Boromir of Gondor was weary.

Not the weariness that resulted from a night of drinking and telling tales in the solders' barracks, nor the weariness that came with an exhausting bout on the practice field, nor even the inevitable and painful weariness that plagued him during state occasions where he had to endure the inanities of the court's social life.

No, the weariness he now felt was not of the superficial, temporary sort. This weariness was in his bones, settling in from a long presence and the comfort it found in its host. Like a parasite, it ate away to feed its own hunger. Each passing day found this heavy beast within him demanding more of his strength than he could possibly afford to give.

The days themselves had succumbed to this disease, too tired to distinguish one from the other. As though in a gesture of defeat, they adopted a pattern of beginning and ending, as was expected, but filling the hours between with an unrelenting sameness.

Or was he only imagining it so?

As the miles passed , he had found little to occupy his mind. The monotony of the scenery, the unceasing beat of the horse's hooves and the perpetual rocking in the saddle were the only sounds and sights his ears and eyes experienced. After three days of pressing travel, he had devoted his attention to another object, the item that he bore, the thing that needed to be delivered, the whole purpose of this trying journey. He recited a riddle.

A riddle! He would dismiss it as nothing more than a rhyme that children sing-song in front of their pedagogue if it had not come to him in a dream that shattered his peace of mind, a dream accompanied by thunder and strange lights on the western horizon. A dream that had visited him after a dreadful assault where he had escaped with little more than his life. There was nothing innocuous about the eight lines that had shot through his consciousness like the surest of arrows. The weight of the meaning that lay hidden behind the words was heavy and forbidding.

Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsel taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

There could be nothing harmless or absurd about this dream. His brother Faramir had had it several times, then it visited him. It meant something.

This dreadful mystery had first appeared to Faramir on the eve of a battle which he never thought he would survive. Standing his ground upon the last remaining bridge in the once-glorious city of Osgiliath, he had fought alongside Faramir and their small company of men. They bravely held it while the remnants of Gondor's eastern army retreated across it into safety. Upon that spot, he had suffered wounds and the full power of the enemy such as he had never known. A rolling shadow of crippling fear washed over Gondor's soldiers, paralyzing some into impotency, rendering them completely helpless. He knew not if fear of another kind had given the rest unknown strength to flee from it. If so, then he, along with Faramir and two others, had found that fear and drained it of all it offered. When the bridge was cast down behind them, only a swim to the western banks of the Anduin would save them from the enemy's rage. While the weakest among them were pulled to the bottom of the river and the eternal forgetfulness that awaited them there, a lone four resisted the pull of the currents, the weight of the water filling heavy tunics and armor, and the black fear that spread over the battlefield from the sky above.

The exhaustion of the battle and near escape, coupled with a shared dream, nearly broke his strength. But duty and desire to unravel the mystery had pushed him onto this road. He would live to hear the answer and return to Minas Tirith a wiser man. It was this determination that continued to see him through when a lesser man would have succumbed to the bruises, wounds and sheer fatigue that plagued him.

He would not surrender to it. And neither would his mount. At this point, he relied upon the sturdy gelding as much as he relied upon his own strength and purpose.

Leaning over his horse's neck, he scrubbed the thick and sweaty crest, chuckling with as much mirth as he could summon when the equine curled its lips back in pleasure. When he drew away his hand, he saw the mud streaked on his fingers, a reminder of the baked and dusty plains under the summer heat. A brief rain would be welcome, but the cloudless sky told him that such a wish was hopeless, at least for the moment.

The Gap of Rohan was nearing. There the River Isen would be waiting for him. He had only been this far west twice before and never progressing a step beyond the border of Rohan. All that lay beyond would be new territory. New sights. New roads. New dangers.

But he would not think upon that now. The Isen would be the last familiar thing he would see on this journey and he was determined to linger in its cool and cleansing embrace for as long as he felt necessary. He would need a renewed spirit before venturing into the unknown.

A dry and crackling squeal shattered the peace in the southern region of Nan Curunir, where two arms of the Misty Mountains formed an open pincher. The outburst was brief, as it was meant to be. There was no pleasure in a lingering cry of death. It only proved that the aim had been less sure and lethal than intended. It spoke poorly of a hunter's skill to have the prey wailing as proof that its killer was an inferior marksman. When that occured, the cries and squeals became mocking and ringing laughter as blood and entrails spilled upon the ground in an agonizing dance of slow death.

A tall and hulking figure strode over to the limp corpse, bow firmly gripped in a massive hand. The reddish hue of his skin was the color of dried blood, and most of it was bared as he wore little but arm and leg guards of toughened hide, a cloth swathed around his waist and sturdy boots that made easy passage over the rocky land. A long and thick mane of coarse hair, almost the consistency of a horse's tail, sported several matted braids and was streaked with colored mud. On his face was the imprint of a white hand. The paint had not run during the chase as he had not been forced to exert himself.

The hunter did not feel victorious, even as the defeated object of his pursuit lay in the dust before him. His race, the Uruk-hai, were mighty warriors, but indeed how mighty was it to kill the weak and the sick? That was no test of skill. It kept him honed at a certain level, but greater victories would remain elusive as long as he continued to be a ridiculous slaughterer of the unworthy.

Lurtz bent over the prone Orc and retrieved the single arrow that he had buried in the wretch's heart. The tension on the bow had been so great that it had nearly passed through the orc's body and Lurtz had to put his foot upon the torso to wrench it free. He wiped the arrow on the scrap of clothing the Orc wore and reached behind him to drop the cleaned missile into his quiver.

For a moment he stared at his vanquished prey, his eyes full of disgust. The creature, worked nearly to death in the mines and forges within Isengard, had met the end of his usefulness at the point of an arrow. All of the weakened and sickly Orcs were put at the disposal of the Uruk-hai, used as living targets upon which to practice their hunting and fighting skills. Some of these sacrificed wretches actually tried to fight, which was often amusing, and Lurtz could not deny that in the early stages of his training he welcomed the endless supply of these spent slaves. He had learned how to track, using more than simply his heightened sense of smell. He had practiced with many weapons: knives, swords, bow and arrow. He had become proficient with all of them, though he loved the resisting nature of a drawn bow most of all.

But he had only fought against orcs, and that was not his enemy. That was not who he and thousands of others had been bred to fight.

Man.  Therein lay his true prey, and one against which he had not yet been tested.

He gave the Orc a kick and turned on his heel, walking south. To his left in the distance lay the River Isen, or so the white wizard Sharkey called it. The old man was his master, but he knew nothing about warriors. They could not live on a diet of the sick, the half-dead. Fresh meat was needed and if it would not be brought to him, then he would seek it out for himself.

He would find it, and when he did, he would savor the feast.

Boromir sat in a shallow pool of the Isen, his clothes and armory beside him on the riverbank, sword, shield and knife reflecting the light and heat of the relentless sun. He had reached the ford of the river at midday and saw that the road proceeded due north, leading to that small region known to his people as Angrenost, abandoned by Gondor when necessity required a shrinking of their borders and concentration of forces. Long ago it had been given to the wizard Saruman by his father's ancestor, Beren, Steward of Gondor. The understanding had been that Saruman would dwell peacefully, but Boromir's short respite at Edoras scant days earlier had troubled his heart. Unrest was brewing in the rocky vale, nipping at the western border of Rohan. Eomer and Theodred, Theoden King's nephew and son, and both Marshals of the Mark, had revealed to him that a threat and a shadow was gathering on the outer regions of Rohan, held back from overflowing only by the Isen.

"Be wary on your journey," Theodred had told him. "Have your sword ever ready for this danger can strike at any time. Our people in the Westfold have told us of others fleeing from near the Gap of Rohan, survivors of raids by Dunlendings and creatures that come from Isengard."

"Orcs," Eomer spat. "When the last of their kind is finally put to death, perhaps our country shall know peace again." The fierce light in his eyes and vehement tone as he said it bespoke of his youth and vigorous spirit, whereas Theodred's words reflected his greater age and experience.

Boromir tried not to appear alarmed at what the tall and sun-haired warriors said and thanked them for their knowledge. The truth was, Boromir wondered if his hosts realized that the danger may have progressed further east than the Fords of Isen.

Upon approaching Edoras, passing by the farms that dwelled in the plains around the foot of the hill that housed the Rohirric capital, he noted a pall that hung over the people. The open and robust spirit of the folk he had met in the past was noticeably lacking.

At the gate, he requested entrance and asked to have an audience with Theoden King as well as a new mount. His presence and entreaty was relayed to Meduseld, the seat of the king. Soon a black-clad figure scurried down and delivered the king's message in person. His master would be pleased to hold an audience if he were not suffering from a malady that made him currently unfit to meet with "emissaries." The word was delivered with a sly twist of the lips that made Boromir bristle. The rage he felt must have been clear in his expression, for the pale politician with the invidious tongue immediately affected a humble bow and said that though his master was unavailable, the stables would see to his needs.

It was with the thought that all was not well in Edoras that Boromir made his way up the hill to the stables where Eomer and Theodred were readying their own mounts for a patrol into the plains. It was there that the premier warriors of Rohan told him of the threat in the west that lay in his path. They also gifted him with the gelding he now rode. In Boromir's language, he was called Sarnros, so named for of the wake of earth and rocks behind him when he was spurred into a gallop. As he took him with a grateful bow, he hoped that should he suddenly need this horse's gifts, they would prove true and reliable.

Perhaps Theodred and Eomer were indeed wise to the poison that was seeping further into their lands, for when he mentioned his spurned request to see the king, and the ghostly-visaged man who delighted in the refusal, Eomer growled about the rotten living carcass that was Grima Wormtongue. Boromir had been seeing more and more evidence that all was not well in the west and the fear that Gondor would find itself immersed in a two front war was steadily growing. If it was only worsening as he continued, what would greet him beyond the Gap of Rohan? Would it be Gondor against the rest of the world? Only the words of the riddle prevented him from letting that fear take hold of him. They held a fragment of hope.

        There shall be counsel taken
        Stronger than Morgul-spells.

Whatever the powerful counsel was, it promised to be what Gondor would need in this time of darkness.

Thoughts of Edoras, fallen lands and the nagging enigma of the riddle turned the pleasures of the cool water into a warm and rancid brine. He stood up in disgust and grabbed his cloak, using it as a towel to dry himself. He deemed that he would need another dousing in several days and hoped that a river would appear at the right time. Feeling clean for the first time in well over a week, he felt some of his old energy restored and he pulled on his tunic, breeches and boots with purpose. With care, he arranged all his weaponry on his body, giving each arm a moment of inspection for their cleanliness, strength, or sharp edge. A warm breeze from the south filled his lungs and he exhaled in satisfaction. He had already traveled the entire lengeth of Gondor and Rohan. Imladris, wherever it was, could not possibly be far away. Middle Earth was only part of the vast world and it had to have an end.

Once he set out again, there was little that could delay him, so strong did he feel.

* * *

Dusk covered the land. The cloudless sky allowed the light of the sun to linger well past the time it set and nocturnal creatures were only beginning to emerge from their dens, burrows and perches. Lurtz had not eaten anything since morning and his belly had been rumbling all day. Untrained in the killing of furred game, he had tried to bag a rabbit and a wolf but with failed results. They had run off unharmed and Lurtz' ire was mounting. He regretted that he had not taken something from the Orc to eat should he fail in his quest.

Already he was beginning to doubt that he would find what he sought. The day had yielded not so much as a stray traveller and he wondered if Sharky's rumblings from that fanged fortress he secluded himself in had rippled abroad to the extent that all avoided the region. That would mean poor hunting for he and the other Uruk-hai. They would not cross swords with Men until thrown into battle. He did not doubt that their blades would drink heartily from the blood of Men, but the sweetness of that victory would be delayed that much longer.

He had left the embrace of the Misty Mountains and was now upon a stretch of rocky plains that, looking to the west, descended into a morass of shrubs and thickets, a land from which those Wild Men Sharkey courted scraped out their miserable existence. The Old Man must need their help, Lurtz thought, otherwise he would toss one or two of those fierce animals to us once in awhile. They look able to put up a fight, if only briefly. Still, it would relieve the monotony and empty victory of slaying weakened Orcs.

Lurtz growled in frustration and was about to turn and retrace his steps when a soft breeze swept over his thick skin. He would have paid it no mind but for the scent that was carried upon its wings. It was familiar. He had smelled it before, usually accompanied by the stench of dirt and filth. But this was no Dunlending smell. It was cleaner, crisper.. He stuck out his tongue and let the wind ply it with this new bounty.

Tastier.

Manflesh.

* * *

When it became too dark for Sarnros to take another step without injuring himself, Boromir halted for the night. He could see some rocks that would provide ideal shelter from the chill that promised to settle in the valley between the two mountain ranges. Already the wind that had accompanied him from the Fords of Isen had become stronger and colder. He tugged his cloak more tightly about him and decided that he would find little else more suited to his needs.

Dismounting, he led the gelding over to the natural windbreak and unsaddled him, rubbing him down with the blanket. He took a bag of fodder from one of his saddlebags and let the horse feast while he set about making a small fire with which to warm himself. He would not let it burn long for he did not wish to alert others to his presence, but if he could warm his bones a little he would be able to pass the night with some degree of comfort on the rocky ground.

Gathering some dry grass and dead brush limbs, he set them to burning and huddled around the fire. The smoke that billowed from the flames in small belches filled his lungs and he could soon smell nothing else, not even the dirt and sweat that covered his clothes. When he had deemed himself suitably warmed, he crouched and took handfuls of the sandy earth and was about to toss them onto the fire.

* * *

Lurtz saw a glow in the distance, accompanied by the scent that had driven him onwards through the fading day. He chuckled to himself, the sound vibrating in his throat. This was almost too easy. After proving invisible throughout the day and then elusive with only a scent to trail him by, this Man was now announcing his presence with a campfire. It was still too distant for him to discern exactly what this Man was, how he was armed, and if he was alone. Such details would be discovered in the morning. He would not attack tonight. There was no hurry. After all the trouble of finding what he looked for, he did not wish to risk losing his prize under the cover of darkness.

But. . .he could make the ill-fated quarry lose some much-needed sleep. It would give him a slight advantage tomorrow, but not too much to diminish the pleasure of conquering him.

Lurtz threw back his head and emitted a roaring howl.

* * *

Boromir spun so sharply at the bone-chilling sound coming from behind him that he lost his balance, the earth flying from his hands. Frantically, he grabbed more dirt and piled it onto the flames as fast as he could. The fire quickly sputtered and died.

He peered out into the blackness, eyes wide. His heart hammered in his chest. It sounded like no animal he had ever heard before. Sarnros was nervous and anxiously pawed the ground, shifting from one leg to another. He gave a panicked snort and Boromir made his way to him in a running crouch, keeping his head turned in the direction of the feral roar. He ran a hand along the horse's neck, side and flank, soothing it with words barely a whisper. When no further sound burst from the darkness, Sarnros seemed to relax, if only slightly. Boromir felt no such ease returning to his own body and mind. He dared not move for fear of being followed. Likewise, he did not wish to stay, be a sitting target.

Elbereth! he thought. Give me the strength to stay watchful all night. What fell creature is out there?

Well before dawn, as the light from the rising sun began to spread itself up from behind the horizon, Boromir had already saddled Sarnros and was leaving his camp. He had not shut his eyes all night and it required every bit of his strength and powers of concentration to remain awake. To keep himself alert and active, he had removed one of his tunics and slowly torn it into strips that he wrapped around Sarnros' hooves. He believed that if he could muffle his steps as best he could, the chance of his escaping would increase. Though no more sounds had split the peace of the night, he feared that whatever had made its presence known was still out there.

Even with the cloth boots, Sarnros could not step as lightly as his rider wished him to and still made noise which, to his heightened senses, Boromir thought was as loud as an army tramping over a bridge. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached and his eyes constantly scanned the north. If he could slip away quietly, when he was at a safe distance, he could spur Sarnros and see if the gelding indeed was worthy of his name.

He could see nothing in the distance and there was not a trace on the air that bespoke of the previous night's terror. Was it all a dream? Boromir wondered. Have I been traveling so long that I am now prey to hallucinations?

The thought had barely been formed when, from his right, there came a guttural voice, a voice so deep that only a howl could make the words intelligible. If one could call it a voice. If one could call what it said actual words. It was nonsense, a collection of grunts and snarls that might have passed for words among animals. Yet it was frightening for whoever -- whatever -- it was spoke directly to him. The tone was a challenge, Boromir knew that much. It was unmistakable.

Sarnros again was agitated, but Boromir nudged the horse's sides insistently. The ground was not favorable for a breakneck gallop and, from what he could see, would not be so for some time yet. Curse this forsaken terrain!

Boromir was nearly as startled at what next met his ears as he had been when he first heard the barbaric tongue. The voice was the same, but now the words were clear, recognizable. It was talking in the Common Speech.

"You will not escape me!" it said. "I am of the fierce Uruk-hai, bred for battle, and you shall be the first Man to meet my blade. Be proud of such an honor. Fight bravely and I will make your end quick. I am Lurtz of the Uruk-hai. Remember it!"

Uruk-hai? He had never heard of them. Bred for battle? What black sorcery was this?

He peered even more sharply towards the direction of the voice. It now came from the northwest, towards the curve of the Misty Mountains that disappeared into infinity through the horizon. If whatever it was continued this path, he could soon expect this Uruk-hai to appear on the road in front of him. He had to go north. That was where his mission lay and he could not risk turning south. He had studied his map often enough to know that should he go in that direction, he could very well become trapped in the land between the branches of the Isen and the Adorn, should he even be able to find a suitable crossing to get beyond the Isen. Worse yet, he knew not what type of folk dwelled in the Druwaith Iaur since the skittish pukel-men of legend had abandoned the region long ago. Probably there were harmless farmers, but if not. . .? What if the White Mountains had spawned a race that rivaled the ferocity of the Dunlendings? He would be risking a confrontation with that reviled northern people regardless. He did not wish to find himself amongst another of its kind.

To imagine that Faramir wanted to make this journey instead of I, he thought. If I am finding myself in an increasingly hopeless situation, what would my poor brother be thinking at this moment? He did not doubt Faramir's courage, not in the slightest, but the argument he had used to press his father to decide in his favor had relied on his skill and experience. Boromir's extra years behind a sword were more persuasive than Faramir's own accomplishments. He hoped that his father's confidence and his own hard campaigning for this mission would be justified.

"You have not moved!" taunted his invisible enemy. "Do you wish me to kill you now? For I can."

Boromir gripped his reins and dug his heels into Sarnros' side. Rough terrain or no, he had to fly beyond the reach of this Uruk-hai.

Within one hundred feet, he regretted his decision. Winter frosts had forced rocks from the ground, tunneling rodents left treacherous pitfalls for human and beasts, and the thousands of years had sent shale from the mountains trickling down to the land below. Sarnros began to lose his footing and scrabbled for balance. Boromir pulled back on the reins and got the gelding under control again. Cursing under his breath, he proceeded at a trot.

When there was no further challenge, when no figure appeared, Boromir refused to let himself relax his guard. He remained rigid and alert in his saddle. The tension flowed from him into Sarnros and the gelding also kept his head high, ears following any sounds, his steps high and clearing the small obstacles beneath him.

To Boromir's dismay, the Old South Road that had been marked so clearly on his map was not visible, at least to the extent that it would be of use in guiding a traveler. Upon reaching the western bank of the Isen, he noted that the condition of the old road was quickly deteriorating. With more urgent matters consuming Gondor's attention, it had been allowed to crumble into the dust.

The day was progressively becoming worse. The potentially hostile lands of the north and southwest, and an unseen enemy who was intent on proving their strength by ending his life. The only alternative was that Faramir had undertaken the task of traveling to Imladris, and that was even more worrisome than his own plight.

But he would not succumb to despair, no matter how tempting it was. Whatever, whoever was out there would discover that a soldier of Gondor was not some meek prey who would crumple in the heat of battle. His mind began to work feverishly.

* * *

Lurtz kept an attentive eye on the mounted figure in the distance. He could see a heavy shield slung over the Man's arm and the glint of the sun on a finely-crafted scabbard. This was a Man of quality, of weath, of might. What a worthy opponent.

He was beyond the range of his bow, but there was no pressing need to force his move. He sneered at the thought that his absence from Sharkey's domain might cause his master some alarm, prodding the other spawn from the slime pits to jeer at the mighty Lurtz' death out in the wild at the hands of a sickly forge slave. The expressions on their ugly faces when he returned with the head of a warrior, grasped by a hank of that fine golden hair that shone so richly in the sun, would be a gratifying sight to behold.

The hours passed. His path kept within the foothills of the mountains, scaling over the rocks and ducking into the many gullies and recesses formed by nature. His bow was still gripped tightly in his powerful fist, and he leapt from perch to perch, muscles straining against his tough dark hide. His steps were sure, measured, and graceful, so at odds with his immense size.

The quarry had been keeping a wary distance from the hills, as though acutely aware that danger lurked in all its horrible uncertainty. It made every attempt to keep as far west as it could, though the necessity to follow the bare traces of the disintegrating road forced it to choose an uncomfortably close course to the spiny fingers that jutted from the snow- capped peaks above. The overgrown thickets, fallen trees and ragged stumps also confined the Man's path. Where the road had been was slow to be reclaimed by nature. The land on either side was more susceptible.

If Lurtz had not been avidly watching him, the Man would have announced his increasing proximity through the sweet scent that was carried on the wind. He smelled even more enticing than he had the previous day. Perhaps it was the fear, the anxiety that enriched him so. The mounting hunger that gnawed at the inside of his belly was likewise eating away at Lurtz' patience. Enough tracking, enough hunting, enough waiting. He would eliminate the beast the Man rode and then after a satisfying crossing of swords, it would end. They were close to each other now. Only the nooks of the hills kept him from the Man's sight. Once he disabled the mount, he could spring down from his hiding place and reach the stunned human before he could regain his senses.

He nocked an arrow and drew back on the string, the bow groaning under the tension. Sighting down the shaft, Lurtz' gaze fixed on the bared neck of the Man's sole means of escape. Just then, a cool glacial breeze came whistling down the mountainside. He would have to wait until it passed. He could not risk the wind turning his arrow from its mark. A growl rumbled deep in his throat and he ground his teeth in frustration.

* * *

When the clean air, straight from the immortal snows of the mountaintops, swept around him, Boromir caught an intense strain of the odor he had been intermittently smelling all day. It increased as he drew nearer to the foothills and once it had become a nearly constant scent on the air, he had grown ever more cautious. The Uruk-hai was near, very near. A move would soon be made. Soon. . .

A twang of a bow resounded from the hills and Boromir threw himself down across his horse's neck, jerking his arm forward and sending the shield strap sliding down to his lower forearm. The shield was broad and heavy and he had practiced the move several times in the budding light of dawn. Each time he had tried to cover as many vital marks of himself and Sarnros as possible. Not everything could be protected, but he would have to take a chance that it might work.

Boromir gave a grunt when an immense force slammed into the wood and tooled leather of his shield. The tip of the shaft had nearly pierced the entire thickness of the shield. He heard the point of the metal head scrape the leather of his vambraces. The thought of the strength required to make such a penetrating shot nearly left him breathless. Fear washed over him and he tried to right himself in the saddle, but Sarnros was dancing nervously and Boromir could not steady him from this awkward position. The jigging and swaying of the horse beneath him kept throwing his weight off balance.

Sarnros pivoted and Boromir, his weight heavier on one side due to the low position of his shield, fell to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he was about to turn after Sarnros when his eyes finally beheld the invisible foe that had been dogging his steps.

Tall, taller than any man he had ever seen. Only Sauron in the scrolls, tapestries and paintings of old showed a figure that eclipsed this one. He was broad of shoulder and seemed stuffed with more strength than the leathery red body could allow, the muscles bulging, straining, and rippling as he moved. Enormous fangs were bared in fury, large and sharpened into lethal points. On his face was the imprint of a white hand, as though a brand or a badge of his commander and country, like the White Tree he wore on his own tunics and armor. At the Uruk-hai's side was a long and wide scabbard, the blade that it contained raised in the air for the first attack. The hands that gripped it could crush a man's throat in a gentle squeeze. Of all the enemies he had met on the battlefield, he had never encountered one such as this.

And now this fearsome beast was running right towards him.

Ten more running paces and the Uruk-hai would be atop him, the blow would fall. He could not turn and run, leaving his back open to attack. Sarnros was well beyond his reach and his own footspeed was no match for the gait of his opponent.

He had to stay out of his reach. There was no way he could escape, should the Uruk-hai lay his hands on him. Those hands would be as impossible to break as the strongest shackles in the deepest dungeon. Boromir brought his shield up to block the blow that would fall upon him. If he could inflict at least some injuries, he might be able to spirit away on Sarnros and leave this maddened animal in the dust far behind. He had to get in close and injure him, perhaps even a lucky killing stroke. But the long and broad sword being raised against him would easily keep him from closely approaching its bearer. He had to be quick; he had to think.

Boromir drew his sword from the scabbard with a ring and watched the Uruk- hai who called himself Lurtz steadily close the distance between them. His eyes flitted from Lurtz' long arms to the blade. Back and forth.

Five paces. . .four.

Time seemed to slow as Boromir calculated the mathematics of battle. He marveled that he was able to think at all.

Two paces. . .

Boromir leaped backwards once, twice. Lurtz' blade hurtled downwards, the edge slicing through the air, and missed. The blunt end of the sword nicked the lower edge of Boromir's shield and rang against the hard ground. Before Lurtz could recover, Boromir closed in quickly and managed to drive his own blade into the Uruk-hai's unprotected side. His reach was not long enough to inflict much damage and Lurtz arched up in rage and plowed his shoulder against the shield, throwing the soldier off balance and ending Boromir's temporary advantage.

Boromir staggered several steps, watching the ground for any protruding rocks or branches that could trip him. At a roar similar to the one from the previous night, Lurtz renewed his attack. I cannot play the same trick twice, Boromir thought. He is not that stupid. But neither am I. You will have to be as inventive as I am, my friend.

As though privy to his thoughts, Lurtz raised his sword with the skewed tip and, from his great reach, hooked it around the edge of the Man's shield. With a yank, the shield fell away momentarily, exposing Boromir to attack. He let himself be whirled around from the momentum at the end of his arm and tilted the shield so that it lay flat in the air like a plate. He made a circle and threw his weight behind it, sending the edge of the shield into the small of Lurtz' back.

He was satisfied to hear his foe grunt but the pleasure was short-lived because, before he could press his advantage, a meaty arm slammed him on the side of the head and he went crashing to the ground.

A reddish haze swam over his vision. The Uruk-hai disappeared into the fog so that only his voice remained. A low, rumbling laugh that replaced the ringing in his ears from the blow his head had suffered.

He blinked his eyes, trying to clear them of this cloudy veil, and saw that the Uruk-hai was looking down at him, his face a mixture of contempt and. . .disappointment?

"You have proven that there is no match for the Uruk-hai," the creature was saying. "And I had hoped that the race of Men would provide us with true sport. Hollow victory will sour your meat in our gullets, but perhaps the number we kill will soften the bad taste."

"Then kill me if it pleases you," Boromir snarled. "I'll not say those words again."

"So eager to die. What a poor choice I made to follow you."

Lurtz bent down and grabbed Boromir by the tunic on his arms, lifting him bodily in the air. "It is amazing that you and your kind have been allowed to breed and cover this land, for you certainly are not strong." He shook Boromir until his teeth rattled. "How would you like to die? I will offer you several ways."

Boromir hung limply in Lurtz' grip. "I. . .I leave that to you, mighty Uruk-hai," he spat.

Lurtz' lips peeled back even further from his fangs and he laughed. His mirth transformed into a howl of rage as Boromir, who had dangled so helplessly from his hands, tucked his legs up to his chest and retrieved his knife from the sheath concealed within his boot. The blade was only five inches long, but he sank it up to the hilt in the reddish flesh. He yanked it free and buried it in the muscle and bone of the Uruk-hai's elbow. He tried to pull it loose again, but the blade had become wedged as Lurtz retracted his arm in pain and Boromir decided he would have to sacrifice it.

Boromir delivered a swift kick to Lurtz' midsection and bent his knees when he felt himself released. He landed softly, grabbed his sword, and scuttled away in the direction of his shield. Sarnros still waited in the distance and he was greatly relieved to have such an obedient companion. When they escaped, that horse would lack for nothing.

As he passed by his shield, he scooped it up by the arm strap and headed in the direction of his waiting steed. He had only gone about fifteen steps when something tangled about his feet and he fell face first into the earth. The top of his head met an unresisting force and Boromir looked up to see that he had collided with a stump that was all that remained of a tree sheared away in a past storm. He used it to pull himself to his feet and gritted his teeth as the sharp splinters encircling a sharp wooden shard pricked his hands and fingers.

Ignoring the pain, he picked up his shield and sword and kicked at the heavy limb that had been thrown in his path to trip him. Before he could press on, a heavy blow landed between his shoulder blades and he stumbled forward, retching. Would he never make his escape? Would every attempt be thwarted, just when he thought that flight was possible?

He did not lose his footing again, though the force that had been brought down on his back nearly broke his knees. The Uruk-hai had only one good arm; he had two. The Uruk-hai was bleeding; he was not. While that did not even the odds entirely, it might give him some opportunity that would result in victory.

Boromir turned and staggered backwards, holding his sword and shield up in a defensive position. The Uruk-hai did not have his sword, but the battle rage that contorted his face seemed ample weapon enough. The knife was still lodged in the Uruk-hai's arm and Boromir saw what move he must make.

He lunged forward, ducking under the cover of his shield and, swinging his sword in a downward arc, brought the blade squarely on the hilt of the jutting knife. Lurtz bellowed as the pain ricocheted up and down the length of his arm. He swung his uninjured arm in Boromir's direction, but the Man easily ducked and darted back the way he came.

I have no new tricks left to play, Boromir thought. Let the one I use again be successful.

As he rounded Lurtz, he let his shield slip as far down his arm as he could and swung it into the Uruk-hai's gut, letting his own body go along with the motion to add extra force. The edge of the shield set Lurtz off balance enough so that he toppled backwards and landed on the wooden spike that jutted from the stump. It pierced his upper left shoulder, poking out bloody and unbroken on the other side.

Lurtz howled and thrashed in rage. Boromir was stunned at the sight of the impaled Uruk-hai, but his inaction did not last long. He would not take the time to kill this monster. Every previous opportunity of escape had been suddenly closed and he would not hesitate to seize this chance to flee. He turned and ran as fast as his weakened knees would allow.

Sarnros was eager to depart and began to gallop north before his rider had gotten both feet in the stirrups. Boromir jounced as he sheathed his sword, slung his shield onto his back and bent over the gelding's neck. Sarnros proved he had been well-named as he leaped over shrubs and fallen trees, pebbles and dust kicked up behind him in a frantic pace north.

* * *

Lurtz distantly heard the sound of the Man and his beast departing. Time passed as he lay there in a pool of blood and wonder. He had been left to die, wordlessly. No taunts, as he himself would surely have done had he been the victor.

I have only been temporarily bested, he thought. This Man may be better than the rest of his kind, but his life would end, as would the entire race of Men. Sharkey had declared it so. Perhaps he would encounter the golden- haired warrior on some distant field and when he had him within his sights, he would say nothing as well. Only a silent look would announce that the Man's end was near, and that it would be best to surrender to inevitability.

He moved slightly on the spike that held him and could feel no greater pain. It had swamped him entirely and nothing could hurt him worse. Bracing his feet and hands, he lifted himself off of the unyielding shard and looked in the direction of his fugitive opponent. There was no dusty trace of his path in the air.

No matter. Lurtz clamped a hand over his shoulder and returned to his fallen sword. He retraced his steps and picked up his discarded bow. Holding it up, he regarded it, smiling fearsomely. This was his weapon. None among the Uruk-hai could draw a bow like him. He looked forward to sending a shaft straight into the heart of that miserable vermin who had vanished into the horizon.

THE END