I formed and discarded at least four separate plans in those first seconds, as the knife-point jabbed at my back.

My unknown assailant had seized my right arm with one hand and was holding the knife in the other. I could picture various ways that I might break free and counter-attack. But I was less than convinced that I’d pull off any of them without getting myself skewered in the process.

And I might have no need to try them. Whoever he was, this fellow spoke in the accents of Gondor. There was a good chance that he was one of our soldiers. In which case, I had only to announce who I was and my troubles would be over.

Though he could always be a brigand, instead. If he were, then all bets were off.

I could no longer see Svip galloping ahead of me. I had no idea where he had got to. Hopefully, he had noticed what was happening and had changed shape to hide from this latest peril.

Well, I decided, there was no point in courting death again before I had learned what was going on.

In a mild tone, I asked, “may I move this canteen from my mouth? I can assure you I’ll not attack you with it.”

My captor said, “slowly.”

Slowly, then, I lowered the canteen and then stood there unmoving. “Now what?” I inquired.

“Identify yourself.”

Identify myself, eh? If he should prove one of our men, I was going to enjoy the look on his face when I declared my identity.

Of course should he be a brigand, by revealing my identity I would probably only succeed in getting myself held for ransom.

Oh well, I thought. At least if he wants ransom out of me, there’s a good chance he’ll keep me alive – long enough for me to free myself, slaughter the bastard, and hang out his guts for the crows.

So I declared, “I am Boromir, Son of the Lord Denethor. Chief Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor.”

I heard an intake of breath that did not seem to come from my captor, but from someone farther away and to the right. Silence stretched over us, then the fellow with the dagger said in a tone of sarcasm, “then be so good as to turn and face me, My Lord. I advise no sudden moves, if you don’t wish an arrow in your gut.”

I sourly thought that I shouldn’t mind getting an arrow in my gut. By now I ought to be used to it.

The fellow removed his grip from my arm and the knife-point from my back. I turned.

My gaze met two Men in the green and brown garb of Rangers. One, a slender, brown-haired youth who looked scarcely old enough to shave, stood to one side with bow drawn back and arrow aimed at my midriff. He clearly was the one who had gasped, and now his mouth dropped open as he stared at me. I saw the arrow waver in its aim as his hands began to shake.

The other was a warrior of grizzled middle age, his black hair and beard going grey and his weather-darkened face marked by one long, white scar from hairline to left ear. He had planted one hand on his belt and was casually resting the other on his now-sheathed dagger.

Then his casual control faltered. And I could not restrain a grin.

I recognised him full well, but I did not recognise the flabbergasted look on his face.

I greeted him cheerfully, “hail and well met, Cirion Son of Angantyr.” It was no figure of speech on my part, for I liked this Captain of the Rangers. He and I had stood allies at the last Council session I attended, when we had seemed striving to outdo each other in how loudly we could shout at my father’s myopic Councillors.

Captain Cirion eyed me as if unsure whether I was more likely to change into an Orc or just vanish in a puff of smoke. “Strangely met, My Lord, that I will say,” he answered grimly. “How come you here?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Yet I would hear it,” was his dogged retort.

I glanced at the brown-haired young archer. “Best let the lad put his bow away, if we’re to be swapping tales,” I advised. “His arms will grow tired by the end of it.”

The youth’s face flushed scarlet. He protested, “my arms are fine, My Lord.”

The conversation ended abruptly with the drumming of hoofbeats.

Had I intended any harm toward Cirion and the boy, now would have been my moment to strike. Both of them turned instinctively to face the new enemy charging them out of the trees. In a grey blur of movement, Svip the horse bore down on them, snorting furiously like some maddened horse- shaped demon.

“Svip, no!” I yelled. “These are friends!”

Svip pulled up out of his charge just inches from the young archer. The lad took a step back and tripped over a protruding tree root. He fell onto his back. His arrow, mercifully, skidded harmlessly over the ground.

Captain Cirion had yanked his battle-axe from his belt and now stood in a half crouch, ready to leap at whichever of us might attack him first. But he, I judged, would be better able to await the next development than would the boy, who might not have that much self-control. I hurried to the young man’s side, gripping his shoulder hard as he scrambled to his feet.

“Don’t kill anything right now,” I ordered. “We’re all friends here, I swear to you. Wait and see, you’ll not regret it.”

The youth stared wide-eyed, from me, to the huge grey horse towering over him, and finally to Cirion. The Ranger Captain gave a curt nod, though he still eyed us as though he suspected that Sauron himself had come to pay him a visit.

“Svip,” I said, “will you change shape? These gentlemen aren’t used to conversations with horses.”

For a long moment he still stood there, fixing the hapless youth with a menacing glare. Then for the first time I saw Svip make one of his transformations. It was so rapid I could barely realise it, as the horse suddenly shrank to the size of some miniature pony. He reared onto his hind legs and then was no horse at all, except for the residual horsiness of his long, green face. The three-foot water being looked a good deal less threatening than had the enraged horse, but he maintained an air of challenge, as he stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt and glowered at the astonished Rangers.

“Allow me to present a friend of mine,” said I. “This is Svip of Anduin, who has saved my life many times over, and travels now to Minas Tirith to pledge his sword to our cause. Svip, let me make known to you a Captain of Gondor’s Rangers, Cirion Son of Angantyr, and -- ”

I turned questioningly to the boy, who started and said in a wondering tone, “Holgar Son of Armod.”

Svip bowed his head to them, and I wondered if he had learned that gesture from me. The others bowed back, but I was not surprised to see that the two Rangers could think of nothing to say.

Everyone seemed waiting on me to make the next move. So I said, “let us take this discussion indoors. Too many evil eyes are abroad.” I turned to Cirion. “Captain, are your men at Lilla Howe?”

“Aye,” he replied, and vouchsafed nothing more. I did not grudge him his suspicion. Even in less grim days he might have been forgiven for harbouring doubts about the Steward’s Heir appearing in the borderlands, from nowhere, in the company of some green shape-shifting Halfling.

“We were headed there as well,” I said. “Shall we go?”

Cirion’s eyes narrowed as he said, “lead the way, My Lord.”

His unyielding mistrust nearly made me laugh. The Ranger Captain was beginning to remind me of Sam. Of course I would rather have men of his stripe guard our borders, than to be welcomed by some jolly fellow who has not the brains for mistrust. It was fair enough that he should reserve judgement until I’d proven I knew the way to the hidden refuge. How could he know I was not some evil being who had stolen the Lord Boromir’s shape?

I bowed to Cirion. “Gladly,” I replied. “Come along, Svip.”

We set out, Svip scampering at my side with the wide-eyed Holgar and the frowning Cirion keeping pace behind us. No one spoke. Svip kept casting hostile glances at the Rangers, while Cirion looked ready to slay us at the first false move. Young Holgar seemed bursting with questions, but doubtless he had too much dread of his Captain’s foul mood to risk saying a word.

Our path had taken us perhaps another mile along the riverbank, when Lilla Howe reared up before us.

The terrain along that stretch of the River is such that the low, rolling hills conceal the warrior’s tomb until it is nearly on top of you. Legend holds it has stood since the days of Eärnil, when it was raised to guard the bones of the Lord Lilla who saved his King from an assassin’s dagger and died in his stead. It stands on a spur of land at a bend in the River, the Anduin curving around it as though cut by a great ship’s prow. For centuries, it is said, a watch tower stood upon the mound. But it has long vanished, its existence echoed by a few scattered stones.

We stopped for moment to gaze upon the barrow, then I led our party into the last screen of trees that stood between us and the Howe.

“My Lord,” Cirion said quietly. “Wait.”

I halted and turned to face him. The Ranger’s scowl had grown darker, if possible.

“My Lord,” he repeated. “Your comrade must be blindfolded before we proceed further.”

I frowned at him in surprise. I had assumed, I suppose, that the mere fact of Svip travelling as my entourage would be enough to open all the gates of Gondor wide before him. It was not flattering to discover I was wrong.

I sternly reminded myself that the Ranger was just doing his job. “That will not be necessary in this case,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I will vouch for him.”

“Perhaps you forget,” replied Cirion, his voice tense. “It is the law. Even had we here our allies of Rohan who had just fought at our side, they could not pass into the refuge un-blindfolded.”

I hissed in a breath through my teeth, fighting not to shout at him in front of his subordinate. “Had we our allies of Rohan who had just fought at our side,” I grated, “they would pass un-blindfolded so long as I was here. Gondor has few enough friends as it is. We shall have none at all if we persist in treating them as criminals.”

Cirion set his jaw stubbornly. We were not going to finish this argument any time soon.

“Then change the law,” he challenged. “Go to your father and the Council and make them change the law, if you can. But so long as the law stands, I will stand by it.”

My temper simmered on the edge of boiling over. I fought the urge to tell him where he could stuff that particular law.

The Ranger Captain was in the right. It was the law, and a wise law for the most part. We could not have all and sundry learning the ways into our secret refuges, and it was better not to leave the individual commanders with the decision of who could be trusted and who could not.

But it maddened me to think that after everything Svip had done for me, he should be greeted not with honour but with indignities and suspicion.

“You have neglected one point in your calculations,” I observed. “I know the way in to Lilla Howe. I could easily tell it to Svip, did he and I intend evil to Gondor. The secret will not be saved no matter how many blindfolds you use.”

He shot back, “and how if your companion has deceived you, and intends evil without your knowing?”

My fists clenched seemingly of their own will. I had to forcibly remind myself that Cirion had no reason to trust Svip. He had not spent a week in the water being’s company, and he had not seen Svip risk his life time and again to help me.

Young Holgar, standing a few paces behind his captain, was watching us with the fearful fascination of one who awaits the strike of serpent. I think it was the sight of him that held me back from yelling as though I were in a tavern brawl. The youth’s wide-eyed gaze served to remind me of who I was. It was my part to lead here, not to waste time in squabbling.

I said “I will take responsibility for breaking the law, Captain. You will not suffer for it. If any seek to punish you for this they will answer to me; I place you and your men under my protection.

Anger sparked in the Ranger’s eyes, and for an instant I thought he would hurl my proffered protection in my face. With a visible effort he swallowed back whatever reply he’d been about to make. Instead he answered, “your protection will not suffice me, Lord, should peril come to Gondor because I allow strangers to see what they should not.”

From beside and below me came the worried voice of Svip. He interposed hurriedly, “I can wear the blindfold. I don’t mind it, really. It’s all right.”

I turned to him, snapping, “it is nothing of the kind. I’ll not have you suffer this insult.”

I should have given in, and a part of me knew that. But by now I had gone too far to back down.

And more, I kept remembering the infuriated humiliation I had felt the month before, when we’d been blindfolded on the journey into Lórien. Gimli had all my sympathy as he raged against this shameful treatment by the Elven gatekeepers. One might think that as the nine people who’d volunteered for the mission that had the great ones of Elfdom and wizardry cowering, we should be greeted with more respect. The Lord Elrond had promised to send word to his kinsfolk and allies, that they should give us all welcome and help. But either Galadriel’s folk were neither Elrond’s allies nor kin, or they just did not give an elvish damn for anyone’s opinions but their own.

I’d had more than half a mind to tell them that they and their blindfolds could go to blazes. I’d nearly suggested that I, and Gimli if he so wished, should just camp outside their precious forest until the others were ready to leave. All that stopped me from doing so was the fact that I had vowed to support the quest and protect the Ringbearer. I would be doing neither if I camped at the forest’s border and sulked.

Nor did I wish to hear Aragorn’s inevitable snide comment about how I feared to enter the realm of the Elves because I knew myself unworthy of their hospitality.

Well, we were in Gondor now. Here I commanded. And here I had neither Elves nor wizards nor a self-proclaimed king to order me about.

“You have heard me vouch for Svip, Cirion Son of Angantyr,” I declared. “That must be enough for you. We have debated long enough.”

Perhaps I could exorcise my own humiliation, by ensuring that Svip did not suffer the same treatment.

“Really,” Svip insisted, reaching up and clutching at my sleeve. “I’m not insulted, I don’t mind. I’ll wear the blindfold.”

“You will not,” I ordered him. “I owe you a greater debt than I can repay. Gondor is in your debt. I will not let Men of Gondor soil your welcome with suspicion.”

“My Lord,” Captain Cirion protested heatedly, “no suspicion is intended. The law must be upheld -- ”

“This discussion is ended. No friend of mine will be insulted in this fashion while I am Captain-General in Gondor.”

I stomped onward into the grove, without bothering to check if the others followed me. Windflowers, mosses and bluebells nestled in the patchy shade beneath the trees. The plants gave off a tangy scent as they crushed beneath my feet. As I neared the spot that I remembered as the entrance to the refuge, it occurred to me that I’d better hope the entrance had not been moved in the years since I’d been here. After all my declarations of how I knew the way into the Howe, I would certainly look a prize idiot if I could not find it.

But at least that embarrassment I did not have to deal with. I reached a steep little gully that looked just as I remembered it. I suppose in times of sudden hard rains the gully converts into a stream, but I have never seen it thus. Without hesitation I strode halfway up the gully’s far slope, to the massive moss-coated fallen tree wedged amid the rocks. Trailing grey-green moss that hung off the log like a cloak, and cunningly placed rocks below the log, rendered practically invisible the opening the log concealed.

Crouching down, I clutched the fallen tree with both hands and swung myself feet first into the tiny dark hole in the ground.

Every time one enters Lilla Howe, it is an act of faith, for the entrance seems far too small to force oneself into. More than once I’d suffered uncomfortable imaginings of getting stuck halfway out of the hill. But this time as always I made it inside with ease, the curtain of moss closing soundlessly behind me. The gash in the hill is deep enough for me to stand upright in, and swathed in faint grey light that creeps in through the moss. The floor of this hole is unevenly paved with stones, to decrease the likelihood of footprints that might be found by some pursuer.

I made my way across these stones, to the large slab of rock that seems to mark the end of the passage. I took hold of it and shoved toward the right. It rolled easily aside into the crevice designed for that purpose.

“Boromir?” came Svip’s whispered voice. I turned to see him crouched at the entranceway, peeking gingerly around the curtain of moss.

“It’s all right,” I assured him. “Come on.”

I stepped through the doorway created by the removal of the rock.

A narrow stone-lined tunnel stretched beyond, disappearing into the dark. I waited a few feet within, deep enough to allow the others to follow without running into me.

First Svip appeared, followed by Holgar and finally Cirion, the three of them distinguishable only by their vastly varied bulks as they were outlined against the vague light. Cirion rolled the rock slab back into place, enclosing us in pitch darkness through which came the sounds of one of the Rangers taking up the army tinderbox that rested on its rough stone shelf just inside the passage. According to regulations, no torch can be lit in any passageway to a refuge-point until the door is closed. All soldiers of Gondor who have fought in the borderlands swiftly become proficient in the art of kindling torches in the dark. Certain pranksters have been known to move the tinderboxes, vials of alcohol and torches from their assigned places, to leave their hapless comrades fumbling about in the darkness. But I think all commanders, certainly including myself, vigorously discourage such foolishness, for the service of Gondor cannot wait while her soldiers scrabble about for hidden tinderboxes.

No prankster had been at work here. In moments the sallow light of the torch flared into life, glowing yellow on the face of Cirion who held it.

He had banished all signs of anger from his demeanour as he said, “best let me go first, My Lord. If any of my men are within, I’d have them see me first and know that all is well before your arrival takes them by surprise.”

I nodded and stepped aside to let him pass.

We made our way down the passage, Cirion in the lead followed by me and then Svip, with Holgar bringing up the rear. The tunnel’s roof, lit fitfully by the torch in Cirion’s hand, was a couple of inches above me, except for a few places where it dipped lower and scraped the top of my head. Twice we came to the seeming end of the path, our way blocked by a wall of three rounded, smooth stone slabs. Both times Cirion, holding the torch, glanced at me and stepped to one side, giving me further opportunities to prove that I knew the way inside. The first time I rolled aside the leftmost slab and the second time, the centre one. Both times showed again, to my relief, that Lilla Howe had not undergone any remodeling since last I was here.

When a third rock wall appeared, Captain Cirion glanced back and called briefly, “Holgar.” The young archer made his way past us to shift the left- hand stone, and as it rolled into its assigned crevice, the warm torchlit glow of the Lilla Howe common room emerged from the opening before us.

Before stepping into the chamber Cirion and Holgar both looked back at us, Holgar just seeming slightly scared and Cirion looking as though he suspected he’d delivered himself and all of his men into the clutches of the Enemy. Then the Captain walked within, followed a moment later by Holgar. I was about to follow as well, when a sudden thought made me look down toward Svip.

The little creature stood beside me, peeking into the room with a bright, eager gaze that reminded me of the first time I had seen him. A look which suggested that everything before him was new, and held infinite fascination.

I asked him quietly, “you’ve never been in a dwelling place of Men before?”

He shook his head, still staring into the chamber beyond but seemingly not quite daring to step into it.

“These are not our usual habitations,” I explained. “Only hiding places, for times of war. Yet they were established long ago, and have seen many generations.” I smiled at the nervous anticipation on his face. “Shall we go?” I asked.

Svip nodded and whispered, “you go first.”

So I stepped through into the refuge of Lilla Howe, with Svip scurrying behind me like a miniature shadow.

I think I had not known how much I missed my people and my own country, until that moment when I set eyes again upon a dwelling of Men. Though I’d felt the need to excuse these poor quarters to Svip, yet the sight of them sent a pang of homecoming through my heart. There was nothing much to the place: a low, curved, stone-slabbed roof, darkened by centuries of smoke, a few torches along the walls, barrels and crates of provisions stacked on the floor, a long trestle table and two benches set up at one side of the room, and more tables and benches, disassembled, piled with the other supplies. And yet I thought, smiling as I gazed about me, that this little room spoke as eloquently to me as the halls of Moria had spoken to Gimli.

There were only three others in the room besides Svip and myself. Cirion and Holgar stood by the table. A third Man likely a few years younger than I, clean-shaven with close-cropped red hair, had been seated at the table but now rose hurriedly as I entered the room.

Cirion had been speaking in a low tone, I suppose warning the third Man about me. But the warning cannot have been clear enough, for now I saw on this Man’s face the same sort of disbelieving shock that had marked Cirion’s first reaction to me.

“My Lord,” the third Man managed to stammer out. I nodded to him, and Cirion said, “Lord Boromir, allow me to present Finn Son of Thorstein. He is our draughtsman; all the maps in our expedition reports are his work.”

I introduced Svip again as Svip of Anduin, then crossed to the table. It was buried under maps and stacks of parchment. Finn Son of Thorstein had spread out before him a map of the Anduin shores, from the borders of North Ithilien down to Minas Tirith, and had been penning notations and numbers here and there along the shorelines.

Finn cast a questioning look at his Captain as I approached, and Cirion gave me another glance that seemed intended to measure the quality of my soul. Then with a barely audible sigh, the Ranger Captain turned back to the mapmaker. “Twelve more, here,” Cirion reported, pointing to a spot on the map where a forested area was marked perhaps five miles north and a little inland of our present position. Finn nodded and sat down again, taking up his pen to note down the number at that location. Cirion went on, “a scouting party, it seemed. They seemed not actively seeking plunder nor hurrying to join other troops. While we watched, three scouts arrived and made their reports, then another five were sent out toward the River.” Cirion asked Finn, “Thorolf and Buslai have not yet returned?”

Finn replied that they had not. Cirion turned to me and explained, “we are on an information-gathering mission, My Lord, sent out from Cair Andros three days ago. We are on our way back to the Fortress now, setting out again on the morrow.”

I nodded. “I have had no word since I left the City last summer,” I told them. “Where do we stand?”

The report they gave painted a familiar picture, but not an encouraging one. My own observations of the troop movements within the Marshland seemed to be only one portion of a much larger pattern. The Rangers’ report spoke of bands of Orcs converging on our outposts and outlying settlements, from all directions. The sorties from Mordor that harried our posts along the River were increasing in strength and frequency, though we had not yet seen another concerted assault as strong as that which cost us the Osgiliath bridge.

Disturbingly, the Orcs and their like did not stand alone in these attacks. Alongside of them were increasing numbers of the Men of Harad, doubtless lured North by the Enemy with promises of plunder. Some weeks before, two armies of the Southrons that numbered upwards of four thousand Men apiece had passed through the edges of our Eastern lands, around Emyn Arnen. They were believed to have vanished into Minas Morgul itself. Cirion explained, in a tone that hinted how little pleased he was with the events he described, that our forces who had seen the Southrons’ advance were too small in numbers to warrant engaging the Southerners in combat. And by the time the Council had finished debating our options, the Southrons had passed outside the reach of any force we might have sent to check their advance.

Those two Southern armies, it seemed, were not the last of the Haradrim troops making their way into Mordor. A few days past, our scouts had reported the passage of two smaller groups heading North, each numbering only in the lower hundreds. Cirion told me, “authorising the troops necessary to halt these fellows is less troubling to the Council, it seems, than halting their main armies while we had the chance. The latest news we heard ere we set out from the Island is that the Lord Faramir has been authorised to take what troops he requires from the Ithilien garrisons, to halt these latest Southrons before they can add their spears to the Nameless One’s service.”

Partway through this report, I had heard young Holgar whisperingly ask Svip if he were hungry. On receiving an affirmative response, Holgar told Svip to help him set up another table and benches, to which the water creature willingly agreed. Now and again I glanced over to check on their progress. Holgar Son of Armod, not surprisingly, seemed doing most of the work, assembling the trestle table and benches while Svip scurried about laying out place settings of wooden bowls and tankards from out of the huge chest that stood open by the wall.

The mention of my brother’s name pulled my attention fully back to the Rangers’ report, away from the interesting sport of watching Holgar instruct Svip in the proper method of setting tables.

I asked, “was Lord Faramir at the Island when you left it?”

“No, My Lord,” answered Cirion. “He passed through on one of his inspections two weeks ago, then went back into Ithilien. Last we heard he’d returned to the City to report and request reinforcements.”

So I did not yet have an eyewitness who could tell me that Faramir had been well after the time of my cursed dream. Nonetheless, I told myself, three days ago when Cirion and his Men left Cair Andros, Faramir was reported to be assembling troops for a strike against the Southrons. It was a glimmer of encouragement that I could hang onto, as I fought down my fears for my brother and tried to reassure myself that he was alive and well.

This encouragement was followed by news that cast a pall over everything.

I had asked Cirion, “do you know if the Council has considered asking aid from Rohan, to combat these forces encroaching on our territories?”

He snorted. “Aye, My Lord, they were considering it three weeks ago when last I was in the City, but they’ve considered too long. Today Rohan cannot aid itself, there will be no aid for us.”

I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Cirion’s face set into a grim mask. “Yestereve we encountered a messenger from Rohan. He shared our meal before he rode on, and he told us some of the doings in his country. He did not say it directly, but I suspect he was sent to beg for aid from Gondor.”

“Why?” I urged impatiently as Cirion paused. “What did he tell you?”

“The Rohirrim are attacked just as we are. Wild men of Dunland are banding together with Orcs, and stranger things than Orcs. Fell creatures like Orcs but stronger, and hardier against the sunlight, so the messenger said. We have seen some of these creatures ourselves, My Lord, advancing to the River from out of Rohan’s plains. There have been raids upon Rohirrim settlements since the winter set in, but now, since the battle at the Isen Fords -- ”

He stopped abruptly with a new expression as he looked at me: not suspicious, for once, but dread-filled and perhaps even sympathetic, as if he had news that he loathed to tell me.

“What of the battle at the Fords?” I insisted.

“You have not heard?” he asked.

“I have heard nothing these eight months past. Tell me.”

Quietly Cirion said, “Prince Théodred was slain in battle ten days ago.”

The words hit me with raw shock. “What?” I breathed. I nearly protested “you’re joking”, but no soldier of Gondor would joke of such tragedy to our allies.

Ten days ago, I thought. It must be the same number of days, or nearly so, that had passed since my own death. It would be too much to hope for, I supposed bitterly, that the Prince of the Mark had returned from his death just as I had.

“Have you heard aught of Théoden?” I asked, when I could trust my voice to remain steady.

“Very little, My Lord. Only that he shuts himself up in his fortress and will see none but his closest kinsfolk and advisors, but ’tis said that was true before the Prince was slain.”

I nodded. Already last July, when I had spent one night at Edoras early in my quest, Théoden King had vouchsafed me only the briefest possible audience, the minimum necessary to retain courtesy between our two kingdoms. That night, as we sat making a few inroads into the royal wine cellar, Prince Théodred had bemoaned the unnatural speed with which his father appeared to be ageing. The King’s waking hours were become a misery – and being a generous ruler, Théodred had joked bitterly, the King graciously shared his misery with all of his court.

A chill settled over me as I thought of how deep that misery must be now.

Dragging my mind out of my grim thoughts enough to attend to what the others were saying, I took a seat at the bench and together Cirion, Finn and I pored over the maps, further discussing the movements of our enemies. I did not know if Cirion had finally decided he could trust me. More likely, I thought, he’d decided there was nothing to be gained by challenging me now, and he would just have to keep watching to determine if I were some sort of magical spy that had stolen the form of the Captain- General.

Cirion’s company, I learned, had numbered seven when they set out from Cair Andros. But on the first day of their expedition they had run into a large band of Orcs. They’d managed to escape with no fatalities, but one of their number had been wounded. The next day, after they had observed six more separate bands without being discovered, Cirion determined to send dispatches back to Cair Andros reporting what they had seen. The wounded Man and one other of their comrades had taken the dispatches and departed for the Island Fortress on the day before Svip and I encountered the Rangers.

As I told the Rangers about the troops we’d observed in the Marshlands, and Finn began noting down their numbers and their probable trajectories on his maps, two more Men entered the Howe.

These two stopped short at the sight of me studying the map with their comrades. Captain Cirion rose and crossed briskly to the newcomers, and I rose as well and bowed my head to them. Cirion began, “My Lord, I present to you my second-in-command, Thorolf son of Eyjolf, and -- ”

Before he could introduce the second, that Man blurted joyfully, “Lord Boromir!” Immediately he recollected himself and cast an embarrassed look at his commander, a blush rapidly spreading over the portions of his face visible between the grime of travel and his beard.

“And Buslai Son of Brynjolf,” Cirion finished, quellingly eyeing the one who had interrupted him.

For an instant Thorolf the second-in-command, a lean ash-blond fellow with a face like weathered granite, bore the same stunned expression as the others had when they first saw me. Then he frowned and quickly glanced over at his captain. In contrast, Buslai Son of Brynjolf kept breaking into a grin, despite his efforts to keep his visage controlled in the presence of his superior officers.

It surprised me how very pleasant it was to see someone look happy on recognising me, for a change.

I walked over to the three of them. Buslai, I realised as I neared them, was that rare phenomenon: a Man who can make me look small. He stood half a head taller than I, and had a pair of shoulders on him that suggested he made a regular hobby of lifting oxen over his head at village fairs. I did not recognise him, but I recognised his name.

“Son of Brynjolf,” I repeated. “Is your father the Sergeant Brynjolf of the Cair Andros Garrison?”

“Aye, My Lord, the same,” replied Buslai, his grin breaking forth once more.

“He retired, didn’t he?” I asked. “Five years ago?”

“Eight years this summer, Sir.”

I shook hands warmly with the huge young man, trying to recall the last time I had seen him. “I think you must have been six years old or so the last time we met,” I told him. I could not help grinning in my turn. “I’m trying very hard not to say ‘how you’ve grown’.”

“I don’t mind it, My Lord, everyone else says it.”

“How is your father?”

“As vile-tempered as ever,” Buslai said cheerfully. “These past few years his gout’s been gaining on him, so that makes him even worse.” His grin grew broader. “He’ll be over the moon when I tell him I’ve seen you. Sir,” he added, suddenly concerned that the comment might not sound respectful enough.

“Does he still tell Boromir stories?” I inquired.

“They’re his favourite, My Lord. I think everyone on the Fourth Level has heard his ‘I was shield-brother to the Lord Boromir when he was knee-high to a Dwarf’ tales.”

“Hmm,” said I. “Some time I’ll have to tell you my versions of them.”

Captain Cirion was looking irritated, perhaps offended that Buslai should be fraternising so casually with the second-highest ranking Man in the kingdom. Or perhaps it was his fear that I might not be who or what I seemed. Perhaps he dreaded that the unsuspecting Buslai might betray the secrets of Gondor’s defences while he was under my spell. But since I encouraged Buslai’s fraternising, unless Cirion chose to confront me he could hardly reprimand the young soldier – not while I was there.

We were saved from what might have developed into an awkward situation, by Holgar quietly asking me if I wished to dine.

Our study of maps and troop movements was temporarily suspended, as we sat down at the table Holgar and Svip had prepared. Finn the mapmaker excused himself to take up the first shift on watch outside the Howe, which according to regulations was to run in two-hour shifts throughout the darkness hours whenever the refuge was occupied.

The newcomers looked askance at Svip when they saw him perching on one of the benches. But they managed to take his presence pretty much in stride. It occurred to me that by this time, the riddling dream that had come to Faramir and me last summer was likely public knowledge. We had spoken of it little, but we’d had to explain our decision that one of us must seek for Imladris, to our father and the Council. By now, probably most of Gondor knew of it. So perhaps now the Rangers assumed that Svip must be the Halfling from our dream.

Throughout the meal Svip was relatively quiet, for him. I suppose it must have been very strange to him to be surrounded by so many people – and to see that whatever tensions might be simmering in our midst, we were not all killing each other. The majority of the questions he asked were about the food. Young Holgar seemed to have decided to take Svip under his wing, and as the cheese, bread, wine and dried apricots were passed about the table, Holgar patiently explained each item to him and showed him how to eat it.

At one time or another I happened to catch the glance of each of the others at the table, and saw most of them watching in tactfully contained amusement as Holgar introduced the water being to this aspect of our culture. The only one who did not smile as he watched them was Cirion.

After we’d dined, Cirion, Thorolf and I returned to the map-strewn table. For an hour or so our council of war continued. Then Cirion – with another of his suspicious looks at me -- donned his cloak and set out through the passageway, to replace Finn on watch.

I considered accompanying him. Perhaps away from the others we could talk this through; perhaps I could say something to convince him that I was who I seemed. Yet what could I say? What was there to say but “I really am Boromir”, and what was there that some evil being in my shape would not also say?

I had offered to take one of the shifts on watch, but Cirion respectfully rejected that proposal, saying he did not wish his Men’s schedule disrupted. I did not press the point, though I knew full well that was not his reason. If he’d agreed, he’d not have a moment’s peace while I was outside of the Howe. He’d be convinced that I was somehow betraying Gondor, every instant I was out there.

Thorolf and I both watched him leave, I suppose both with equally grim expressions on our faces. Then Thorolf forced a thin, embarrassed smile, and said, “I’ll find some bedding for you, My Lord. I think there are some more cots around here somewhere.”

He left, and I picked up one of the maps at random and scowled at it. I had the feeling that if I just stared the maps down, just looked at them long enough, I should be able to see some sort of answer. Something that would change our plans and give us the chance to save the day.

The occupants of the Howe seemed easily settling into their evening’s routine, scarce at all disrupted by the presence of Svip and the Captain- General. Finn, when he’d returned from his watch, wolfed down dinner and then took out a small red-painted lute from his pack. He sat down against one wall and began playing the lute: soft, old melodies for the most part, the melancholy little tunes that speak to every Man who longs for his home. As the lute’s songs lilted hauntingly on, and I scowled at the maps, the occasional sounds of low voices and laughter reached me.

I let the map that I was holding fall to the table, and turned to watch the latest step in the education of Svip.

He had volunteered eagerly to help in clearing and taking down the dining table. As Svip and Holgar did the washing up, the water creature kept casting me hesitant, questioning glances. Each glance seemed to ask if it was all right, for him to spend time with other people than me.

I’d kept encouragingly smiling back at him, till I felt as if my muscles would cramp and the smile would freeze on my face.

Now as I turned to watch, it seemed that Svip had finally understood my message. Svip, Holgar and Buslai were sat on the earthen floor, Svip and the archer leaning over a folding hnefetafl board which they stared at in massive concentration. Buslai offered unsolicited advice on the players’ next moves, advice that usually ended up with Holgar throwing something at him. I saw Svip watch one of these exchanges in alarm, but when neither of the Men followed up with violence to each other, he seemed to relax and turn his mind back to the game.

I smiled as I watched them, a smile that this time was not forced in the slightest. I felt almost like a father, the first time his son braves the outside world enough to go play with the other boys.

When I realised what I was thinking, I sighed, and picked up the map again.

“My Lord,” Thorolf said quietly, sitting down on the bench opposite. “I found a cot for you, and some blankets. It’s nothing much --”

“Don’t worry, Thorolf,” I told him. “I have been campaigning before.” I added in an undertone, “and I’ve spent the last week sleeping in a swamp.”

I saw Thorolf cast a worried look towards the passage door, then back to me. He leaned forward and said urgently, but in a voice almost too low to be heard, “understand him, My Lord. You know what it is to fear for the lives of your Men. And to dread that through some mistake of yours, you will deliver them to disaster.”

“Yes,” I told him. “I know.” I had to smile at Thorolf’s apprehensive scowl. “Fear not, Thorolf Son of Eyjolf. Your Captain’s career will suffer no ill fate through me. Nor will Gondor.”

Thorolf began, “it is only that he thinks …”

“That I am some fell demon that has stolen Lord Boromir’s appearance?” I asked. “Yes. I gathered that.”

The Ranger looked at me in terrible earnest. “My Lord,” he said. “We believed you dead.”

He paused and stared hard at me, then went on. “The rumour has spread throughout Gondor. ’Tis said that the Lord your brother had a dream which spoke of your death, and that he and the Steward both believe it. And – it is known in Rohan as well. The messenger we encountered last night – he told us that Riders returning to Edoras reported encountering travellers who spoke of your death in combat, above the Great Falls.”

“Travellers,” I repeated, with a sudden stab of hope. “Who were these travellers? Did he describe them?”

“He said nothing more of them, My Lord.”

Who were they, I wondered. Aragorn and the others? Or did I dare to hope that they might be Merry and Pippin?

“My Lord,” Thorolf’s sombre voice went on. “We heard the Horn.” I frowned at him, and he explained, “the Horn of Gondor.”

The air in the chamber was warm, but I shivered. “You heard it.”

“Aye. Eight, nine days ago now, it would be. About the noon. In the Ithilien Marches, nigh to where the Marsh begins, we heard it. From the North, far but clear. Ten, twelve times it called, then was silent.” He looked at me steadily. “We know its call, My Lord. It could be no other.”

I wanted to laugh off his words. To convince myself that the Rangers must have been imagining things – or that they might have been close enough to Rauros to truly hear the Horn’s blasts. Yet that was nonsense. Even at the base of the Falls, the noise of Rauros itself would have masked the Horn from all natural hearing. And despite my brother’s favourite joke that I am a blow hard, even my lungs could not make the Horn sound from Rauros to Ithilien.

The legends had always held that in time of peril, the Horn of Gondor blown by the Steward’s heir will sound throughout the kingdom. I just had never truly believed it, no more than I had believed that I would someday encounter Halflings -- or that the King might one day return to Gondor.

Never before had reports come to me of the Horn being heard for supernatural distances when I sounded it.

But never had I blown the Horn in such desperation as I felt at Rauros.

I pondered what to say. I did not feel I had the energy nor the patience for the explanation of how I came to be alive. I would have to face it soon enough, when I reported to my father at the latest. But the fewer times I had to explain it, the better.

I said, meeting his eyes, “I swear to you, Thorolf Son of Eyjolf. I live, and I am the same Man I always was. No harm will come to Gondor through me.”

He held my gaze, then gave a long sigh. “I believe you, My Lord,” he said.

I shook my head ruefully. “I wish that your Captain did.”

“Give him time, Sir.”

The hnefetafl game broke up as Holgar stood and prepared to take up his turn on watch. Svip padded over and hopped onto the bench beside me, where he sat watching the Men in the room with bright, interested eyes.

But there was not much more to watch. One by one the Rangers were settling down to sleep. Finn had put away his lute. Cirion returned to the chamber and extinguished all of the wall torches but one, then wrapped his cloak about him and retired to his cot without another word.

I thought of something, and nearly swore.

“Svip,” I said, “can you sleep out of the water?”

He looked worried. “Oh,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Can’t I go sleep in the River? It’s not far.”

I looked over at the back of Cirion, who I was sure was not any more asleep than I was. “Better not,” I told Svip quietly. “The Captain’s afraid we might be spies; if he sees you leave the Howe he’ll think you’re going to the enemy.”

“Oh.”

“Leave it to me,” I told him.

After brief whispered consultation with Thorolf I had soon constructed a bed of sorts: the large wooden bowl Holgar had used for the washing up, filled with water, with Svip’s pack on top of a small barrel for his pillow.

Svip seemed to approve. He tugged the bowl and barrel over to the foot of the folding cot that Thorolf had found for me, hopped in, and was snoring almost immediately.

Thorolf watched this in amused disbelief, but made no comment. As I got into bed myself, I hoped that no one in the middle of the night would mistake Svip’s bed for a chamber pot.

Any soldier should be able to sleep to the sound of multiple levels of snoring, so I do not think it was that which kept me awake. All the same, as I lay there in the dim of the Howe, sleep was long in coming.

My father and brother knew of my death – or at any rate, they knew enough that they believed in it.

I had hoped I might make my way home before Father heard of it. The news that I had not, made me want to run from the Howe and set out for Minas Tirith this instant, never stopping until I could embrace my father and beg his forgiveness for the grief I had caused him.

And apologise to Faramir for whatever Father had put him through while sorrowing over me.

Hopefully they had spent little time in each other’s presence since the rumours came. But whatever time they had spent, it was bound to be too long.

I could hope, I supposed, that shared grief would bring them closer together, but the likelihood was so remote it was barely worth thinking of.

Valar’s blood, once Father got over the shock of seeing me again, his fury was going to be legendary. If I survived to return home, I’d be lucky to survive Father’s rage at me for putting him through this.

But it would be worth it. No doubt I’d think differently when it was happening, but at this moment I thought I would give a lot just to be standing there in the Tower Hall listening to the Lord Steward enumerate my short–comings.

At least Father and I still had the chance to yell at other. Which was more than Théoden King and Prince Théodred had left to them.

Damnation, I wished Svip and I had encountered these Rangers a day earlier, before they met up with the messenger from Rohan. I would dearly have loved the chance to question him, both on the identity of the travellers who’d spoken of my death, and for more details on how Rohan’s Prince had met his end.

We were the same age, my brother-in-law and I, Théodred born just one month after I was. And now it seemed that we had been killed within a day of each other, as well.

When we were young warriors planning our glorious careers, we would probably have enjoyed the idea of perishing nobly at the same time. But we would have imagined it with both of us in the same epoch-making battle, probably fighting back-to-back with our slain enemies heaped in a circle about us, and not breathing our last until our grieving comrades had informed us that the day was won and the enemies of Gondor and Rohan had been vanquished forever.

Dying far apart while our kingdoms still hung on the brink of disaster had not been among our plans.

I thought again of how terrible Théoden’s grief must be now. At least my father still had Faramir -- little though he would admit to taking solace in that, either to Faramir or to himself. Théoden King had nothing.

Every parent has to face the knowledge that they will likely outlive some of their children. Perhaps it was not always thus, perhaps in that golden, olden time that Faramir goes on about, one could be sure of dying in bed surrounded by one’s weeping children, grandchildren and great- grandchildren. But that world is long gone, if it ever existed.

Children die. But to lose all of one’s children …

To be left with the memory of their voices and faces, and the bitter truth that one will never see them again …

I thought of Théoden, with his daughters stolen by death five years ago, and now robbed of his only son.

When we got through this – if we got through this – I would have to go to Rohan to pay my respects. Though I did not know if that would be any comfort at all, or if seeing me alive would just further twist the knife that I had been restored to my father and Théodred had not.

Memories raced through my mind.

Théodred’s last joking warning to me as I rode from the courtyard at Edoras eight months before: “watch out for those Elves!”

Théodred getting heroically drunk at the feast when Théodhild and I were married – one of our first tasks as husband and wife the next day was to visit her hungover brother and try to convince him to drink some soup. (He barely touched a drop when Faramir and Éoflæd wed the year after, declaring that one performance as the vomiting brother-in-law was enough.)

I remembered Théodred at the funeral of his sisters: it had appropriately started to rain, a dank, comfortless drizzle squeezed out from the foul summer air, and I would never forget Théodred’s pallid face with his wet hair plastered to his forehead, and the grim set of his chin, and his haunted stare as he and Faramir and I walked side by side down the Silent Street, through the rain, in the funeral procession of the women we loved.

I sighed in the torchlit darkness, thinking of the last time I had seen my brother-in-law and the quick, casual handshake just before I rode away.

He had died for his country, as I knew he would have chosen – if he couldn’t have death at age two hundred with all his descendants sobbing copiously and saying they didn’t know how they’d get along without him. He had died for his country, which perhaps was all that any of us could hope for in these days.

Yet I wished he could have continued to live for his country, and to fight for it, instead. I wished that once more I could ride into battle with Théodred at my side.

I drifted into sleep clinging to the hope that someday I would stand at Théodred’s tomb, and tell him that the foes of Gondor and Rohan were vanquished forever.

Svip slept later than usual the next morning, and I wondered if this were the first time he had slept in an entirely enclosed space without the morning light to wake him.

The Rangers picked their way gingerly around the sleeping water creature in the washing-up bowl as they breakfasted and packed up their gear, for the most part manfully restraining themselves from making humorous comments.

When Svip did awaken, as the tables were being disassembled, he hopped out of his bowl dripping but alert and immediately volunteered to help with the packing. After making him dry his hands, Finn allowed him to help stow the expedition’s maps in the various packs and satchels set aside for that purpose. I nearly yelled out a warning against this, remembering the abysmal condition of the items in Svip’s “library”. But Svip, as I should have realised by now, was a swift learner, and he seemed genuinely concerned with mimicking Finn exactly in the ways he folded, bound or rolled the various maps.

I was sat on the folding cot I had slept on, hastily penning a letter as the contents of the room were packed up around me.

Cirion had told me, almost managing to conceal his distrust, that he was leaving a packet of dispatches here in the Howe, copies of some of the reports and maps he and his Men were bringing back to Cair Andros. The copied packet would be here for any Horse Messenger of Gondor who might pass through, and if it should be picked up by such a Messenger it could easily overtake Cirion’s party, travelling on foot. Even if it only reached the Island Fortress a few hours before we did, in times such as these those hours could be crucial.

Cirion inquired if I wished to add anything to these dispatches. So there I was, scribbling out a letter to my father.

I meant to send one from Cair Andros as soon as I got there, so if this one should happen to reach the Island first and be sent on from there, so much the better.

I scarcely knew what to say, so I kept it as matter-of-fact as possible. I apologised for my lengthy absence, reported that a companion and I had reached Lilla Howe and were travelling on with a party of Rangers, and added my emphatic corroboration to what Cirion stated in his reports, that the enemy was converging on our borders and we must take steps to reinforce the border garrisons immediately.

I wanted to avoid broaching the subject of my death entirely. Yet if my father was under the assumption that I was dead, it would hardly be fair to him to write some casual little missive as if I had no idea that he must be mourning me for lost. After a few minutes of wrestling with what to say and chewing the pen nearly into shreds, I ended with the brief statement that I knew there were reports of my death, I apologised for any distress they might have caused him, and said that further explanation must wait until I stood before him. That should do the trick; it was not any eloquent piece of writing, but Father would not expect such from me and might suspect that the letter was not written by me at all should it prove to be too flowery.

This letter I added to the other reports, after first insisting that Cirion read it to be sure it held no treasonable content. He protested, saying there was no need for that, but I told him I would not ask him to include any item in his dispatches without first knowing what it contained. The grizzled warrior was blushing a little as he read it, and gruffly said, “very good, My Lord,” as he refolded the letter and placed it in the leathern pack with his reports on a shelf in the refuge’s main chamber, not looking at me as he did so.

Outside the Howe, it was a glorious morning. The early sun glimmered brightly through the tree trunks as we made our way single-file along the wooded gully.

I went first, I think more because Cirion did not want me in a position where I could stab any of his Men in the back than because my rank naturally granted me that position of leadership. Svip scampered along back and forth on either side of our column, more than ever like an excitable dog or a child as he sniffed at flowers, investigated rotten tree stumps, and poked his head into animal burrows. Fortunately the occupants of the burrows were either asleep, not at home, or too terrorised by the unknown scent of the water being to emerge and bite off his nose.

A few minutes into our journey I began to realise that something else was worrying me besides whether Svip would get attacked by a badger.

I had the sense of something being wrong. Nothing that I could grab hold of, just the fleeting yet ever-present feel of danger closing in around us.

Of course there’s danger, I snapped at myself. There’s always danger, what else is new?

Yet the feeling did not go away.

I glanced over my shoulder several times, though not as many times as I wanted to. Certainly no peril was visible behind us or anywhere else, but that did not aid my state of mind. I did not wish to alarm the others by acting like some nervous little schoolgirl, but at the same time I could not shake the sensation that danger was rolling in on us like some loathsome invisible fog.

This was getting annoying. I was experiencing entirely too much of this sort of thing lately. My dream of being trapped in my funeral boat, forebodings of harm to Faramir and doom to Minas Tirith, and now this.

For heaven’s sake, I thought irritably. I’m turning into my brother. Next thing you know I’ll be spending my spare time in the library, running around with wizards, and giving impromptu lectures on how everything’s gone downhill since the days of Númenor.

Yet my annoyance was not a good enough reason to ignore the warning, if warning it should prove to be. I headed back to Cirion at the rear of the column, the Ranger Captain showing great restraint in not breaking into any move of defence or attack at my unexpected action.

“Captain,” I said to him quietly as we walked on, “I know not if it means anything, but I have been sensing the approach of danger. If there are any steps you would take to be on a heightened state of alert, I suggest that you take them.”

Cirion’s face got grimmer than usual. “Aye, My Lord,” he said, and he spoke in a low tone to various of the others as I made my way back up to the front. I did not know if I’d accomplished anything, or if indeed there had been anything to accomplish. It was not as if Rangers would normally stroll around through threatened territory without keeping their eyes open.

One thing at least I could do: when Svip scurried near me again I told him, “better stay close by me. And see if you smell any danger, I think we may be being followed.”

He nodded solemnly and fell into step beside me.

We followed the gully out of the trees and down toward the River. There would be few stretches of tree cover along our path for the next day or so, and rather than make ourselves targets by walking through the open grasslands, we headed down the twenty- foot slope of the riverbank to the narrow strip of silty, water-logged shore along Anduin’s edge.

As we scrambled down through the long, rustling grasses of the bank, Svip gave a happy squeak and ran on ahead, diving into the water.

I too paused for a quick drink of the Anduin’s water and to wash my face in it when we reached the bottom of the slope. The result was peculiar. When I felt the water on my skin and coursing down my throat, it seemed to increase my strength and alertness tenfold. It gave the morning light a new clarity and deepened the blue of the sky, as if some faded artwork had been painted anew.

Yet despite the vigour and optimism that came to me with the river water, my sense of foreboding still lurked just beneath the surface. As we trooped along, the Rangers in file behind me and Svip keeping pace with me a few feet off the shore, I had the feeling that my dread would take solid form at any moment. I would see it rising like black smoke about my feet, and smell it, oozing around me like the miasma from a cesspit.

I could not smell anything amiss, despite my dread. But Svip suddenly stopped swimming. When I looked over at him he was treading water and sniffing at the air.

An instant later a low, whistling bird call sounded from the rear of the column. Every Man of us recognised the signal: the command to hide.

“Svip,” I hissed, “get over here now.”

The Rangers, almost as one Man, crouched back into the tall grasses of the bank. I did the same, and Svip hastily swam to the shore and launched himself into the grass beside me.

I craned my neck to see behind us along the River, through the grasses and around my comrades doing the same thing.

Perhaps a hundred yards behind us, large dark figures were making their way down the slope of the riverbank just as we had done. Large dark figures that could almost have been Men, but were not so.

It was hard to tell how many of them there might be, for portions of the bank periodically hid them from my gaze.

As they reached the water they began loping toward us with peculiar, huge, distance-eating strides that made all too clear what they were, even had it not been the obvious guess. Orcs.

My stomach knotted as an unwanted memory hit me of Orc after Orc appearing like hideous phantoms through the trees of Amon Hen.

Stop it, I told myself. You’ve just got another chance to get your own back for that. That’s all.

Cirion had scrambled a few feet up the slope and now caught my eye, gesturing with his thumb toward the top of the bank. I nodded.

The Ranger Captain gave another low whistle that meant “follow me”.

It was a sensible plan. If we could get to the top of the riverbank before the Orcs realised it, we could pick them off from above and have most of them dead before they could even get within sword’s reach of us.

Cirion and the two Rangers who were crouched nearest to him, Holgar and Buslai, began picking their way up a narrow cut in the riverbank, that was probably used by animals of the grasslands as an easy path down to water. The path cut diagonally back along the slope. At the rate the two parties were moving it would probably bring the Rangers to the top of the hill just as the Orcs jogged by beneath them.

I looked rapidly about. There was a little distance separating the grasses I had thrown myself into along with Svip, Thorolf and Finn, from the hollow in the slope where the others had been hiding. Now I saw that another small ravine cut up the slope from about where we were, and would take us to a rock outcropping on the crest of the bank.

Thorolf and Finn both had their bows and well-stocked quivers. The rocks would give us something at our backs, and from the greater height of the outcropping the archers might be able to get a clearer aim at some of our victims below.

I hissed, “we’ll head for those rocks.” Thorolf, Finn and Svip nodded.

We started clambering up the ravine. In most places it was deep enough that the grass growing around it hid us easily. But this stretch of the incline was also fairly rocky, and the climb entailed a painstaking process of grabbing and setting aside the rocks that we’d knocked loose before they could go tumbling downhill and alert the Orcs. This became Svip’s main task; as the rest of us climbed doggedly upward he would race around us capturing the sliding rocks.

About halfway up the slope I heard a whispered exclamation from Thorolf: “ah, damn.” An instant later he gave the bird call signal that meant “look out”.

I glanced back and saw what he had seen.

The Orcs down along the water were not alone. Another band was loping parallel to them along the top of the riverbank. And if they kept going, Cirion and the others would emerge at the crest of the slope right in the middle of them.

Cirion saw them. Through the grasses I could just barely make out that the three Rangers had started to pick their way back down the slope. The Captain must mean to make a stand down by the River, instead of climbing into the arms of the Orcs.

But we were still some distance ahead of the party on the riverbank. I thought we could still make it to the rocks, and perhaps take the Orcs by surprise while they were focused on the others by the water.

“Come on,” I hissed, and started at a crouching run up the ravine.

We scrambled up the slope, caring little now for the rocks that we set flying.

An Orcish shout roared out, but a quick glance showed it was not aimed at us. Cirion, Buslai and Holgar had broken cover and were racing to take up position in front of another rock outcropping that stood a few feet into the river, a greyish cone shape that must be part of the same formation that caused the outcrop above us. The Orcs along the water’s edge redoubled their speed, and those above were starting toward the slope.

We broke cover as well and ran for the rocks. I caught glimpses of Thorolf and Finn readying their bows as we ran.

The two archers leapt up the outcrop like mountain goats. I grabbed Svip and swung him up into a little cave in the rock, ordering “stay in there and don’t come out.” Then I planted myself on a ledge near the base of the outcrop, feeling rather useless and wishing I’d helped myself to a bow and arrows from the supplies at Lilla Howe. But there’d be a use for me soon enough when the Orcs realised we were here.

Finn and Thorolf both fired, and both of their arrows told. One Orc plummeted at the top of the slope and rolled part of the way down; another fell to his knees and was struggling up again when a second arrow from Finn’s bow lodged in his throat.

With a howling roar the Orcs turned to face us.

The Rangers picked off a few more that were still heading down the slope towards Cirion and the others. Then they needed all of their attention and their arrows for the Orcs running at us.

Four more Orcs were felled by arrows before they reached the rock. Then the wave broke on us.

Arrows continued to sing overhead as I swung my sword at any Orc that leapt within range. After the first four I mowed down, the rest held back for a moment. But their distance gave them no protection from the arrows, and they rushed in upon us again.

My sword stuck in the rib cage of one, and I had to brace my foot on his chest and kick him away in order to yank the sword loose. Another Orc lunged at me while I was still tugging, and only my awkward fall backward as my blade jerked free saved me from the Orc’s battle axe cleaving me in half. I managed to impale this Orc while he was still recovering from his lunge, then I scrambled back up to a standing position to await the next onslaught.

Three more Orcs were running at me, but suddenly a huge grey embodiment of rage burst at them from around the rock. Svip reared and his front hooves collided with one Orc’s chin, with a loud popping crack that told he’d broken his enemy’s neck. The other two Orcs fell back in confusion, almost running over more of their comrades who were now crouching in the grasses in the hope of avoiding the arrows.

The grey horse yelled at me, “jump onto my back!”

“I’m not running away,” I shouted at him.

“I know!” he yelled. “Neither am I! Jump on!”

My Rohirrim relatives would probably have laid very large wagers that I would not be able to manage it, but somehow I seized hold of his mane and dragged myself onto his back. I was barely set before he charged toward the Orcs. With my left hand wrapped in his mane and my legs clamped as tightly around his sides as I could manage, I swung my sword down at the Orcs as we galloped past.

I felt the sword make contact with one of them as blood sprayed up out of the grass. Svip wheeled around for another pass.

This time the Orcs managed to leap out of the way, though one succeeded only in getting himself dropped by an arrow. I leaned over Svip’s right side to make another swing at the nearest Orc, and suddenly Svip charged to the left. I overbalanced and nearly tumbled off him, somehow managing to save myself with my face pressed into his shoulder and the fingers of my left hand digging into his neck.

“Ow!” Svip yelled. “That hurt!”

I raged back, “you ran the wrong way!”

Clawing into an upright posture, I hacked at the next Orc we passed, and his head went flying.

Not many of our opponents were left. Only three that I could see, and one of these three suddenly crumpled with an arrow in his forehead.

From below us by the River, rang the bright, clear call of a horn.

Finn the mapmaker yelled, “Cirion!” and I saw him leap from the rocks and run toward the slope.

“Let’s finish this,” I called to Svip, and he snorted in agreement. We charged one of the two remaining Orcs and literally ran him over, Svip knocking him off his feet and I leaning over and slashing open his torso as he struggled to get up once more.

Our last Orc fell to one of Thorolf’s arrows. After a pause to make sure that nothing else was moving, the Ranger also raced down from the outcrop and started for the riverbank.

Svip the horse craned his head around in an attempt to look at me. “Hold on tight,” he said, and he started galloping toward the bank.

I have to admit that the thought which shot through my head was, we’re going to die. I somehow sheathed my sword as we jolted along, then plastered myself to Svip’s back, clinging with both arms around his neck and maintaining a litany of swearwords under my breath as Svip flung himself – and me – down the slope.

To this day I do not know how we avoided breaking our necks. Rocks and earth flew under Svip’s hooves, and I am sure we skidded down the last ten feet. Somehow we reached the bottom still upright and with me still on his back. I was wildly thinking that I had to get Svip to promise never, ever to do that again, but as I thought that, the shape-shifter was already charging for the nearest cluster of Orcs. I dragged my sword from its scabbard once again.

Cirion and Holgar still stood with their backs to the cone of rock, but I saw no sign of Buslai or Finn. The Captain and the archer were hard- pressed, Holgar firing as swiftly as he could into the mass of Orcs ranged against them and Cirion swinging his axe in great arcs, cutting a swathe through any of the beasts that came near enough. Svip and I ploughed into the Orcs, and the scene erupted into a frenzy of hooves, swords, axes, arrows, and the splashing of water and blood.

Three of the Orcs leapt at me, trying to drag me off of Svip’s back. I hacked down at them, blood welling from the claw marks where their hands had dragged at me. Svip reared, once more nearly sending me tumbling. Then as he splashed back onto all fours and I kept hewing about me, I saw Svip catch one of the Orcs in his strong horse teeth and shake him as a dog shakes a rat. He hurled the Orc aside, and that Orc did not move again.

I suddenly saw Finn. The mapmaker must have charged the Orcs who surrounded Cirion and Holgar, rather than holding back and firing from a safe distance. I caught a glimpse of his prostrate form half under the water. A gigantic Orc, larger than any I had seen at close quarters apart from some of those at Amon Hen, had his massive booted foot planted on Finn’s chest. He held the Ranger under, all the while swinging his lance at Cirion.

“Svip!” I yelled. “Make for the Orc with the spear!”

He obeyed, but our way again was blocked by a yelling mass and a hedge of axes and swords.

As I hacked, I heard arrows whistling nearby, and I realised that Thorolf must have reached the bottom of the hill and had once more joined in the fray. With each twang of his bow, the number of Orcs around us thinned.

We surged forward, Svip trampling over bodies while I hewed at those that were still standing. The Orc with the spear whirled to face us, and Svip barely managed to wheel away without getting himself impaled.

This time, finally, I fell. I tumbled into the water with jolting impact, and desperately hurled myself away from Svip’s hooves. Through the insanely churning water I saw the Orc spearman standing only a few feet away from me, arcing his spear around him and holding back both Cirion and Svip.

I lunged gracelessly at the spearman, grabbing him around the waist and driving my sword upwards into his back. As the spearman staggered, Cirion charged and buried his axe in the Orc’s skull.

Cirion, the Orc and I all fell. As the Captain and I struggled up once more and the Orc spearman floated within a spreading circle of blood, I realised that no Orcs were left standing.

Cirion had already leapt to where Finn now lay bobbing in the water. I followed, dragging away the Orc’s corpse which was half on top of Finn.

As Cirion pulled the mapmaker up out of the River, I looked around counting our comrades. Thorolf, Holgar and Svip all were standing. I still could see nothing of Buslai.

“Svip,” I yelled, “go find Buslai!”

The horse nodded once and splashed away.

Cirion was dragging Finn toward the shore, and I pitched in, taking hold of his feet. Holgar had been standing motionless by the rock ever since the last of our opponents fell, but now he shook himself free from the shock and ran after us.

Cirion swore as we laid Finn down at the water’s edge. The younger Man lay unmoving, his face a ghastly pallid hue. His eyes and mouth both were open, in a blank frozen mask of disbelief and pain. Cirion heaved him over onto his side and pounded on his back and his chest. Water gushed from Finn’s mouth and his body seemed wracked by one gigantic struggling breath, but it was illusion only and after that he did not move.

As Cirion rolled him onto his back again and was pumping his hands down over Finn’s heart, a cry sounded from downriver, “he’s here! I’ve found him.”

Thorolf and I ran toward the cry. We found Svip back in his own form, trying vainly to flip over the body of young Buslai that lay face down in the water. He had clearly been carried downriver by the current, and fetched up against a grey, lifeless fallen tree, in which one of his arms was tangled. Together Thorolf and I managed to heave him onto his back, Svip meanwhile working to free his arm from the tree limbs.

Buslai Son of Brynjolf had a bruised, angry cut on his forehead, though the blood had been washed away from it. The cut did not look that bad, but it could easily have knocked him out. His eyes were shut and his face hideously pale, and he was as motionless as Finn.

Between us we managed to drag him to land. Thorolf and I forced the water from out of him and struggled to make him breathe, while somewhere nearby I thought I heard Svip start to sob.

I’m not sure how long this went on before I distantly heard Thorolf say, “it’s no good, My Lord. It’s no good.”

The thought kept running in useless fury through my mind, I won’t allow this.

We were a silent and wretched company that stood upon the shore, when we had finally given up all attempts to revive our comrades.

We had slain over forty Orcs. Yet the price had been far too high.

Cirion’s voice cut roughly through the silence. “We will take them back to the Howe,” he said. “And bury them there.”

Svip, in a quiet and tear-choked voice, volunteered to change back into horse form and carry their bodies. In the end the rest of us decided it was asking too much for him to carry both of them, so we manoeuvred Buslai over Svip’s back, then Cirion and Thorolf took up Finn. Unsteadily picking our way, we struggled up the riverbank, Holgar and I walking at either side of Svip to make sure Buslai’s corpse did not slide off of him.

As we walked, I saw that Holgar was silently crying. I envied him his youth, and wished I were still young enough for the tears to flow at times such as this.

At the top of the slope we halted to recover our breath. Thorolf jogged back to the rock outcropping where we had fought, and recovered from a crevice the satchels of maps that Finn had been carrying.

In silence broken only by our footfalls, we started back for Lilla Howe.

The thought still kept pounding through my mind, pointlessly stupid though it was, I will not allow this. I will not allow this. I will not let this happen.

There are Men who say that they fight for the sheer joy of combat. But I am not one of them and I cannot understand them, however much my brother might accuse me of being one of their number.

If one always fought alone, with only one’s own life at stake, then perhaps I could understand it. But the joy dies at the close of each battle, when you have to count your dead. When you fight with your own impotent rage, and with the thoughts that come too late, tauntingly showing all the ways it could have been different. The ways they could have been saved.

The passage into Lilla Howe was too small for Svip’s horse shape, so we rearranged our duties. Svip, in his own form, went first, carrying the torch ahead of us. Then came Thorolf and Holgar bearing Finn, and Cirion and I bearing Buslai.

We laid them down on the floor of the chamber that we had left not two hours before.

“We will bury them in the main chamber,” Cirion declared. “The spirits of the Howe will welcome two fellow warriors.”

Cirion and Thorolf set off through a second passage that had been hidden up until now, its rock-sealed entrance concealed behind the stacks of benches and tables. The passage, I knew, led upward, into the Lord Lilla’s burial chamber high above us. In the ages that had passed, the ancient warrior’s corpse had vanished, whether lost to grave robbers or simply the ravages of time, none alive could say. But there were small, rock-lined rooms all around the main burial hall. In these, their entrances sealed again with stone, Finn Son of Thorstein and Buslai Son of Brynjolf could lie in honour. Perhaps their spirits would remain to protect the men of Gondor who sheltered at the Howe in days to come.

Holgar and Svip both sat on the floor, near the corpses of our comrades. Holgar was crying harder now, still with almost no sound, but with sobs that wracked his entire frame. Svip sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, never taking his gaze from the dead Men’s faces.

I was pacing about the chamber, the action as hatefully useless as everything else that I could imagine doing.

I kept thinking there should have been some way, must have been some way I could have stopped this from happening.

I thought about killing Orcs. Imagined hacking into hundreds of them, rending their bodies apart, in the hopeless attempt not to think of Finn and Buslai.

I realised how little I knew of Finn Son of Thorstein. Not whether his parents lived, nor if he were married and if he had children, not even where he hailed from. I wished I had talked with him last night and found out more about him. Although, I told myself bitterly, that would not have saved him.

And at this moment, I knew more than I wanted to of Buslai Son of Brynjolf.

I could picture his father in the sitting room of their home in Minas Tirith, his gouty foot up on a stool, with a mug of beer before him, holding forth to all who would listen about his brave, glorious son out fighting in the service of Gondor.

And I could picture the blank denial that would fill his face when the news came. And then the terrible understanding that would follow.

No, I thought furiously. No. I cannot let this happen.

Gondor already had too many grieving fathers.

And it will have more, I snarled back at myself. Grieving fathers, and mothers, and children, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

But there should be, my mind insisted. There must be.

And then the thought came to me, there is a way. There is one.

You know that there is one.

As the realisation rushed over me, I could not comprehend why it had taken me this long to think of it.

I knelt beside Svip, and whispered urgently, “Svip. Do you have any silverweed with you? Or does it grow around here? Can you find some?”

He stared up at me. “What are you talking about?” he whispered.

“Can you bring them back?”

Svip’s eyes widened in horrified shock. “But they drowned,” he hissed at me. “They drowned.”

“Well? Can you?”

“Don’t you remember?” he insisted desperately. “The River. If we take them back, It’ll come after us.”

“We’re not in the River,” I argued. “Can It come after us here?”

“I don’t know,” Svip breathed in a haunted tone. “But I think It can.”

“Svip,” I said, gripping one of his shoulders. “I’m begging you. Please. They’re my people, I can’t let them die.”

My people were dying, of course. They were dying by the thousands, and there was nothing I could do.

But this time there was something. And when I had the chance to save even just two of them, to stop even two families from grieving, I could not let that chance go.

“Svip, please.”

“I can’t do it,” he breathed. “I can’t.”

Holgar’s sobs had ceased as he listened in growing wonder. Now he asked, “can you help them?”

“No!” Svip yelled. “I can’t!”

“Please,” Holgar whispered. “If there’s anything you can do – please.”

Svip looked frantically from one of us to the other. I felt a twinge of guilt at what we were doing to him – but not enough guilt for me to stop.

“Svip, listen,” I said. “They welcomed you into their dwelling. They shared their food with you and made you part of their company. You can’t repay that by refusing to help, when you have the ability to save them. You said you wanted to learn about the ways of Men. Well, no Man would let his comrades die, when by his actions he could restore their lives to them.”

“Please, Svip,” Holgar whispered again. “Please.”

The water being looked about to cry. Then he gazed down at the two drowned Men – and then reached for one of the shiny bits of glass and other trinkets he had sewn to the collar of his tunic.

I hadn’t looked closely enough to notice it before, despite all the time we had spent in each other’s company. Now I saw that it was a small glass flask with a stopper, with a cord of the fabric from his tunic tied about the flask’s handle.

“I brought some just in case,” Svip said defensively, not looking at me. “It’s good for wounds, too, you know. Not just for the dead.” Svip looked at Holgar. “You’ve got to open up their clothing,” he said. “Over their lungs. It needs to touch their skin.”

Hurriedly Holgar moved to open Finn’s sodden clothes over his chest, and I did the same for Buslai. I think my hands shook a little as I did so. I was just beginning to wonder if maybe Svip was right. Being brought back to life had worked out fine for me, but how did I know what would it would do to them? And what if Svip was right about the River? It would do no good to bring Finn and Buslai back, if by taking on the River I got all of us killed.

But how could I go home – how could I go back to the City where Sergeant Brynjolf waited for his son – if I had the chance to save his son’s life and I did not try?

Svip turned one last glare on Holgar and on me. Then he unstoppered the flask and poured some thick, dark green salve onto his hand. This he rubbed over their chests, first Buslai’s and then Finn’s.

Svip was whispering something, but I could not hear what he said, nor did I try to.

As Svip was rubbing the last of the salve over Finn’s lungs, Cirion and Thorolf returned from the burial chamber. And stopped, frozen, just inside the doorway.

“What are you doing?” Cirion grated in a tone of fury, his hand flying to his axe hilt. “What are you doing to them?”

“Wait, sir!” Holgar pleaded. “Wait! He can bring them back.”

“What?”

For a moment all of us seemed trapped in an appalling silence. It closed in on us like the silence of the tomb, where no sound will ever be heard again.

Then suddenly Buslai’s chest, beneath the green salve, began to move.

He drew in a tortured breath. Captain Cirion dropped to his knees by the young Ranger’s side.

Finn twitched and gasped, then sat up so suddenly that he knocked Svip away from him. The mapmaker blinked and stared around at all of us. Then he asked in a choked whisper, “what happened?”

Buslai groaned.

Everyone stared for another instant, then I think they all began to talk at once. All except for me and for Svip.

I looked over at him, and saw to my relief that he had a faint smile on his face as he picked himself up and watched while the other Rangers yelled and laughed and embraced their fallen comrades.

“Svip -- ” I began.

Then I heard something else. Like some huge animal roaring in the deep. An animal, or something worse. As if the Balrog were coming for us, but was still far away. Just close enough to let us know that he was coming, and that this time none of us would escape.

Once more I knew that there was some danger behind us. And this time, when I turned to look, I saw it.

A dark trickle of water oozed under the stone blocking the passageway into Lilla Howe. A trickle of water followed by another, and another. And then all the floor near the passageway was wet, as the water, still just a puddle, moved toward us.

Svip stood up and crossed to stand beside me. And he said, “I told you so.”