something stronger?”

“Perhaps later,” I told him, managing a pale smile.

“My Lord,” Cirion put in, while I bit my lip and hoped I would not pass out while I was conversing with them, “with your permission I’ll go with Master Ivarr to take charge of the barrels.  Perhaps he can tell me what the situation is here.  Are you commanding this operation, Sir?” he asked the innkeeper.

Ivarr grimaced ruefully.  “Partially commanding it, for my sins,” he answered.  He nodded to Cirion and said, “Let us go, then.”  Then Ivarr asked with another concerned look at me, “You’ll be all right, My Lord?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, adding silently, as long as all of you leave me alone and I can get into that water right now.

As the Ranger and the innkeeper set out toward Ivarr’s tavern in the dockside village of Waterfront, I glanced dizzily down at Svip.

“You coming in for a swim, Svip?” I asked him.

“Of course,” he said, eyeing me with a kind of wild, panicked look that made me wonder if he were contemplating pushing me into the River.

“Good,” I said.  “Hopefully you can pull me out before I drown, if I faint in the water.”

Svip did not look as though he appreciated such jokes.  To be perfectly honest I was not sure that it was a joke at all.  I hurried unsteadily along one of the jetties and down the nearest stairs, then I dove into the water.

 I do not think I can truly describe what that water felt like.  I swam underwater to near the midpoint of the River, drove downward until I could rake my hands through the mud on the bottom, then surged up to the surface again.  It was with a sense of loss that I allowed myself to break through to the air, accepting the necessity of feeling something other than water about me.

I drifted onto my back, gazing up at the featureless sky.  I thought what a shame it was that there were no stars to be seen.  They were all that could be desired to make this instant perfect, if I could float down the River watching the stars dance above me.

For a moment I floated with the current, before regretfully reminding myself that it was not the best plan for me to get washed down to Lebennin while the City faced Sauron’s armies. 

With a sigh I rolled over and struck out toward the dock.

After a few strokes, I realised that Svip was swimming beside me.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, as we swam.

“Wonderful,” I said, and I meant it.

We reached one of the sets of stone stairs leading down off the jetties.  I sat low on the staircase, leaning back against the step above me and heaving a blissful sigh as the water lapped about my chest and shoulders.  Svip hopped onto the next step up and sat there swinging his feet through the water.

In the dark across the River, I thought I saw a hint of light in the sky.  A hint of red, bloodstained light, as if the eastern shore were afire.

Dawn must be coming again, I thought.  Or what passes for dawn, in these days.

I reached down into the water and unfastened my canteen from my belt.  I drank until the canteen was emptied, then dipped the canteen in the River and filled it up again.  This too I drained, and only when I had filled the canteen again did I cork it and hook it to my belt once more.

I leaned back again and closed my eyes.  I could almost believe for one instant that the foe was not closing in about us, that the sun was not swallowed by darkness and that we were not fighting for Gondor’s very life. 

For that moment there seemed nothing real in all Middle Earth save the River, and the feeling it brought to me of sheer peace and happiness.

I opened my eyes and looked over at Svip, who watched me with a hesitant smile.

“Svip,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me back to life.”

He nodded solemnly.  “Thank you for coming back to life,” he answered.

And that, I told myself, is all the peace and happiness you’re going to get.  I sat up and said, “Since we are alive, we had better go see what crisis we’re in at the moment.”

I stood and made my dripping way up the stairs.  Svip scurried beside me.  We walked onto the pier, taking the final step back into reality.

The carts that had been drawn up in front of the south warehouse were gone.  I saw what must be the last two of them pulling out through the Harlond Gate.  One was a rough farm wagon stacked so high with barrels that I could only catch a glimpse of the Man driving the wagon and the horse that drew it.  Leashed to the back of the wagon was the little dog cart, not large enough to warrant devoting a horse to pulling it.

Men were hauling two empty carts toward the warehouse, out from one of the alleyways of Waterfront.  Another two wagons were just drawing in through the gate.  Their drivers halted them in the large open place before the gate, and with loud and some rather blasphemous greetings Men hastened toward them, starting to unload the wagons’ contents almost before they had come to a stop.  I blinked in surprise as I saw what they were unloading: armloads of wooden planks, wooden cart wheels and a few metal wheel rims, and a bizarre assortment of wooden household items, including a couple of tables, a massive armoire that took eight Men to heave it out of the wagon, and an elaborate and expensive-looking polished wooden bookcase.

Six Men stood near us on the dock, in earnest discussion.  One of them, who from his bulk could only be Ivarr, glanced over and spotted us.  He called out, “My Lord.  Are you well?”

“Well indeed,” I replied, striding over to them with Svip hastening at my heels.

The group consisted of Ivarr, Cirion, and four other Men who were known to me: Rađobard Son of Baldir, Leader of the Merchant Adventurers’ Guild, Rađobard’s son of fourteen or thereabouts, who I remembered was named Boromir, the scrawny and hawk-nosed Nikolai Son of Grimhir, bartender in Ivarr’s tavern, and Athelhelm Son of Athelbert, of the Carters’ and Wheelwrights’ Guild. 

The guildsmen and the bartender, I noted, must all have been labouring in the same cause as their fellows who were now heaving furniture out of wagons. Most at least had their sleeves rolled up, and young Boromir Son of Rađobard had what seemed to be wood chips and sawdust stuck in his tunic and his hair.  Rađobard himself, who was never seen clad in less than the richest silks and velvets, had gone so far as to doff his tunic and roll up his shirtsleeves, and I thought it must be the first time on record that Rađobard had appeared in public without a Dwarven kings’ ransom in jewellery about his person.

All six of them bowed or saluted me.  Ivarr was still in high good humour, beaming at me as though he’d created me himself.  Nikolai, Athelhelm and Rađobard all grinned in marvelling delight, while my young namesake stared at me with widened eyes and open mouth as though I were Elendil himself, not the thoroughly soaked and dripping Captain General. 

“My Lord,” declared Rađobard, “now I know that we will win.  Not that I had much doubt of it before,” he added, “but surely your return is a token of our coming victory.”

I bowed in answer to his flowery speech, then smiled ruefully as I noticed the puddle spreading over the dock around my feet.  “I hope you are right, Rađobard,” I said, “though I fear I do not look like much of a token of victory.”  I continued, “For those of you who have not yet met him, this is my comrade-in-arms Svip of Anduin.  Now tell me: where do we stand here?”

Ivarr reported, “My Lord, we are moving as much as possible of the contents of the Harlond warehouses into the City.  By all accounts we may be facing a long siege, and if so, I need hardly tell you that hunger will be as fell a foe as all the Orcs that Mordor can fling at us.  We have substantial stores of grain, flour and other foodstuffs here, enough that it is worth a few risks to ensure they remain in our hands rather than the enemy’s.” 

He paused, then went on, frowning, “some of us in the Council wished to begin this operation as soon as word came of the enemy massing at Osgiliath, but there have been difficulties.  All but a handful of the City’s carts are gone, bearing the women and children southward to safety.  Nearly everything that has wheels has been devoted to that effort.  The last of them left three days since – for which the Valar be thanked,” he added, “but it left us little means of carrying the supplies, unless we chose to move them out strapped to our horses, two barrels at a time.”

Ivarr paused again, eyeing me with a suddenly troubled, embarrassed expression.  He said, “Several of us argued in the Council that the evacuation of the warehouses should be among our highest priorities, that all available manpower should be set to constructing new carts under the Carters and Wheelwrights’ direction, and to moving the supplies to the City in whatever vehicles we could build or find.  It was days in debate.  Many yet refused to accept the seriousness of the threat, or were loath to devote their resources to any effort not directly in the service of their own guilds.  And the Lord your father – all respect to him, My Lord, but I fear he has not been fully himself since the news of your death.  Several sessions of the Council he did not attend at all, and when he did attend, he took not as active a role as is his wont, nor would he make any pronouncement to end the debate in one way or the other.  It was only when your letter arrived yesterday, My Lord, that he seemed recalled to himself.” 

Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers nodded.  “He placed Master Ivarr and me in joint command of the evacuation,” Rađobard said, “and Master Athelhelm in command of building the carts.  The Lord Steward put out a decree requesting all remaining citizens to donate building material for the construction of the carts.  He has decreed that ten Men at the least from each guild must aid in the operation, and he has set the City Guard to collecting any cart-building materials that may be donated.  A platoon of the Guard, as well, he has sent to patrol the wall here, to keep watch for any enemy approach and cover our retreat if necessary.”

I nodded, studying the guildleaders’ expressions.  All of them were frowning now, and it took little insight to tell that the operation was not proceeding entirely as they would wish.  I did a rough mental calculation and asked, “how many Men have you here?  Unless many are working elsewhere, I have not seen enough to account for ten Men from each guild.”

“No, My Lord,” Athelhelm the Carter answered grimly.  “Some, it is true, are driving the carts to and from the City, and unloading the supplies into the warehouses there.  But several guilds have sent far from their full quotas.  The Healers’ Guild requested and received an exemption, on the grounds that they were needed more in preparing the Houses of Healing.  Our guild agreed to make up the quota for the Healers.  But some of the other guilds were still trying to argue their way out of the decree when we left the City yesterday.  For all we know, they are still at it.”

“They will regret it when they must answer to my father,” I assured him.  “And perhaps when we are besieged and our supplies are running out, they will regret it all the more.” 

I frowned up at the Rammas wall, where barely visible to me, the City Guards kept watch for our foe. 

One portion of my mind told me to order all of these Men back to the City at once, to declare that they had saved all the provisions they could and we must not risk their lives by lingering here any longer.  The nightmare scene we had left at the Causeway Forts did not give me hope that we had long to wait before Sauron’s hordes spread across the plains.

Yet another voice within me argued that these guildsmen were right, that every barrel, bag and crate of foodstuffs we saved here was as vital a weapon against Sauron as any fighting Man of Minas Tirith.  If we did find ourselves sustaining a drawn-out siege, we would find these supplies worth any risks that we had taken for them.

I asked, “No sign of the enemy has been observed here?  No movement across the River?”

“None, My Lord,” replied Ivarr, “not yet.  Though,” he added, “in this filthy murk it will be hard to tell.”

“We’ll be able to tell when they are shooting at us,” observed Rađobard.

“I trust that they will be able to tell when we’re shooting at them,” I returned.  “Very well.  Cirion, how many Men have we brought with us?”

“One hundred and six in all, My Lord,” the Ranger Captain reported, “counting the Lord Svip and yourself.”

“Let the twelve most keen-sighted among them be sent to join the Men on the wall.  The rest of us will join in the efforts here.”  I bowed to the guild leaders and said, “gentlemen, my Men and I are at your disposal.”

The day crept into its black, crippled dawn.  We who had ridden from the Forts and the milecastles volunteered where our talents led us best, in cart-building under Athelhelm’s command or in loading the carts. 

I had no doubt that I would be of greater use heaving barrels than in trying my hand at carpentry.  Ere long I was working alongside our old comrades Cirion, Finn and Buslai, among a group sent to begin emptying the Great North Warehouse. 

Alone of our travelling companions from Lilla Howe, young Holgar volunteered for cart-building duty.  The young Man commented that he’d built plenty of fishing boats over the years, and that carts couldn’t be that different. 

After inquiring worriedly if I would be all right without him, Svip appointed himself as Holgar’s apprentice.  But with every hour that passed, Svip would run to check on me, and report excitedly upon his discoveries in the field of cart-building.

We laboured through the morn, with no sign of any enemy approaching, either from across the River or at our back across the Pelennor Fields.  Several times in that first sickly daylight, the guards on the wall spotted red flashes through the haze, always from the direction of the Causeway Forts.

I thought, when a series of these flashes was reported to me, Faramir is still holding the Forts. 

Thoughts of my brother hit me with pride and with sickening fear, jumbled together as one.  And the unexpected thought came to me that perhaps I did not wish to be the father of any son who lived into adulthood, after all. 

It was almost more than I could stand, knowing that my little brother fought for his life and the life of our country – and that he fought without me at his side.  I thought, How hard must it be to bear the knowledge that one’s son stands upon the field of battle, and not to know if he will live to return?

I told myself as I heaved sacks of flour down from the warehouse loft, it will be no harder for you to bear it than for any other who has dwelt upon this Middle Earth, since the Doom of Men began.

Late in the forenoon, when Svip made his hourly report, he told me that we had a new source of cart-building materials.  There was too long a delay between the departure of carts leaving the Harlond, and the return of the carts from the City with new lumber, wheels and other hardware.  To make up for that delay, Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers had donated to the building effort the contents of his ship the Eärendil, moored here at the Harlond dock.  Carts were being constructed now from the no-doubt priceless furniture out of Rađobard’s own cabin, the bunks from the crew’s quarters, the very structure of the cabins themselves, even some of the planks that made up the deck.  Svip told me that Rađobard said he hoped they could avoid demolishing the ship entirely, but that he would sooner rip it to pieces himself than to run out of building materials and admit defeat.

About the noon, as near as I could judge, Rađobard himself sought me out.  The guild leader looked much the worse for wear, as he twisted one of his gauntlets in his hands, and chewed upon the end of his normally immaculate moustache.  At first I thought it must be the sacrifice of his ship that troubled him, but soon I judged that his trouble had a broader source.

“My Lord,” Rađobard began, making an effort to hold the gauntlet still and to leave off gnawing his moustache, “the carts are falling behind.  They cannot return from the City fast enough, nor can we build them fast enough, to make up for the backlog in supplies moved out from the warehouses.”

“We will never save all the supplies, Rađobard, no matter how we wish to,” I told him.  “It’s as well if we resign ourselves to that, sooner rather than later.”  As he nodded, and the moustache-chewing commenced again, I inquired, “does Athelhelm request more Men be placed on cart-building duty?”

“No, for the building materials are limited as well – unless we are to tear apart the very buildings of Waterfront.  Already the Eärendil is stripped bare, and Master Ivarr has sacrificed every table and bench from the Orc’s Head.”

A sacrifice indeed, I thought, with melancholy humour.  One bench in particular in the Orc’s Head common room had been graced by my lordly backside more than a few times over the past decades.  Ivarr had made a point of religiously saving that bench for me, since the night near to thirty years before when I had fallen asleep beneath it.  It was a toss-up whose mortification was greater the next morning; mine at having proved unable to hold my wine, or Ivarr’s on discovering that the raw recruit he’d let sleep off the drink beneath a bench was the Steward’s Heir, taken out for a night on the town by his elder fellow officers.

“My Lord,” Rađobard was continuing, “I have consulted with Ivarr and Athelhelm.  We request that you authorise the seizure of property here in Waterfront, for use in the building effort.”

An image sprang into my mind of the army of clerks who would be kept busy for weeks sorting out reparation claims – particularly if the seizures should extend to Minas Tirith itself.  Yet, I reminded myself, both clerks and potential claimants were liable to be slain in the dark days that faced us.  With that in mind, any effort to better our position seemed worth whatever mountains of legal claims it might generate, in the event of our City’s survival.

“Very well,” I said.  “Begin with what can be found without breaking into any locked property; some of the smaller boats at the docks might be transformed into carts without much difficulty.  But you have authorisation to break into any locked building on the Harlond, if we run out of other options.”

“Aye, My Lord.”  Rađobard saluted and made his departure.

As the three Rangers, several other workers and I were hauling flour sacks out of the warehouse and stacking them in one of the last waiting carts, Buslai Son of Brynjolf exclaimed cheerfully to the company in general, “Valar, it will be good to feel City streets beneath my feet again!  What do you think you’ll you do first when we get to Minas Tirith?  If the Enemy ever lets us have a moment off-duty,” he added.

Finn Son of Thorstein paused a moment with a wistful smile, before heaving the next sack up to Buslai where he stood in the cart.  “I don’t know,” said Finn.  “Simbelmynë and the boys won’t be there, I suppose; they’ll have headed south in the evacuation – or, I hope they won’t be there.  I’ll have a few words with her if she’s been stubborn enough to remain in the City with Mordor on the march toward us.”  He smiled and shook his head, then went on, “I’ll go see Telemnar the Baker, down the street, I suppose; get the latest gossip of the Second Level and have one of his cheese and onion pasties.  What will you do?” Finn asked Buslai in turn.

“Go see my father,” Buslai said.  “If he’s not let himself be talked into leaving, but I’m sure he’ll not have.  He’ll be planning on knocking out a few Orcs’ brains with his cane, knowing him.”  Buslai grinned.  “This time I’ll have some good Lord Boromir stories to tell him, for a change.  Sir,” he went on, turning to me while he stood there with a massive sack of flour over each arm, “if it’s not too much trouble, some time when you’re not busy, my father would be ecstatic if you’d come visit him.  I know he’ll have been grieving over the reports of your death.  Seeing you alive would mean more to him than anything else in the world.”

I thought that there was one thing at least which would likely mean more to him, and that was seeing his own son alive.  But I said, “I’d be happy to visit him.  I’ll tell him of your heroic adventures, Buslai, so he can have some new exploits to brag of to the neighbours.”

Buslai blushed, and quickly turned to heave the sacks onto a half-completed stack.  “You don’t have to do that, really, My Lord,” he said.  “The neighbours probably bolt their doors and hide from him whenever he starts talking of me already.”

I laughed at that and asked Captain Cirion as I turned to grab another flour sack, “what of you, Captain?  What will your first actions be when we’re off duty in the City?”

“I’ll have a drink,” Cirion said succinctly.  “Or several.  Which reminds me,” he added.  “Will you give me leave for a few minutes, My Lord?  I have another duty to accomplish here in Waterfront.”

“Leave granted,” I told him.

We stacked the cart perilously high, until we finally had to admit that any more sacks would just tumble off it along the way to the City.  I sent Buslai on a reconnaissance patrol around the docks, to see if any more empty carts were available, and the rest of us sat down on heaped up flour sacks for a few moments’ break.

Just as I was about to decree that we had rested long enough and we should go find out what other useful work might be done, Cirion returned, along with Ivarr, Nikolai the bartender, and another young Man who I recognised as working at the Orc’s Head.  The Ranger carried a bottle and two goblets, Ivarr was lugging a large barrel clutched to his chest, and Nikolai and the other Man both pushed wheelbarrows, laden with two more barrels and all manner of victuals and crockery.

Ivarr set his barrel down on the dock before us, and he and his two workers commenced piling a pie, several roast fowl, a few legs of mutton and an enormous round of cheese on top of the barrel.  Adding some tankards to the improvised table, Ivarr held forth in his booming tones, “help yourselves, gentlemen, compliments of the Orc’s Head.  There is much that we’ll not have the time to move to the City, and I’d rather our Men got the benefit of it than those damned hounds of Mordor.”

The Men gave three cheers for Ivarr and his bounty, and clustered about the barrel.  Nikolai and his comrade set out again with their still overflowing wheelbarrows, but Ivarr remained to tap the barrel himself and to fill the tankards.

“Best Tumladen ale,” he declared, as he handed the tankards around.  “Here’s health and strong arms to us and confusion to the Enemy!”

Cirion, meanwhile, had unstoppered his bottle, which I saw was a respectably aged Calenhad whisky.  He poured into one of the goblets he had brought, and handed it to me.

“Cheers, My Lord,” he said.  “I remembered that I owe you a drink.  We said at Lilla Howe that the one who took longer swimming through the flood owed the other a drink in Minas Tirith.”

I smiled and accepted the proffered goblet.  “We’re not in Minas Tirith yet,” I pointed out.

“True,” he nodded, pouring a drink for himself.  “But I figured, better take the chance while we can.  I’d hate to get slain before paying off my bets.”

Cirion, ever the practical old campaigner, re-stoppered the whisky bottle and stashed it in the satchel he wore at his belt.  Then we raised our glasses.

“Gondor,” I said.

“Gondor,” he repeated.  We drank, draining the goblets in one shot.

“Well,” observed Ivarr the innkeeper, with a smile of grim satisfaction, “that is one bottle at least the Orcs will not get their muzzles on.  See that you don’t get killed,” he added to Cirion, “that’s expensive stuff, I don’t want them plundering it off your corpse.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cirion answered dryly. 

I put my goblet down on the barrel and tore a chunk off one of the legs of mutton.  While I was munching on it, Ivarr said, “I believe we have run out of carts again.  While we’re waiting, My Lord, I’d be obliged if you’d stop by the Orc’s Head.  There’s something I think you might wish to see.”

I asked with a bemused smile, “You don’t owe me a drink as well, do you?”

“Not that I know of,” the innkeeper answered.  “And I’m not trying to dun you for payment either, My Lord; your latest tab was paid promptly as usual.”

“Good thing, too,” said I, “since I currently have not tuppence to my name.”

Ivarr and I set out along the familiar alleyways leading to the Orc’s Head.  The severed head on the garishly-painted tavern sign greeted us with its usual impotent glare, one visible eye scowling out from a mask of blood. 

I wondered if that sign would fill the foe with extra malice toward Ivarr’s tavern, when they came to occupy Waterfront.  Or whether they would be so hell-bent on general destruction, that one painting of a slain Orc would make no difference to them.

The common room of the Orc’s Head, illumined only by the dusky light that crept through the windows, had a melancholy look about it.  Robbed of its benches and tables and with none of the patrons who normally propped up the bar at all hours, the tavern seemed only the faintest ghost of itself.

Ivarr heaved a sigh, loud and hollow in the unaccustomed silence. 

“Well,” he said. “It may still be that we’ll all meet again.  The Nameless One has not beat us yet.”

“He has not,” I agreed firmly.  “And if the tavern is lost, we will build you another on its ashes.  You will call time at the bar here again, that I promise you.”

“Aye, well,” Ivarr said gruffly, “perhaps the Southrons will drink so deep of my cellars, they’ll have too vile a headache for them to besiege Minas Tirith.”

“You could poison the kegs,” I suggested, “only then they’d be of no use to us when we return here for our victory celebration.”

The innkeeper drew forth his handkerchief and blew his nose, then he strode over to the bar.  I followed, smiling as I was able to discern in the faint light the small, gold-lettered plaque on the back wall that read “Purveyors of Fine Ales, Wines and Spirits, By Appointment to His Grace the Captain-General of Gondor”.

Ivarr said, as he walked behind the bar, “you have many friends here, My Lord.  We may not be Citadel or garrison, but tears were shed and glasses drained in your honour when word of your loss reached us.”

“I could wish for no better monument, Ivarr,” I told him quietly.

He paused, then turned to light one of the lamps that hung above the bar.  “Aye, well,” he went on, “speaking of monuments.  Everyone wanted to leave some record that they remembered you, and there were many of our people here who did not feel it their place to write in condolence to the Lord Steward, or leave any token of remembrance at your house or at the Citadel.  So they left what token they could, here.  It isn’t much, My Lord.  Everyone wished they could do more.  But all gave from the love and fealty in their hearts.”

With a strange expression half of embarrassment and half of pride, he nodded his head toward an assortment of items piled at one end of the bar.

“Good heavens,” I whispered, as I followed his glance.  I walked to the end of the bar for a closer look.  As I gazed, I felt my throat constrict in a mixture of gratitude, amazement, and regret – regret that my passing had caused such grief, to people who in most cases I barely knew, and who I’d likely not recognise if I ran into them at any place other than Ivarr’s tavern.

“Valar,” I whispered. “Oh, Valar.”

On the heavy square pillar at the end of the bar hung one of the little portraits of me that could be purchased at every other stall in the marketplace of Minas Tirith, painted in the hundreds every year for the tourists from Lossarnach and Lebennin, Lamedon and Dol Amroth.  Painted on wood or leather, some with a reasonable resemblance to their subject and some identifiable only by the name in gold paint blazoned at the bottom, the portraits of me were available by the cartload, along with paintings of my father, my brother, the White Tower of Ecthelion, Mount Mindolluin, and the Court of the Fountain.

This one, about six inches tall and painted on wood, had I thought a closer resemblance to me than most that I had seen.  And beneath it on the bar were two sealed whisky bottles and one of White Tree wine, a pile of coins, a bouquet of dried flowers, an arrow, two daggers, a couple of cloak clasps and a jewelled belt buckle, a flowered hair ribbon, a small silver ring, a miniature Horn of Gondor on a chain such as can be bought in the same market stalls as the souvenir paintings, and a child’s cloth doll, of a black-haired Man clad in a tunic of black and silver.

I carefully picked up the doll, touching a finger to its black yarn hair.  “Who gave the doll?” I asked, feeling torn between laughter and tears.

“That was Melilot,” Ivarr said, naming his youngest daughter of seven years or thereabouts.  “She got her mother to help her make it.  I’m not sure that you can tell, My Lord, but it’s meant to be your father.  Melilot said -- ” he stopped to clear his throat, then he went on quietly, “she said that if you’d gone beyond the Spheres of the World you must be missing your father, so she wanted to give you that doll to keep you company.”

“Valar,” I whispered again.  “Valar, Ivarr.  I don’t know what to say.” 

As I gently set the doll back on the bar I managed a smile, albeit a rather shaky one.  “I suppose,” I said, struggling to keep some lightness in my tone, “if there’s any place where it’s acceptable for a Man to break down in tears, then standing at a bar is that place.”

Ivarr gave a gruff bark of a laugh.  “It would not be the first time this bar has witnessed tears, My Lord, that much is certain.”  He cleared his throat once more.  “I don’t know what you’d prefer done with all this, My Lord … it’s yours of course, if you wish it, or we can keep it here – but I’ll take it with me to the City when we leave, that is, unless you want to take it with you.  I’ll not leave it to be despoiled by – those who will be here when we are gone.”

“Thank you, Ivarr,” I told him.  “I’d be honoured if you would keep it.  Of course people may want their gifts back, now that I’m not dead.  But if they don’t, then the Orc’s Head is where all of this belongs.  Although,” the thought occurred to me, “do you think Melilot will be hurt if I don’t keep the doll?”

“I don’t know, My Lord,” he said.  “You can ask her when they come home.”

He located a satchel hanging from a peg on the wall, and started carefully loading it with the portrait and the gifts.  After a moment’s thought, he took the “By Appointment to the Captain-General” plaque from the wall and placed it in the satchel as well.

As Ivarr put out the lamp and we turned to head for the door, a slight, shortish figure barrelled inside.  In the dim light it took me a moment to recognise the Merchant Adventurer’s son, Boromir Son of Rađobard.

“My Lord!” the youth cried.  “Begging your pardon, My Lord.  My father – I mean, Master Rađobard requests your presence in all haste, at the northmost warehouse.”

Voices raised in anger reached our ears as soon as we stepped out the door of the Orc’s Head.  Young Boromir set out down the alleyway at a dead run, and Ivarr and I sped after him, although Ivarr’s progress was hampered somewhat by his care not to jolt too badly the satchel he held in his arms.

The boy skidded to a halt as we emerged from the alley, and I barely avoided running into him.  Before us stood a three storey warehouse bearing above its doors the banner of the Weavers and Tailors’ Guild.  Drawn up to the open door were a large cart and one of the elaborate canopied wains that the guildleaders ride in their ceremonial processions.  And between the warehouse and the alley stood two lines of Men, ranged against each other as though facing off for battle. 

With their backs to the warehouse were the Weavers’ and Tailors’ guildleader Minastan Son of Arasstuil and a dozen or so of his guildsmen.  Facing them stood a band of about an equal number, including Rađobard, several of his guildsmen, and three of my own comrades: Buslai, Holgar, and Svip.  Swords were drawn on both sides, and I saw that Svip had his crossbow cocked and aimed at Guildleader Minastan’s heart.

“Hold!” I bellowed, striding up to the combatants.  I glowered from Minastan to Rađobard and back again, then yelled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?  Have we not enough enemies, that we must run about slitting each other’s throats?”

“My Lord,” the guildleaders said.  Both bowed.  Minastan’s face, I observed, was turning an intriguing shade of crimson.

“Put up your swords!  Now!”  As the Men on both sides reluctantly obeyed, and Svip lowered his crossbow, I scowled again from one guildleader to the other.  The two still eyed each other as though their dearest wish were to get their fingers about the other Man’s throat.

I snapped, “I trust one of you intends to give me an explanation of this?”

Minastan jumped in, “My Lord, Master Rađobard set his rabble to assault my guildsmen.  His Men attempted to seize our horses and wagons, and when we denied them, they drew swords upon us.”

Rađobard shot back, “My dear sir, I informed you civilly of Lord Boromir’s decree authorising the seizure of property, and requested that you and your Men bring your wagons to the Great North Warehouse and assist us there.  You saw fit to berate me in unrepeatable terms, and one of your guildsmen took it upon himself to strike a Merchant Adventurer in the face.  You and your Men are in defiance of Lord Boromir’s decree and are standing against the welfare of Minas Tirith!”

“Enough,” I said. “Minastan, may I inquire why none of your Men have been here before now to aid in emptying the warehouses?”

“That is why we are here now, My Lord,” the guildleader replied.  “Up until now our Men have been assisting with unloading the carts in Minas Tirith.  Some of our guildsmen still labour at that, and we have come now to empty our warehouse, as the Lord your father decreed.”

“I do not believe that the Lord my father decreed each guild should empty its own warehouse.  He decreed that supplies crucial to the survival of our City be moved, in as large amounts as possible.  I would be much surprised, Master Minastan, if the Lord Steward considers yards of silk to be among our crucial supplies.”

Off to my right, one of Rađobard’s Men jeered, “Mayhap they mean to smother the enemy in fabric,” and another chortled, “Bless them, lads, they just want to make sure we’re dressed better than the enemy!”

Several replies from the Weavers and Tailors died as Minastan glared his Men into silence.  He turned back to me and said stiffly, “I ask your pardon, My Lord, if I have misinterpreted the Lord Steward’s decree.”

“You are pardoned,” I said.  “I regret the necessity of leaving your stockpile at the mercy of the enemy.  If you had acted days ago when the threat first became known, perhaps that necessity might have been averted.”

Minastan bowed again, looking as though he’d swallowed something decidedly unpleasant.  I continued, “Now, Master Minastan, you will be good enough to move your vehicles to the door of the Great North Warehouse.  Since you have, as you say, Men working in the City to fill your guild’s quota, you and your Men may return to the City if you choose.  But your horses and wagons remain.  Or you may remain here and help to move the supplies that may save Minas Tirith.”

“Aye, My Lord,” Minastan answered bitterly.  “We will stay, of course.”

Two of Minastan’s Men walked over to take hold of the horses’ bridles and lead them and the wagons they pulled toward the main dockside street of Waterfront.  Their fellow guildmembers fell into step behind the wagons. 

The Merchant Adventurers and their allies stepped aside to make room for the Weavers and Tailors’ procession.  Only my presence, I am sure, kept the two parties’ tongues in check as the Weavers and Tailors stalked scowlingly past.

We watched until the last of them passed out of sight.  Then I said to the remaining faction, “perhaps we can return to work.  And you’ll all oblige me if we don’t kill anyone until we encounter the enemy.”

Various sheepish “aye, My Lord”s answered me, as the Men betook themselves back toward the Harlond’s main warehouse district.  

“My Lord, I do beg your pardon – ” Master Rađobard began.

“It doesn’t matter,” I assured him.  “Just see that it doesn’t happen again.  I don’t want to be the one explaining a load of dead guildsmen to my father.”

Rađobard grinned and bowed.  “Yes, My Lord.”

Ivarr the innkeeper shook his head and remarked, without much sympathy in his tone, “poor Master Minastan.  He’ll not be elected guildleader next year, now that he has failed to save his guild’s stock.”

I observed grimly, “He’d not be elected once it became known that he’d incurred the wrath of the Captain-General, either.  No one wants a guildleader whose every bill may be blocked in Council the moment he brings it.”  Not that I’d ever had the time or inclination to target a particular guildleader and block all his bills in Council; I was never in the City long enough at a time to really pull that off, even had I wanted to.  But it had always made a valuable threat.

One by one Ivarr, Rađobard and their guildsmen departed, leaving only the two Rangers, Svip, and me.  Svip was staring at his feet.

I knelt beside him.  “Svip,” I said.  “Do me a favour.  Whatever you see the Men around you doing, don’t kill any Men of Minas Tirith.  Save your shots for the enemy.”

“I’m sorry,” Svip whispered.

“I know,” I told him.  “It’s not your fault.  You haven’t been around us for that long, it’s only natural that you’d do what you see others doing.  But sometimes Men fight those that we should not.  To be on the safe side, only fire at Orcs and people trying to kill you.”

Svip nodded and put away his crossbow bolt.  I stood, eyeing the abashed-looking Buslai and Holgar. 

“As for you gentlemen,” I said, “in the future I suggest you try to break up this sort of fight between civilians.  And if that is not possible, at least do not take sides in it yourselves.” 

“Yes, My Lord,” the Rangers chorused.

I had to grin at their hangdog expressions.  “I’m not blaming you,” I said.  “Those Tailors do need a good arse-kicking.  But it’s not your job to do it.  You’re just lucky that Captain Cirion wasn’t here to witness this.”

“Yes, Sir!” Holgar said emphatically.  Buslai shuddered.

“You’ve got that right, My Lord,” he said, lifting his eyes skyward.

In record time, the Weavers’ and Tailors’ cart and wain left for Minas Tirith, loaded to overflowing with bags of grain and flour.  If a few of the other guildsmen were overzealous in loading Master Minastan’s wain and managed to tear off most of its velvet canopy, I made sure that I was looking the other way when it happened.

Two of the Weavers and Tailors left to drive their vehicles to the City.  But Minastan and the rest of his Men remained, working in grim silence to stack the rest of the flour supplies at the warehouse door in waiting for any empty carts.

Providing those carts became the work of increasing numbers of us, as the afternoon crept on.  Whether we had any pretension to carpentry skills or no, all of us worked in the main square before the Harlond Gate, hammering planks together and rigging axles and wheels onto anything vaguely cart-like, including all four of the Eärendil’s dinghies, six fishermen’s boats, and the twelve four-poster beds lugged downstairs from the guest rooms of the Orc’s Head.

It was a task of some difficulty to convince the horses in the stables of the Harlond Garrison to pull these outlandish constructions.  The majority of the horses stabled there were not draughthorses at any rate, and would have objected to drawing any cart, let alone the poorly balanced and awkward efforts we had created. 

I wished that we had Men of the Rohirrim among us to persuade the horses – although knowing them, the Rohirrim might cause as much trouble as the horses, in complaining that such noble steeds were never meant to draw makeshift wagons cobbled together out of beds. 

Gladly I left others to the task of sweet-talking the horses, although it did occur to me to wonder if we’d have horses enough left on which to make our retreat, when we finally came to abandon this operation.

It did not matter, I told myself.  We would get all of our Men out of here, if we had to set three Men on each horse, and if the last batch of wagons had to have more Men piled into them than supplies.

Each time one of our existing vehicles returned, most of us left off cart-building.  We would unload the wheels and hardware sent to us by the Carters and Wheelwrights in the City, and in exchange would throw in as many provisions from the warehouses as the cart could hold.  Then the driver and his long-suffering horse would set forth once more, and we would hurl ourselves back into our carpentry efforts.

The face of Master Athelhelm the Carter bore an increasingly aggrieved expression with each new monstrosity we created.  He declared, with vigour, that none of these patchwork affairs deserved the name of cart.

“They’ll be famed in generations to come,” Ivarr the innkeeper announced grandiloquently, in response to one of Athelhelm’s despairing groans.  “In future days Men will sing of our great struggle.  All in Gondor will know the Ballad of the Cart With Four Unmatched Wheels That Was Made Out of Ivarr Son of Yngvar’s Bed.”

Athelhelm snorted.  “I hope they will sing of the bonfire I’ll make of these travesties, when the war is over and our good carts come home to Minas Tirith.”

As Ivarr opened his mouth to make some riposte, a trumpet call rang out from our guards upon the wall: the call that signalled an enemy advance.

“Bloody hell,” I groaned.  I leapt to my feet, abandoning the axle clamp that I’d been hammering onto the sawn-down leg of one of Ivarr’s beds.

I stared into the dusk, across the River.  There seemed to be no movement yet upon Anduin’s edge.  But as I fought to see through the dark I thought I could indeed see motion beyond, in the shadows of the far shore. 

It looked for a moment as though the dark horizon itself was in motion, as a line of Men or something else advanced steadily toward the riverbank.  And as I stared, I saw to the southern extent of their line three larger forms, massive dark shapes as though three many-storied buildings had grown legs, risen from their foundations and were lumbering now toward us.

“My Lord!”  A young Ranger of Cirion’s command raced up to me and saluted.  “Sir, report from the wall.  Troops observed across the River.  We estimate five hundred of them, approaching the riverbank.  There seem to be more beyond, but we cannot be sure, or give any reckoning of them.  Also five Mûmakil observed, three in the front line and two further back.  The troops appear to be Men.  We have not seen any Orcs in the front line; further back, it is too dark to be sure.”

“Thank you,” I told him.  I looked swiftly about, at the tense, expectant faces of the Men around me.

Svip, who had been clambering around with a hammer making sure that all nails in our constructions were properly pounded home, jumped down from one skeletal cart and hurried to my side.

All about us were strewn the makings of partly finished carts.  I saw the structures of ten vehicles, at a glance, only two of which looked particularly near to completion.

“Athelhelm, Ivarr,” I commanded, “report.  Where do we stand with these carts?  What is the status of the warehouses?”

Athelhelm scowled at the scattered cart pieces.  “With the numbers we have, it will be an hour before all of these carts here are completed.  Then there should be …” he paused for a moment in calculation, “at least a dozen carts that we can expect to be on their way back to us from the City.”

Ivarr put in, “The North and South Warehouses are fairly well emptied, My Lord, but we have made no inroads into the warehouse of the Harlond Garrison.  If you authorise the potential use of the army’s supplies for the City, they could be valuable indeed.  The Garrison storehouse holds much dried foodstuffs, that would serve us well in case of a siege.”

I nodded.  “Very well.  We will divide our efforts.  Set all civilians to completing these carts and loading each as it becomes ready, with the supplies from the Garrison storehouse.  Once each cart is filled, let it depart for the City.  Make no return trips, and do not begin work on any carts beyond these. 

“Captain Cirion, we will divide our Men between the wall and the riverfront.  I want another twenty sent to the wall; give my order that the catapults be brought to bear upon the enemy.  The rest of us will seek cover dockside, and add our fire to that from the wall.  All catapult crews and archers may fire at will.  Have particular care of the Mûmakil, and let none reach our shore.  They may be carrying explosives, as they did at the Causeway.  Above all else, we must hold their forces from crossing the River until the carts have gone.”

“Aye, My Lord.”

As Men scattered to obey my orders, I scowled again briefly at the shadowy host beyond the water.  For a moment I wondered if I would not do better just to order Waterfront abandoned now, and give up all thought of saving any further supplies.

At least, I thought, I may do something to improve our odds.

I turned back to the guildleaders, who had already thrown themselves back at the ramshackle cart pieces around us. 

I commanded, “get me paper, pen and ink.”

“Boromir,” Master Rađobard said, startling me for an instant until I connected that he was speaking to his son.  “Run and get my writing desk.  It’s in my saddlebag.”

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran for the gate.  While awaiting his return, I lent my aid to Rađobard in fitting wheels to the axle he’d just attached to the last of the Eärendil’s dinghies. 

Ere long, young Boromir Son of Rađobard raced back to us, a gleaming culumalda wood travellers’ desk clutched in his arms.

“Give me that,” Rađobard ordered impatiently, as the boy fumbled to open the desk.  After a few moments longer of Rađobard struggling with the latch, the desk sprang open.  The guildleader rummaged within it, digging out a bottle of ink, a golden pen, and sheaf of paper, all of which he thrust at his son.  “Give those to Lord Boromir.  Hurry!”

The boy cast me a panicked look, as he struggled not to drop the stationary his father was piling on him.

“I’ll use the desk too, if you don’t mind,” I said.  “And if you’ve sealing wax in there, I’d be obliged if you’d get it ready.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Rađobard replied, scowling at his harried son.  It needed only a slight bit more juggling of desk, paper and writing supplies before I was sat upon the dock, the writing desk resting on my knees and an empty sheet of paper before me.

Svip, hovering nervously beside me, asked, “where do you want me to go?  Can I go to the riverfront with the others?”

“Wait for me,” I told him.  “I’ll take up position at the riverfront; I want you to stay with me.”

Young Boromir set to preparing the sealing wax from his father’s desk, Rađobard hastened back to his boat-cart, and Svip scurried to hammer in a few more nails.  For a blank instant I stared at the waiting paper.  Then I set to writing.

At the top of the sheet I scrawled, “In Haste”.  I launched into a much-abbreviated salutation:

“My Noble Lord and Father: 

“I have reached the Harlond with the Rangers of Captain Cirion’s Company and the milecastle garrisons from the Causeway to the Harlond Gate.  Since early this morning we have assisted with the effort to move supplies to Minas Tirith.

“Within the last minutes we have observed enemy troops massing on the eastern shore.  They appear to be Men, and they have several Mûmakil that they may intend using to aid them in crossing the River.

“We will hold the foe from crossing for as long as may be, and attempt to load and move out all the carts available to us.  I beg, if we have any troops that can be spared from guarding the City, send them here.  Every minute that we hold the enemy back will secure more provisions for our people.

“Your Devoted Son, Boromir.”

Omitting all other standard formalities, I folded the letter, grabbed the stick of sealing wax from young Boromir, and jammed my signet ring down into the dollop of wax.  As I wrote “To the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor” on the letter’s other side, I called, “Rađobard, Ivarr: which of your Men is the swiftest rider?”

“I am, My Lord,” Boromir Son of Rađobard piped up, immediately blushing as all around turned to look at him.

“It is true, My Lord,” his father said, getting up from the cart he’d been working on to stand beside his son.  “He has skill with horses, though I say it who shouldn’t.  And he is light enough that he will not slow the horse down.”

“I won the horse race at the last Yuletide festival, My Lord,” young Boromir added.

I put aside the writing desk and stood up in my turn.  “Very well,” I said.  “Take this letter, and ride with all speed for Minas Tirith.  Deliver the letter into the hands of the Lord Steward himself; you are to give it to none but him.  He may yet be uncertain as to whether my survival is truth, or merely a rumour that many wish to believe.  If he asks you, you can tell him that you yourself have seen me alive.”  I smiled at the boy, who seemed unsure whether to be delighted or terrified.  “You don’t need to worry,” I told him.  “The Lord Steward is probably not going to eat you.”

“Yes, My Lord,” he said, straightening up and trying to look as though he had no thought of being afraid.

I said, “Master Rađobard, you may accompany your son to the stables and assist him in his departure.”  As Rađobard and his son bowed to me, I added, “Mark me in this, young Man.  You are not to return here once your mission is completed.  That is a command.  Remain in the City; there is much you can do to be of use, without returning to add to the number of Men that we must get out of here in time.  Every Man who reaches Minas Tirith alive is a victory to us, and they are victories that I intend to keep.”

“Yes, My Lord,” he said again. 

Rađobard put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, speaking to him in quiet tones as they turned and hastened for the gate. 

“Svip,” I called.  “Ready to go?”

Svip scampered from the cart, set down his hammer, and pulled his crossbow from where he had jammed it in his belt.

I said, “This time I think we’ll have people that you can shoot.”

Svip smiled up at me.  “Good.”

I scanned the riverfront.  Our Men had already scattered along the dockside, finding for themselves relatively sheltered vantage points.  There were archers crouched behind bollards on the jetties, behind empty barrels and crates that had been discarded in moving the supplies, and at the corners of the brightly-painted Customs House that would normally be occupied by the Harlond’s Harbour Master.

Large in my view as I sought a favourable position stood the graceful form of the Eärendil, Rađobard’s unfortunate ship.

I asked Svip, “Is there any deck left on the ship?”

“Oh, yes,” he nodded.  “Rađobard said he wanted to leave the ship usable as long as possible.”

“Good Man, Rađobard,” I murmured.  I turned back to the cart builders.  “Ivarr,” I said, “Svip and I will be on board the Eärendil.  Get word to me when the last cart is loaded.”

“Aye, My Lord!”

“All right then, Svip,” I said.  “Let us find ourselves a nice rathole up on deck.”

I hurried across the dock and up the Eärendil’s gangplank, Svip at my heels.

I had cast only a cursory glance or two at the ransacked ship until that moment.  Now that I truly looked upon it as we reached the deck, I stopped short, giving a whistle of astonishment.

Rađobard Son of Baldir had made mincemeat of his ship.  The superstructures that had graced prow and stern were razed down to the deck.  The forecastle with its crew quarters and kitchen, the crew quarters at the stern and Rađobard’s airy cabin that had occupied the storey above them, all had vanished as though they had never been. 

I remembered the delighted pride with which Rađobard had shown off the Eärendil to me when I dined with him on shipboard five or so years before, when he had first been elected Leader of the Merchant Adventurers’ Guild. 

I thought, Poor Rađobard.  Tearing apart his ship must have felt to him like ripping out a piece of his flesh.

The planks from the centre of the deck had been torn out as well, leaving a perimeter of several planks around the deck’s edge so that one could manoeuvre about the ship without needing to leap from one crossbeam to the next. 

Several Men had already found themselves vantage points crouched along the starboard gunwale, looking out over the River.  As yet there was nothing to fire at, the enemy still too far back in their shadows.  The Men turned and nodded or bowed to us as Svip and I made our way around the ravaged deck.

We took up position near the stern, at a point where the gunwale was at the right height for Svip to be able to set his crossbow atop it and fire with ease.  If I knelt and turned my longbow horizontally to fire, I thought, I should be well enough protected to make it a reasonable spot for us to take our stand.

Now, once again, we had only to wait for the enemy’s move. 

Only this time, I was certain, we would not have as long to wait as I could wish for.

It would be half an hour, I reckoned, before young Boromir reached Minas Tirith.  I thought, Give another fifteen minutes for him to reach the Citadel, and to convince the various guards and attendants that he should indeed be admitted to the Lord Steward’s presence … say fifteen minutes again for troops to be assembled and to set out from the City, and half an hour once more for their ride to the Harlond …

Even in the best eventuality, with no unlooked-for complications such as the boy’s horse throwing a shoe, the guards refusing to admit him to my father, my father suspecting the letter to be a forgery – it was an hour and a half before we could hope to see any reinforcement from Minas Tirith.

Svip hissed in my ear, “I can see two Men by the shore.  Do you see them yet?  I think they’re crawling down to the waterline.  They must be scouts.”

I scowled in frustration, struggling to pinpoint what Svip had seen.  “No,” I said.  “I can’t see them.”  After another moment of staring into the gloom, a sudden hint of movement caught my eye.  “Yes.  There.”

If Svip had not told me they were two Men, I would not have been certain that I even saw them.  They passed in and out of my vision like wraiths of mist.

Svip whispered tensely, “I’m not sure I can shoot far enough to get them.”

“Try it anyway,” I told him.  “I’ll follow your aim.  Perhaps at least we can put a good fright into them.”

I nocked an arrow while Svip loaded and cocked his crossbow.  Crouching close to him, I calculated as best I could what his bolt’s trajectory would translate into for my own shot.

“Fire at will, Svip,” I whispered.

Svip fired.  I loosed my arrow an instant later.

I am not convinced that we hit either of the scouts, but I am certain we succeeded in giving them a fright.  I thought I heard a distant and hastily silenced shout, and a briefly-seen flurry of movement seemed to correspond with the two of them scrambling back up the bank again.

A command was shouted on the Rammas behind us, and a round of arrows burst from the line of defenders along the wall.  Answering shouts sounded across the River.  I could not be sure, but it looked as though a line of Men at the crest of the gently-sloping riverbank moved back a few paces, raising their shields against the barrage of arrows.

“We need more light,” I muttered.  In the day’s false dusk I had lost track entirely of what hour it might be.  But if the rapidly thickening dark could be believed, we were heading in to evening once again. 

I ordered one of Cirion’s Rangers, crouching along the gunwale to my right, “Go to the officer commanding the wall.  Give my order that the catapult crews fire burning shot, that we may see what those fellows are up to.”

“Aye, My Lord!”

An hour, Athelhelm had said it would be, before the carts were completed.  As that hour drew onward, we fired, in the light of the flames that our catapults spewed forth.  We fired at the line of Men ranged against us on Anduin’s shore, who sent back at us volley upon volley. 

Few of their arrows told.  They skidded along the dock, broke against the Rammas wall, and stuck harmlessly in the timber of Rađobard’s ship. 

The darkness must be hampering them even as it did us, granting little chance to hit our defenders in the precise instant when they shifted from cover to take each shot.  And our cartbuilders had hastily shifted their base of operations to behind the South Warehouse, out of sight and range of the enemy archers. 

But our arrows, as well, pierced few of their targets.  The enemy, with practiced speed, had formed themselves into a shield-wall, shieldmen alternating with archers who fired from the shelter of their comrades’ shields.

The fitful firelight showed our foes to be Men of Harad, with the Black Serpent emblem of their king coiling upon each crimson shield.  They were too far from us for the details to be seen, but I knew from past clashes that the maw of each painted serpent would be gaping wide, fangs bared for the kill.

It did not matter, I told myself, if our arrows slew any of them here or not.  We had only to hold them back from the River crossing, until the last of our carts was safely on its way to Minas Tirith. 

The enemy had their own thoughts on that matter.  Thrice in that hour, a detachment of them sallied to the water’s edge leading one of the vast, armoured Mûmakil.  The gigantic beasts dragged behind them what appeared to be massive sledges loaded with coiled rope, wooden rafts, and other bits of equipment that I could not identify in the brief glimpses I had of them. 

Plain enough, they intended building more makeshift bridges such as they had used against us at Osgiliath.  Each time, they attempted unloading their rafts, while the main force of our fire seared down upon them.  Archers and catapult crews alike, we concentrated our fire upon the Mûmakil’s minders, until each time the Men gave up the struggle and herded their monstrous charges back out of our range.

As the third such sortie pulled back, amid yells of derision from our side of the River, Svip cried out to me, “Boromir!  They’re doing something else!”

I paused in nocking an arrow to my bow.  “What do you see?” I asked, grimly noting the dread in the water being’s gaze.

“They’ve got more of those – giant animals.  Beyond their archers.  They’re unloading things from them … I think it’s catapults.  They must be carrying them in two or three pieces … they’re setting them up now, outside our range.”

“Damn and hell.”  That was all we needed, for the enemy to match us step for step, and to bombard Waterfront with catapult fire -- perhaps literal fire.  And if fire should spread through the ship and the warehouses, we would have no hope of holding against them, no matter how many carts we yet hoped to fill.

“Svip,” I said suddenly.  “You can see the Men with the catapults clearly?  Clearly enough to aim at them?”

“Yes, but – but I can’t shoot that far!  I can barely reach the other shore!”

“That doesn’t matter.  Our catapults can shoot that far.” 

I yelled to one of our Men crouching near us.  “Escort Svip to the commander of the wall.  Relay my command that the catapult crews adjust their fire at Svip’s directions.  He can see farther than the keenest-sighted Man among us.”

As the Man nodded and started at a crouching run toward the gangplank, Svip turned to me with a wild-eyed look.  He began, “You – ”

His voice faded into silence.  Svip shook his head desperately and tried again.  “You promise you won’t get killed if I leave you?”

I had to smile.  Schooling my face back into solemnity, I told him,  “I promise I will do my best not to.” 

My poor friend was still staring at me with an expression of panic.  I reached out to him and grasped his hand.   

“I’ll take every care, Svip.  Upon my oath I will.  Now will you go to our catapult crews?  They’ll not be able to target the enemy catapults without your help.  Not until it may be too late.”

For another moment Svip still stared at me.  Then he nodded, as he tightened his grip about my hand.  “Right.”

Svip let go of my hand and set out racing toward the gangplank, eschewing the planks around the edge of the deck to run straight across the nearest crossbeam.  I watched until I saw him run down the gangplank and disappear from sight.  Then I turned back to the foe.

You’ve had your hour, Athelhelm, I thought, as I fired once again at the Haradrim shield wall.  You’ve had your hour and more.  If you’re not done with those carts by now, that is just too bloody bad.

Impatiently I glanced over my shoulder, expecting already to see one of the guildsmen scrambling up to me to report that the last of the carts was loaded.  In that hope, I was disappointed.  What I did see, in the light of the torches at the Harlond Gate, was two of our Men pulling the gate open.  A horse, Man and cart appeared, moving through the gate with what seemed to me ponderous slowness.  As I swore under my breath, I was sure that I could see at least another two carts behind them.

Through the general din I thought that I heard the yelled command of one of the catapult officers.  A ball of flame, that I knew to be a boulder wrapped in burning fabric, sailed though the darkness above us and across the River.

Before I could make any try to see if that shot had told, an answering ball of fire blossomed in the dark of the opposite shore.  In a shower of sparks and a deafening thunderbolt of sound, the enemy’s catapult shot hit the Eärendil’s main mast, shearing it in two.

For the first moment there was nothing to be done but try to make oneself as small as possible.  The burning shot vanished into the gap in the centre of the Eärendil’s dismantled deck.  An instant later, with a creaking groan, the shattered mast followed.  The ship gave a deathly jolt, and I had no doubt that the catapult shot had cleaved straight through its hull.

“Get off the ship!” I yelled.  “Get back to the dock!  Now!”

By some miracle it seemed that none of our Men had been in the path of the shot or the stricken mast.  I did not intend to take the chance that we would be as lucky in the next shot.  As several Men started their scrambling run around the ship’s deck, I made my way over to one who still crouched at the gunwale and was calmly fitting another arrow to his bow.

 I clamped my hand down on the archer’s shoulder.  “You have your orders,” I shouted at him.  “Leave the ship!”

The Man turned to face me with an embarrassed but rebellious expression.  He began, “My Lord …”

I recognised him as the commander of the first milecastle we had reached after leaving the Causeway Forts.  And I remembered the joyous cheers with which he and his Men had greeted my return from the dead.

“Listen, Lieutenant,” I told him, still in a yell, “I do not intend to leave this ship until you do.  So unless you want to be responsible for me getting killed again, I suggest you get out of here now!  You can still fire from the dock, now move!”

“Aye, My Lord,” he shouted at last.  He loosed his arrow toward the enemy, then set out picking his way around the Eärendil’s deck.

As I started scrambling after him, I thought I heard new sounds adding themselves to the yelling, the twang of bowshots, and the whirring thud of the catapults’ fire.

Hoofbeats, I thought.  Hoofbeats on cobblestones, distant but clear, as of an entire company of horsemen.

“The reinforcements!” someone yelled.  Another voice cried out joyfully, “Here they are, lads!  Here they are!”

My stubborn comrade was racing down the gangplank.  I paused at the top of it, as I heard shouts of command from the other side of the wall. 

Through the embrasures I glimpsed the forms of running Men at either side of the gate, all seeming to appear from the points where the stairs opened onto the ramparts.  These newcomers ranged themselves alongside our archers on the wall.  The number of arrows flying over our heads was suddenly redoubled.

Further Men ran through the open gate, keeping low and racing to join us behind our battlements of bollards, barrels and crates.

I realised that the Men running toward us wore the livery of the Tower of Guard. There was no mistaking the black surcoats blazoned with the token of the White Tree, or the winged mithril helmets.

The Guards of the Citadel have the defence of the City as their charge, and the only Men with authority to order them outside the City walls were my father and myself.  Never in my life had I seen a company of the Guard outside the walls of Minas Tirith. I could scarce credit the evidence of my eyes that told me I saw them now.

The realisation struck me of what the Guards’ presence here might mean. 

The two captains of the Citadel Guards were the Steward’s Heir, and the Steward of Gondor himself.  If the Guards were here, I thought, then there was a better than even chance that my father was here as well.    

I ran down the gangplank, then stopped, standing in the shelter of the Eärendil’s hull. 

As my gaze searched over the crowd of running Men, I heard a light, familiar voice cry out my name.

For another instant I could not see who was calling to me.  Then with the suddenness of a catapult shot, a small figure darted from amid the company and sped across the dock toward me.  He moved in a flash of black and silver, and I could scarcely have told how I recognised him.  He had certainly not worn the Livery of the Heirs of Elendil or the winged mithril helm the last time we had seen each other.

When last I had seen him, he had been struggling beneath the arm of a massive Orc warrior.  And my sight had been fading, as I sank to the leafy earth, grasping at one of the black-feathered arrows impaling my chest.

I dropped to one knee on the Harlond dock, and Peregrin Son of Paladin flung himself into my arms.

He hugged me fiercely, his helmet jabbing my chest as he repeated in a tear-choked voice, “Boromir, I’m so glad.  I’m so glad.”  

 I clutched him to me, swallowing back a lump in my throat.  “So am I,” I whispered.

Before we could speak further, another, very different voice reached us, cutting through the din of combat.

“Boromir!”

A wave of emotions slammed into me.  Joy, relief and concern gripped my heart, at the sound of my father’s voice.

Pippin drew back from me and stepped away, his gaze shifting swiftly from me, to the Steward of Gondor, and back again.

I stood and took a few paces toward my father.  He met me partway and grasped my arms, staring into my face with a wild, desperate gaze.

“Father,” I began.  But I could not think of a single thing to say.  Nothing that would bring him certainty and banish his fears.  Nothing that would prove to him I was truly there, and alive.

It hit me with a shock how very much older he appeared than when I had seen him last.  I was sure there was more grey in his hair than before, and his face seemed as waxen and pallid as those of our embalmed ancestors.  The skin was drawn taut over his cheekbones.  Only his dark, burning eyes seemed the same as I remembered – but I did not recognise the grief and uncertainty that I saw now within them.

His fingers tightened on my arms, clutching at me desperately in the effort to prove my reality.

“My son,” he breathed, emotion trembling in his voice.  “My son.”

And then my father, the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, pulled me to him and clasped me in his arms.