The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 8)

The Tale

Eventually the watchers on the wall can see the retreat of the out-companies back to the city, and they start trickling back to the gate. The advance of the enemy can be seen by the lines of fires they carry, creeping forward and torching buildings as they come. The dike is down. As night falls they sight, about a mile away, a more ordered group of men returning. ‘Faramir must be there,’ they said. ‘He can govern man and beast. He will make it yet.’

The retreat is only ‘two furlongs’ (about a quarter of a mile) from the city. A small rearguard of mounted men turn to cover the final retreat, but a sudden surge of enemy soldiers mount a desperate final attempt to stop them, Orcs with torches and Southron men with red banners, and the Nazgul come swooping down ‘to the kill.’ The Gondoreans start to break up and flee wildly, when Denethor at last gives the signal and releases the sortie.

They spring from the recesses of the Gate and shadows of the wall, led by the swan-nights of Dol Amroth and their prince. But before them comes Gandalf, the White Rider upon Shadowfax, with white light leaping from his shining figure in the gloom. ‘The Nazgul screeched and swept away, for their Captain was not yet come to challenge the white fire of his foe.’ The enemy breaks and flees and the troops sweep them from the field. But Denethor does not let them go too far. He has the retreat sounded and weary men return. But where is Farimir?

He comes in last of all, carried by his kinsman, the Prince of Dol Amroth, from where he has fallen on the field. Even as the Nazgul were turned aside by Gandalf, Faramir, who has been holding at bay ‘a mounted champion of Harad’ is struck down by a flying ‘deadly dart’. He would have been cut up by southland swords if the Prince had not caught him up. ‘Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds.’

In the White Tower the Steward looks upon his fallen son’s face and is silent. He bids them lay Faramir in a bed in the chamber and leave them. Denethor goes alone into the secret room under the summit of the Tower. Many who looked up can see a pale light flickering and glimmering from the narrow windows, then with a great flash it goes out. ‘And when Denethor descended again he went to Faramir and sat beside him without speaking, but the face of the Lord was grey, more deathlike than his son’s.’

Notes

The Prince of Dol Amroth is Faramir’s uncle, the brother of his mother Finduilas, who died when Faramir was five years old.

The ‘deadly dart’ is a poisoned arrow, which accounts for his subsequent fever and unconsciousness.

It is hinted here (and revealed later) that Denethor has withdrawn to consult the Tower’s palantir. What is revealed to him … is not encouraging.

Thrand (Part Eight)

 

Thrand was taken in hand by a brisk young page and guided somewhat breathlessly through the back chambers of the palace. The old Morg trotted behind as the hallways grew less and less spacious and went from ornate to plain. Occasionally his belly growled as he passed halls that billowed and steamed with smells of cooking. At last he found himself kicked out of a small door (courteously of course, if rather hastily – it was going to be a busy day, after all) that led into the shady aisles of the castle gardens. The door itself was camouflaged outside by tall hedges, and as Thrand kinked his way around them he could already feel the heat of the day starting to overwhelm the cool of the morning.

After threading his way through the garden he was let out the back gate by the guard there with very little fuss. Maybe the guard recognized Thrand and maybe not. He gave no indication. Perhaps he just reckoned that no-one would try to break his way out of the palace, Thrand thought wryly. The gate swung shut behind him.

The High Justice looked up and down the street, tugging on his beard thoughtfully. This area seemed to be dedicated to rather fancy shops, places most likely to be frequented by habitues of the White Tower or people who thought that the proximity guaranteed some sort of quality or tone.  The Inner Circle road wasn’t far away; if he meant to begin taking Madam Melniar’s advice, there was no time like the present. The day would only get hotter and the trek more uncomfortable. Rather reluctantly, he began making his way forward.

It wasn’t just the idea of the exercise that was slowing him down. Thrand was still wearing his judge’s robes, and it would be a short leap from spotting those to identifying him as the High Justice himself, and before he knew it that information would be passed along and sold, and he would be mobbed by a throng of postulants who just couldn’t wait to be king. That sort of thing had happened to him before.  Right now, he just wanted a little time to think about things as he trudged along.

The solution came to him by accident. Almost the first place he passed was a clothing store outfitted with a fringed red awning. A large banner, obviously brand-new, had been pinned to the tassels: MOURNING CLOAKS/BLACK & WHITE. Grinning grimly to himself, he glanced left and right before going in.

A young clerk behind the desk looked up in surprise from his books as Thrand entered. The man was plainly not quite ready for business yet, but he was also apparently not going to let a sale go by. He switched smoothly into an obsequious mode as he slipped out onto the shop floor, tilting his head into a sort of permanent half-bow.

“Ah, my lord. And what can we supply you with on this somber day? The master of the shop himself is otherwise engaged at the moment, but perhaps I could help you?”

“Perhaps you can,” Thrand said gruffly. He looked around the store. It was obvious that much of its usual stock had been hurriedly pushed back to the walls to make room for racks upon racks of cloaks of all lengths. “I need to buy a mourning cloak.”

“But of course. As you can see, we have many sizes, in the traditional colors for both Men and Morgs. They range in quality from quite decently basic to most substantial.  You will, of course, wish a black one.”

“I do.” Thrand turned and fingered a nearby cloak. “You seem to have got things out pretty quickly, considering the King only died this morning.”

The clerk shook his head as he measured up his customer’s height.

“Alas, the passing of the lamented King Taryn was an event not entirely unforeseen. The master has been preparing for that melancholy eventuality for weeks, the better to serve our customers in their time of need. You are a Husky Medium,” he concluded briskly. “What sort of quality are you seeking, sir?”

“Oh, pretty basic, I think.” The young man’s face froze a bit, not exactly in disapproval, but a shade less enthusiastic. “I’ve got a fancier one at home,” Thrand hastened to add. “I just don’t want to be caught disrespecting the King on the streets right now.”

“I see.” The man sniffed slightly. “We also offer a cleaning service, should you find the need of one for your … old cloak, if it has gone unused for some time.” He riffled through the racks and came up with a plain cloak and hood. He briefly measured it against the old Morg. “This seems correct. I take it you will wear it out?”

They moved over to the counter and completed the transaction in an abrupt, businesslike manner. Before Thrand left the shop, throwing the cloak around his shoulders and pulling the hood up, a figure had emerged from the shadowy recesses of the door at the back of the store to watch him leave, a gingery-bearded Morg of middle age, very well dressed. He hastened out to the clerk after Thrand had left.

“Here, Sharro, how much did that fellow pay?”

“Just one silver mark.” He shrugged. “Cheapskate.”

The Morg slapped him on the side of his head.

“Dolt! Didn’t you realize that he was a Judge?”

The clerk rubbed his head.

“Really?”

“Really.” The master sighed, shaking his head mournfully. He stared at the empty doorway. “We could have soaked him for five marks, easy.”

Eye of Darkness (Part Eight)

 

The sun was getting low in the sky and they had not turned from the high dusty road anywhere before the wizard called a halt. Along the way Belmok had been asking Dunwolf several cunning questions about the past, all of which the old man had answered in such a way that the Morgish scholar had started to foster an increasing conviction that he was telling the truth, at least about his identity. The Kellic War, that had happened when Belmok was a youth of thirty, had captured his imagination and started him on the road to History Master. Though there were still elderly Morgs who remembered the matter, there could be few Men who could know such details as Dunwolf. He was almost disappointed when the brown-clad man raised his hand and said, “Here we are.”

Belmok squinted around at the broken lands and scrubby stands of trees around them, pursing his lips.

“Where are we?”

Dunwolf pointed off to the left, at a clump of low-hanging silver birch.

“There! Do you see it?”

Thron barked, a single mirthless laugh.

“Well, at least it will be a place to camp for the night before I drag you back to the cells in the City.”

As the three left to road and drew closer to the birches, Belmok got a clearer look at what had seemed a tumble of rocks behind the curtain of branches. It resolved itself into a roofless building, a shell of four broken walls and an empty doorway. An old inn, abandoned and now used as a sheep-pen apparently, with only a clump of moldy hay against one wall to speak of a temporary occupancy. A little wicket of dried branches leaned against the vacant doorway.

“Perfect,” said the wizard. “Here is our shortcut.”

“Here,” said Belmok. His voice was flat. He gripped his walking staff tightly and sniffed. “I can see even from here there’s nothing inside but old grass and some lumps of petrified sheep-dung.”

“Even so,” said Dunwolf cheerfully. “Shall we go in?”

“Why not?” said Thron. “There’s all the makings for a good campfire.”

The wizard stepped forward and laid a hand on the wicker gate. He said a few words the Morgs didn’t quite catch, then swung the ramshackle gate open and stepped in, Belmok and Thron close on his heels.

[No Notes Today]

Elf and Bear: The Retching Wretch

Suddenly he retched and spewed a mouthful of stew out back into the ladle.  He turned to the sickened Thornbriar and roared, tossing the goop back into the pot.

“This stuff is terrible!  I guess I’ll have to teach you a lesson, pointy-ears.”

Fleshbag began loosening a coiled leather whip from his belt.  “You’ll not serve me such muck again.”

“You didn’t give me enough time,” pleaded Thornbriar.  “If you’ll just be patient while it cooks…”

“My patience has run out, elf,” sneered the goblin. “You had plenty of time.  But you’re a sluggard.  Well, a few licks of the lash will make you go fast enough.”

He flicked the whip around in wicked little circles, then gave it a preliminary crack.  “This will cure your laziness!”  He raised the whip back to strike and Thornbriar cringed.

The blow never fell.

With a roar that shook the trees and shattered the night air Bear came leaping down the ravine into the middle of the goblin camp.  His landing seemed to shake the earth.  The whip fell from Fleshbag’s suddenly limp fingers and his jaw dropped in his bloodless face.  The bear sent goblins crashing left and right with mighty swipes of his paw as he bore down straight toward the goblin leader and Thornbriar.

Fleshbag drew out his sword with a shaking hand, but before he could use it, Bear knocked it upward with a blow of his paw. It went spinning through the air and landed with a “thunk” in the trunk of a tree.  The goblin looked from where the blade hung quivering back into the red eyes and three-inch fangs snarling a foot from his face.

Flehbag’s mouth worked as if he were trying to say something, anything, that could save his hide.  Bear thrust his snout forward and roared, a great full-throated bellow that sprayed the goblin and revealed even more teeth and a bright red gullet.  Fleshbag’s eyes rolled up in his head, and with a whimper he buckled to the ground.  As the goblin fainted, Bear reached forward and plucked the elf’s pointed blue hat from Fleshbag’s head before he hit the earth.

Bear handed Thornbriar his hat.  “Come on,” he said.  He looked around at the band of the groaning goblins.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“Just a moment.”

The elf adjusted his hat, then turned to the greasy cauldron.  Using the ladle he tipped its rim until the stomach-turning slop inside poured out, spilling everywhere and dousing the fire.  He gave a satisfied nod.  “Now let’s go.”