Mount Mindolluin stood tall against a bright sky, green-clad about its feet, its lofty crown distant and blue against the heights. Westward behind it marched the snow-capped peaks of the Ered Nimrais; eastward lay one solitary spur of stone -- the Hill of Guard -- upon which stood the Tower of the Guard, Minas Tirith of the white walls and the shining Tower.

Two brothers walked upon the heights of Mindolluin, following an ancient path now little used, but still faintly visible. The way was steep and difficult, and the going was slow, but Boromir was undaunted, for he knew this path well and led the way with confidence. Faramir followed his brother and did not hesitate, though he had never before walked this path. He knew only that it led to a place very special to Boromir; for that reason alone, he was eager to see it.

"No lagging, now," called Boromir over his shoulder, as he clambered up a steep incline to the top of a ridge.

"Always so impatient!" retorted Faramir, who was not far behind; there was laughter in his voice that belied the rebuke. "Stop treating me like a child! I am a captain in my own right and should be given proper respect!"

Boromir halted his upward climb and turned to his brother.

"Forgive me, Captain Faramir!" he said, bowing low. "I forget myself. Yet, when I look upon you, I cannot help but see a small boy still, instead of a tall captain -- a boy who used to trail after me everywhere I went. You are well-grown now, and a captain worthy of honor, but you still cannot keep the pace!"

Boromir stretched out his hand, and Faramir clasped it, allowing himself to be hauled up beside his brother.

"Thank you," Faramir said with a smile. "Though, of course, I did not need a hand up; I could have reached the ridge easily on my own -- and without lagging!"

"I know that," replied Boromir seriously. "I offered you my hand because it is my brotherly privilege and joy to serve you by aiding you at every opportunity."

He bowed to his brother once more, then spoiled the solemn moment with a wink.

"Now, no more lagging, or we shall never get there."

Faramir grinned and his laughter echoed from the hills.

"Agreed, Brother; no more lagging." Faramir looked beyond Boromir to the rocky slope that stretched up towards the fields of snow above them. "Is it much further?"

"No, not so much further. But the way is very steep at the end, before we reach the high meadow."

"Steeper than this?" exclaimed Faramir, raising his eyebrows. Boromir flashed a grin at him and clapped a hand to his shoulder.

"What I have to show you when we reach the top will be well worth the climb, I assure you!"

"Lead on, then, my brother. I am done with lagging, and eager to see what it is you have to show me."

***

When at last they reached the plateau, they could go no further, for the mountain to the west reared up suddenly like a wall, and the wide field that stretched before them ended in a precipice that curved north, south, and east. They stood upon the brink of the world with the sun at their backs, gazing out over the wide valley of the Anduin, silent and in awe at the sight spread out before their eyes.

All of Gondor seemed to be laid out before them, from horizon to horizon. Below, the White City lay small yet impressive, her towers gleaming above the shadow which thrust forward from Mindolluin as the sun moved behind the hills. Beyond the Hill of Guard, they looked out eastward across the valley: past Anduin glinting brightly, past Osgiliath, hidden in mist and smoke, to the Mountains of Shadow, dark against the sky. For once, the Fire behind those Mountains was veiled by bright clouds that caught the sun.

Turning to the left, they could see afar off on the northern skyline the grey smudge of the Emyn Muil; for a moment the rays of the sun caught a gleam of light on mist and water -- the falls of Rauros upon the very edge of sight. Turning right, they saw the River winding away across the valley like a shining road, to Pelargir and beyond; the Sea was little more than a suggestion of brightness upon the southern horizon.

Faramir stood rapt and reverent, unable to speak. When at last he found his voice, he spoke quietly, so that Boromir had to lean forward to hear his words.

"Well worth the climb indeed, my brother," breathed Faramir softly. "This is Gondor as I have never seen her before."

"Yes, this is Gondor," said Boromir solemnly, and his voice was rough with suppressed emotion. "I come here as often as I am able, to remind myself of my charge. Gondor! It is for this that we fight -- for this land, this City, this people..."

Boromir put his arm about his brother's shoulders, and they stood thus for many moments, silent together, drinking in the sight of their kingdom laid out before them. At last, Faramir sighed a deep, long sigh, but he did not speak. Boromir glanced at him keenly; he thought he knew what his brother might be thinking.

"War must be, Faramir," he said, "for we defend our very lives against a great Evil that threatens to devour us all."

Boromir shifted his arm where it lay upon Faramir's shoulders, and turned him so that they were facing one another.

"I know you are a man who loves peace, and I regret that you must now put that aside to fight the long battle. But I would have no one else there where you are, in Ithilien with your Rangers. Father seems to doubt you at times -- but I do not! You are a strong leader, and I am content, knowing I can rely upon you. More than that, I can trust you in all things, for you care for this City and this kingdom as I do."

Faramir nodded but still spoke no word.

"Are you happy there in Ithilien, Faramir?" Boromir asked.

"You know I am."

"Yes; I know you have always loved that land. But I meant, are you happy to be there as a captain of men? As a warrior?"

Faramir gazed at his brother's face for a long moment before answering.

"You know me well, my brother," he said with a fond smile. "Yes, I know that war must be while he who wishes to devour us still threatens, and I know that I must do my part in the battle. But I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend; my City -- our City!** I love you as well, my brother and Captain! I am with you in this, as in all things."

Faramir looked out once more at the shining towers of his City and the Mountains of Shadow, dark against the eastern sky.

"You are right to remind me of the reason we fight," he went on solemly. "And I am content that it should be so -- for now! But remember this, my brother; though fight we must, there is still room for gentleness and the way of peace. I yearn for this for our people, and I will seek it where I can, even as I fight! Because of our need, I shall learn the ways of the warrior from you; may you learn the ways of peace from me, so that all our actions in defense of our people may bring us to that goal we most desire -- release from peril and rest from war. May the Valar grant that one day soon we may lay down our swords and our bows, because the Evil which threatens is defeated."

Boromir's eyes shone proudly as he gave his brother a sudden hard embrace.

"All is well, then," he said happily. "With two such captains to defend her, Gondor will win through, one day. Come! Our City awaits."

***

Denethor straightened slowly, and gazed silently at the sphere of black crystal before him, now dark and at rest. He had learned much this session, for he had not been burdened with the usual struggle for control of the palantír with the Master of the Ithil-stone.

Sauron's thoughts are elsewhere today, thought Denethor, and he smiled grimly as he covered the palantír with a silk cloth.

He left the room at the top of the Tower, locking behind him the door to the hidden chamber and tucking the key away in the folds of his robe. As he descended to the Hall below, he pondered what he had seen, and what he should do with the knowledge he had gained.

A chamberlain approached him respectfully as the Steward entered the Tower Hall.

"Send for my son," said Denethor with a wave of his hand. "Send for Boromir to come to me at once. We have grave matters to discuss."

"Yes, lord, at once." The chamberlain bowed. "And Faramir, lord?"

"Yes, yes, of course; I have need of both my sons today. No doubt when you find Boromir, you will find Faramir as well. Go quickly now, and bring them to me."

The chamberlain hurried from the Hall, and Denethor watched him go. When he heard the great door close behind the chamberlain, the Steward turned and paced slowly down the long Hall to his seat at the foot of the High Throne. As he walked, he spoke aloud to the echoing emptiness.

"Come quickly, Boromir, my son! An old enemy threatens from an unexpected quarter, but there is yet time to deal with the situation -- and, in doing so, strike a blow against the Dark Lord. This will be an opportunity for Gondor to show her strength, and a chance for Faramir to learn from you the ways of war. He has done well enough in Ithilien, but he is too careful... too gentle! Gentleness will not serve our need in these days... it will not serve..."

Denethor settled himself in his stone chair, without even a glance at the High Throne. He rested his hands in his lap and resigned himself to await the coming of his sons.

*****

Author's note

**Faramir's speech about war is borrowed from his talk with Frodo in "Window on the West" (TTT) -- I like to think that perhaps he and Boromir discussed such things together, and Faramir later might have recalled such a conversation when speaking with Frodo. The view from Mount Mindolluin was one that I have long envisioned and hoped existed in Boromir's world; thankful I was to discover it described, much as I had imagined it myself, in "The Steward and the King" (ROTK).

Denethor sat still and silent in his chair in the Tower Hall, his thoughts far away as he recalled his most recent session with the palantír and what he had seen revealed in the crystal. It had indeed been fortunate that he had happened to turn his gaze southwards this day, or he might have missed seeing the vision of the army that even now approached.

Over the years, Denethor had learned much about the Stone of Seeing, through study and through use. He knew that what he saw was governed by chance, but this rarely mattered to him, for he was able to make use of all the information he gathered in his viewings. The visions seen were small, but once pinpointed by the crystal, a strong and skilled viewer could enlarge what he saw by intense concentration, as long as the object being viewed was not obscured by darkness.** Denethor had the strength and the skill required, but on this day he had not needed to tire himself unnecessarily. What he had seen had been detailed, and very clear: Haradrim, a large force on foot, moving north towards Gondor.

Denethor stirred restlessly in his chair. Why were Boromir and Faramir taking so long to answer his summons? There was no time to be lost in planning Gondor's response; if they acted quickly, the enemy could be dealt with efficiently, before more troops could join the group that already marched upon Gondor.

He looked up as his chamberlain hurried into the Hall.

"Forgive the delay, my lord," the man said breathlessly, bowing low. "The lords Boromir and Faramir were not in the City; they have only just returned. They will attend you directly."

Even as Denethor acknowledged the message, lifting his hand to dismiss the chamberlain, he heard the firm footfall of his son in the outer Hall, and he smiled in expectation of the coming discussion. Boromir, he knew, would relish the idea of engaging the enemy upon the battlefield. His eldest had been restless of late, for Mordor had been quiet, and his duties upon the eastern borders had been routine. He had not complained, but Denethor knew he would welcome action in combat.

Faramir, on the other hand, seemed content to avoid unnecessary action. Oh, yes, he had been a good choice as captain of the Rangers; he was quite useful there in Ithilien, leading his men on missions of stealth that did much to harry the enemy. He had grown in his ability to lead, and the men seemed to trust him and follow him well. But Denethor still had his doubts -- how could this quiet, gentle son of his be a true leader, the kind of leader Gondor needed, if in his heart he shunned warfare and feats of valor?

The Steward sighed inwardly. He had had such high hopes for Faramir when he was young, but the boy had changed... because of the Wizard's influence, perhaps...

He should be more like Boromir, thought Denethor with a sudden scowl. Boromir is no follower of wizards, and I have no doubts of his courage. Faramir must do more to prove himself to me...

Denethor lifted his head to gaze upon his sons, watching them approach down the long length of the Hall.

So alike! he marveled. And yet -- so different! But perhaps there is hope, if I can bend the one to become like the other. With two sons such as these, like unto the warriors of old, what could I not accomplish for the people in my charge? We might yet see a great victory!

***

The walk from the outer Hall to the Steward's Chair where Denethor sat, was a long one; the distance was great enough in itself, but the journey was made seemingly longer by the resounding echo of booted feet amongst the statues and pillars lining the Hall, and by the cool, unwavering gaze of the Steward who waited at the end of it. Even Boromir felt the length of the Hall stretching endlessly before him, though he was the beloved elder son, always looked for, ever welcome, never refused.

What must Faramir feel when he walks this long road? Boromir thought, glancing sidelong at his brother, who strode beside him down the Hall to where their father awaited them. It has been too long since he has been welcomed with the smile of pride that is so often given to me!

Boromir could still remember times in years past when young Faramir had leaned against his father's knee in this very Hall, listening to the Steward lecture on battles of old and the glorious defense of the land that was his charge; while Boromir stood aside, watching them indulgently -- as if he were the father and they were the sons. But those days were long past. They had receded into the mist of distant memory, buried by the hard years that came after as his father had become more grim and withdrawn, more set in his ways and in his opinions. Faramir still listened respectfully, and pondered what he learned with the seriousness he had always applied to such matters -- but Denethor no longer seemed to notice.

Surely Faramir had seen and regretted that change in their father, long before Boromir had ever noticed the withdrawal into coolness. No doubt he felt keenly that loss of regard every time he walked this Hall. But there was no time now to do more than lay a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeeze it understandingly, for they had reached the end of the Hall, and stood before Denethor.

They bowed and made their respects to their father, who acknowledged them only with a sharp nod.

"I sent for you both some time ago; I was beginning to lose patience," he said disapprovingly. "What business could you have together to take you outside the City for so long a time?"

"No business but that of two brothers who have missed each other's company, Father," replied Boromir soothingly. "I only wished to spend some time with Faramir, while he was here in the City. We have had little enough time together these past months. Since nothing was pressing..."

"That is about to change," interrupted Denethor. "There is much now to be done. The defense of Gondor and of this City is my charge and my concern, and I know it is yours as well. There will be no more time for brotherly pursuits; we must act to protect our people from the danger which even now threatens."

He paused significantly, then went on.

"It would seem the day has come at last when Sauron is no longer content to harry us on our borders; he now seems set on crossing them."

"Have you had word of such an attack, Father?" queried Boromir, almost eagerly.

"I have."

Denethor turned in his chair to face Boromir.

"I have received word that an army of Haradrim approaches our borders to the south. A large force, it would seem -- yet not so large that we cannot deal a decisive blow against them if we act swiftly."

"Haradrim!" exclaimed Boromir. "We have heard little from that quarter in many a year! Have they at last made official their allegiance to Sauron? There have been rumors of a possible alliance."

"It could be so," agreed Faramir. "Rumor has reached us in Ithilien that Sauron has been among the Men of Harad, urging them to support his war, as they did in days of old."

"Yes," said Boromir, nodding. "An alliance between Mordor and Harad is inevitable, I fear. But it is not yet confirmed, and even if it were so, I wonder that this force would seek to attack us so openly, when there is no sign of aid from Mordor."

He glanced at his father, who shook his head, confiming Boromir's supposition.

"Could it be that this is a group acting in its own interests?" Faramir suggested thoughtfully. "Gondor has ever been the enemy of Harad, even before Sauron returned to oppose us; if they deem themselves sufficiently strong, they might think to press their advantage against us now."

"Yes!" exclaimed Boromir. "Indeed, it is quite possible they are acting alone, thinking us weak and thus no longer vigilant."

"They shall learn otherwise!" said Denethor grimly.

"I wonder if we might put our theory to the test?" mused Faramir. "Who brought you word, Father? May we question the messenger to find out if our surmise is correct?"

Denethor shook his head.

"We do not need the messenger; I will tell you all you need to know. But do not doubt that the information is accurate. Whether this army comes to fight in its own interests, or on behalf of Sauron, there can be no doubt -- the enemy is coming, and we must act."

The Steward rose from his chair, and gathering his robes, beckoned preemptorily to his sons.

"Come; I have ordered maps to be brought to the Council Chambers, as well as food and drink. Let us begin at once."

***

It was dark when Boromir and Faramir left the Hall and walked to their private chambers. Word had been sent to the barracks, and the muster of the troops had already begun for the following day.

Faramir shifted his shoulders with a grimace, and put up a hand to rub his neck. Boromir caught the gesture and grinned at him.

"It is hard work bending over a map for hours on end!" he laughed, slapping Faramir on the back.

"Hard work indeed!" replied Faramir, with a final stretch of his shoulder and neck. "It is made all the more difficult when you keep the map to yourself and I must look at it askew. I trust I have my directions worked out properly, and do not end up taking my men north, instead of south!"

"I do not fear that. You will do well, I have no doubt!"

Faramir grew suddenly serious.

"If only Father thought the same," he murmured in a low voice.

Boromir gave Faramir an affectionate shove.

"Do not fret so, Brother! I know Father misunderstands you, but you must not despair. He will see your quality, I am certain of it! You have been forthright with me about war and command; be the same with him, and put his doubts to rest."

"It is not so simple as that, I fear."

"Then we shall have to show him, will we not? And what better time than this coming battle? Why, it is the perfect opportunity for him to see your mettle! The fight is being brought to us -- to our very doorstep! The sons of Denethor go to war side by side; all shall see what can be accomplished when two brothers command together!"

Faramir smiled fondly at his brother, even as he sighed and shook his head at Boromir's obvious relish at the prospect of the battle to come.

"Father will see only your deeds and not mine," said Faramir, without rancor. "That is the way of things; you are the firstborn and his heir, and you hold a place of honor in his heart."

"Yes, that is so," agreed Boromir with a sigh and a shrug. "But you are also his son, and I do not believe that he has forgotten it. Let our deeds together in this venture serve as a reminder to him!"

Faramir laughed and his mood lightened.

"You are always so confident, my brother! You encourage me!"

They continued walking together in companionable silence until at last they halted outside Boromir's private chamber.

"Have you thought of how soon you will leave to gather your Rangers?" asked Boromir.

"Yes," replied Faramir. "I have given word to Damrod and Mablung to leave at first light for Henneth Annûn, to prepare the men there to move out. Anborn and I shall follow on the second day, with any fresh reinforcements we can muster from within the City in so short a time. We are two hundred Rangers strong in Ithilien, and there are perhaps a score more waiting here for assignment. We shall be ready to begin our secret march through Ithilien southwards to meet you at the appointed place."

"Very good," said Boromir. "You have a long journey ahead of you, but at least it is straightforward; I have yet to decide what is the best and shortest way for me to get my men and the horses south to the meeting place."

"What, even after all that time with the map?" exclaimed Faramir.

"Even so!" laughed Boromir. "I shall be awake for some hours yet, thinking through all the possibilities. Would you care to join me?"

"No." Faramir shook his head. "If you wish to ruin your health on the eve of battle with a night-long vigil, you may do so alone. I leave that kind of thinking to you! Yet I hope that I may join you on the morrow? Perhaps there will be time for brotherly pursuits before our parting."

"Rely upon it, my brother. We will share a quiet moment together before we part, to meet again on the eve of battle."

*****

Footnote:

**This information on the nature and usage of the Stones of Seeing is taken from "The Palantíri" in Tolkien's Unfinished Tales.

The rider reined in his horse upon reaching the crest of the hill and unfurled the banner he carried. The color and emblem emblazoned upon the banner declared him to be a messenger bearing news from the frontier outposts. The bright cloth fluttered and snapped in the breeze, and the messenger nodded in satisfaction; his banner was visible from the tents in the valley below, and soon an escort would come to bring him into the encampment.

It was only a matter of moments before the messenger saw two horsemen riding towards him at a gallop; the answering color of their banner confirmed him as welcome, and acknowledged him as one of their own. He spurred his horse forward and rode down to meet them.

"You bear news from the southern borders?" asked the lead rider, after they had exchanged greetings.

"Yes; I have been sent with a message for the Sardar."

"Come with us; he awaits in his tent, and is eager to hear your news."

***

The settlement was large, and housed more than one hundred horsemen and their women and children; it was truly a small city, though the houses were tents and the streets were packed dirt lined with painted stones. The tent of the Sardar was larger and more richly decorated than the other tents, for he was the chieftain of this tribe. His device was a falcon with talons extended and his name matched his device: Shahbaaz, the Falcon, hawk of kings. He was not a king, but he ruled as one, and claimed lordship over this land between the rivers.

The Falcon waited patiently as the messenger entered and bowed before him reverently.

"You are welcome, faithful one. Speak now, and hold nothing back. What is your news?"

"I am come from the Third Outpost, my lord," replied the messenger with a final bow. "This message has been relayed from the First Outpost at Darya-e-Harnen. Our watchers there send word that a large force from Harad has crossed the River, heading north along the Harad Road."

Shahbaaz cursed loudly and at length.

"So soon? The alliance is still young! Surely the Dark One is not yet amassing his armies for the conquest of the northern lands! I would have received word of such a thing, surely!"

He frowned fiercely. "I wonder... A large force, you say. How large?"

"A thousand men on foot, my lord; perhaps a few hundreds more or less. A mûmak is with them, but only one."

"A thousand... and only one mûmak? Who leads them? Do you know this?"

"Yes, my lord. The messenger from the First Outpost knew the man who leads them, for he has often passed through our land. It is Akhbaas, leader of the tribes that dwell near the Darya-e-Harnen."

"Ahhhh!" sighed the Sardar. "Akhbaas the Wicked, my old friend!"

He grinned suddenly, and there was a glint in his eye that made the messenger step back a pace.

"Yes, this one is known to me... well known to me! We have had dealings together from time to time."

Rising to his feet, Shahbaaz paced back and forth across the bright carpet that covered the dirt floor of the tent, muttering under his breath as he paced.

"A thousand men on foot and a single mûmak... the Dark One would have need of many more than this, when the call comes for his allies to gather. I think this must be a march for some other purpose."

He whirled around suddenly and pointed a long finger at the messenger.

"Tell me! Do these men march in orderly fashion?"

"They march in several ordered companies, my lord, and the mûmak is attached to one of those companies. The others with them march in no order, with no captain at their head. It has the look of a private war, my lord."

"Yes..." said Shahbaaz, drawing out the word slowly. "So! My old friend sees his chance, does he? He feels strong now, with strong new friends, and wishes to take advantage of the weakness of the pale men of Gondor. He will strike unlooked for where their defense is weak, and deal them a blow they will be hard put to counter. His new Master will be impressed with him, and perhaps reward him handsomely!"

He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Rash, very rash, my friend!" he murmured, with a shake of his head. "Always it has been so with you... yet it is also often true that to the bold go the spoils! I wonder if there may be a part for me in this, that could work to my advantage...?"

Shahbaaz looked up abruptly and spoke to the messenger.

"Rest here this night; visit your wife, greet your children. On the morrow you will be sent with messages to the other camps in the surrounding area, with word for the other riders to gather here. Then you shall return to your post. How many days before our friend Akhbaas passes into the territory overseen by your watchtower?"

"Three days, perhaps; he does not hurry. I can return easily to my post before he passes."

"Good! Send word to me when he has passed you by. That will give me time enough to do what must be done."

With a wave of his hand, Shahbaaz dismissed the messenger. No sooner had the man left the tent, than another man entered and bowed to the Sardar.

"Do you have any orders for me, my lord?"

"Yes, I wish to be alone now, for there is much I need to consider; my daughter will serve me if I have need of anything. See to it that we are not disturbed."

"Yes, my lord."

Shahbaaz resumed his pacing. Silence reigned in the tent but for the sound of his booted feet on the carpet and the swish of his robes as he turned to and fro.

"Heera, my jewel!" he called out, after some time had passed. "Attend me!"

A curtain at the back of the tent lifted, and a young woman entered from an adjoining chamber, carrying a jug and goblet. When she saw that the two of them were alone, she pushed back the shawl that covered her head and unfastened her veil, to reveal the face of a very handsome young woman. Her black hair was pulled back in a braid tied with gold string that matched her dangling earrings and complemented the tiny diamond nosering that glittered in her nose.

She smiled and shook her head at the sight of her father striding restlessy about the tent. She waited patiently for him to pause and take notice of her. He looked up at last and smiled a welcome, but without pause; the pacing continued.

"Did you hear the news brought by the messenger?" Shahbaaz asked.

"Yes, I heard, Father," his daughter replied, as she poured out wine. "Sit, and stop your pacing. I cannot attend you if you are moving about like this!"

He laughed and seated himself on a low stool; the young woman handed him the brimming goblet and watched him drain it.

"What are you thinking, my father?"

"I am thinking, Heera, my daughter, that here is the moment for which we have been waiting; it has been a long time coming! If I am not deceived, fortune may be turning to our favor at last."

Heera looked at him thoughtfully.

"Fortune has already favored us, Father," she replied slowly. "We lack for nothing, and we are at peace."

"For now, we are at peace, child; but that will change -- and soon. New alliances are being made, and new friendships are being formed, and we must move with that tide, whether we will or no."

Heera sighed. Setting down her jug, she knelt beside her father's stool, and leaned against him, as she pondered the matter. Her father smiled and stroked her dark hair as he waited for her answer.

"You are right, Father," she said at last. "As always! This could very well be the chance you have been looking for. But you must go carefully, especially where that man Akhbaas is concerned. He is ambitious, and is not to be trusted!"

"Well I know it, my daughter!" He patted her face tenderly. "Do not fear for me; I will go carefully. But boldness is also required! We shall see where this leads, and if matters go where I think they will go, then we must be prepared to seize our chance. It is time to settle some old scores and set some new alliances in place, alliances that will benefit our people and establish us in this place we call our home."

Heera sighed again, and shook her head.

"When you talk in this manner, Father, I know there will be work for me to do! I will prepare my healing herbs and salves and ointments, and the women will see to the cutting of bandages. To the bold go the spoils, but in my experience, the one who strikes the blow of boldness is often wounded in the bargain!"

***

Denethor gazed at his eldest son as he stood before him, dressed for war. He felt a flush of pride at the way Boromir held himself straight and tall, and smiled at the eagerness in his face and his voice as he gave his report of the final preparations for battle.

"I leave within the hour, Father," Boromir said. "One hundred horse go with me by the South Road to Pelargir. We should reach the city on the morrow, if we travel by night; we shall make haste, but the horses must not be over-exerted. Word has been sent for foot soldiers to muster there, as many as can be spared from the defense of the southern regions. Even as few as seven hundred men might be sufficient, with my horsemen and Faramir's Rangers."

"I have received word that Faramir arrived in Ithilien late yesterday evening," said Denethor. "How many additional men was he able to gather to add to the number of Rangers already posted there?"

"Twenty at the most, I would say," answered Boromir.

"Not many," mused Denethor with a frown. "Let us hope that more men will join you in Pelargir from the Southern regions. I, too, have sent what messages I could, seeking aid for the battle to come."

Denethor paused, looking at Boromir thoughtfully.

"What are your thoughts on Faramir's ability to lead his men into battle of this kind?" he asked at length. "He has done well enough in campaigns of stealth and secrecy, harrying the enemy from a secure and secret location -- but this is open battle, marching to meet an enemy which will soon know you are coming, and will be prepared to fight you on the open field. Are you certain he is capable of that level of leadership?"

"Of course, Father!" Boromir answered, his tone full of confidence. "He is a most capable captain, of that I can assure you! He will not fail you."

Denethor looked uncertain.

"He will not fail you, Father," Boromir repeated firmly. "Do not doubt his ability or his determination to succeed. For myself, I have no doubts. I am glad he will be with me, for I fight better with him at my side."

"Very well, Boromir," replied Denethor with a satisfied nod. "Look after him, then; see that he learns from you the way of battle on the open field, for I need him to be strong in all aspects of warfare. This will be a good test for him. I trust you are right, and he will prove capable indeed."

"I will look after him," promised Boromir solemnly, with a slight bow. "Of that you can be certain!"

The chamberlain entered the Hall from a side door. After a deferential bow to the Steward, he spoke to Boromir.

"Your man Grithnir sends word that the knights are gathered, and your horse is saddled and ready, my lord Boromir."

Boromir nodded once to the man.

"I will be there shortly," he replied. "Tell Grithnir to wait; I have only a few more matters to discuss with my father."

"Yes, lord," answered the chamberlain, and he hurried out.

Boromir turned to his father.

"Do you have any further word from your agent on the movement of the enemy?"

Denethor was silent for a moment before answering.

"No, nothing more; only that which is already known to us: the force is large, perhaps a thousand men on foot."

"No men on horseback?"

Denethor shook his head.

"Mûmakil?"

Denethor hesitated, then shook his head again. "None that could be seen by... my agent."

Boromir nodded and smiled broadly.

"We should do well, then, even if we are outnumbered. We shall have the advantage, particularly if they do not expect us to know of their coming."

Stepping forward, Boromir laid a hand on his father's shoulder where he sat in his stone chair, and gave him an affectionate shake.

"Fear not, Father! I am confident of success in this matter. We shall turn back the enemy and return to you victorious."

"See to it then, my son," replied Denethor with a nod. "Turn them back, return safely with your brother, and bring me a victory!"

*****

Author's note concerning definitions of terms used in this chapter:

Sardar = Chieftain
Darya-e-Harnen = River Harnen
Shahbaaz = falcon
Akhbaas = wicked
Heera = diamond

Boromir stood on the quay and looked out upon the wind-ruffled waters of Pelargir's harbor basin. Many ships both small and great were moored there, tall masts silhouetted against the sky like a forest of leafless trees creaking and swaying in the wind. Gulls swooped and called to one another with an eerie keening, like the sound of children crying, their voices shrill and mournful above the creaking of the masts and the thud of ships' keels against the docks.

Beyond the mouth of the harbor, the Anduin flowed silent and wide; so wide, in fact, that it was difficult to see clearly the far bank. Yet Boromir still strained to see through the forest of masts -- past the encircling banks that protected the harbor from the current of the River, across the wide water, and through the distant haze -- to catch a glimpse of the far shore. There lay the southern-most reaches of Ithilien, where no men now dwelt, save a few fishermen and a garrison of troops to guard the docks on the far side of the water. There on that other bank he would soon set foot, with an army of Gondor at his back.

That army now gathered, as many men as could swiftly come from nearby cities and fiefs, to answer the call to arms sent out by their Lord Steward; Boromir watched them gather, and kept a count in his head as each company reported for duty. He watched, and he waited, and as time passed, his heart began to grow heavy.

For the men were too few. An army of a thousand strong threatened from the South, and he would be unable to match it.

***

His heart had been high and eager for battle as he led his men out of Minas Tirith, passing through the Rammas Echor by the South Gate, little more than a league from the docks at Harlond. The South Road ran forty-three leagues southwest to Pelargir, and Boromir had made the journey in twenty hours of steady riding. Though his knights were burdened with armor and weapons, their horses were sturdy and the journey had troubled them little, for they knew there would be time to rest while the remaining troops were mustered.

Through Lossarnach they rode, a land of woods and fields of flowers, and numerous small settlements. It was here that many of the refugees from Ithilien had made their home, after Sauron and his minions had driven them from their land. They crossed the River Erui, where a battle had once been fought in the days of the Kin-strife, and passed through the wide green land of Lebennin, towards the port city of Pelargir.

The Road was broad and well-kept. In Lebennin many people dwelt, yet the Road had been kept free of encroachments, so as not to hinder the coming and going of trade caravans and the passing of troops. The news had gone out ahead of them, and people gathered along the side of the thoroughfare to see them as they passed. Word was proclaimed that any who could be spared from the defense of each city should follow quickly to the muster.

That had been two days ago; many had heeded the call to arms, but the army would still be outnumbered in a battle. Boromir now had small hope that more would come in the little time that remained before he must cross the River to meet Faramir. All were here who were close enough to come in time and who could be spared from their own cities' defense; there would be no more. If there had been more time, perhaps more troops could have gathered from farther inland; Boromir's kinsman, the Prince of Dol Amroth, was too far away to send more than a few companies to replace men drawn away from the defenses of nearby towns.

The news of the impending attack brought fear to those closest to the danger. The lords of the cities along the Anduin were reluctant to leave themselves undefended, should the enemy choose to advance in their direction and Boromir fail to stem the tide. Boromir did not blame them; it was prudent to keep back a force to protect one's home. But prudence allowed for little aid in battle when men were needed.

If only I had more time, thought Boromir. It is not for lack of men that we struggle here; it is for lack of time to gather them! But if I wait, we will lose our advantage...

Boromir turned from his scrutiny of the River and spoke to Grithnir, his lieutenant, who stood at his side.

"Are the captains of the ships ready to set sail?"

"They are, my lord Boromir."

"Very well. We shall begin the crossing. Give the order for the horses and their riders to board first; the others may follow by companies. Make certain that the supplies and the healers' carts are evenly distributed between them. Has Linhir arrived in the city as yet?"

"Yes, he is here, seeing to the loading of the healers' carts. Shall I send him to you?"

"Yes, I would speak with him if he is free. Seek him out first, then proceed to the boarding. Ships are to sail as soon as they may; once the men are ferried to the other side, they are to disembark as quickly as possible, and stand ready to move out. We do not know if the enemy has any spies on the other side, and though the garrison there reports all is clear, I want no surprises while we are in the midst of our crossing."

"Very good, my Captain. The harbormaster reports that the wind is in our favor, so the crossing should be completed before the end of the day."

"Yes, it will not take long," agreed Boromir ruefully, "since the men are few."

He saw the look of dismay on Grithnir's face, and immediately regretted his candor.

"Are we too few then?" asked Grithnir. "Ought we to wait for more men to come?"

"There is no time, Grithnir," replied Boromir, shaking his head. "We must meet the enemy before they cross into Ithilien if possible, and that means setting out now."

"But if we are outnumbered..."

"We must fight in any case," interrupted Boromir firmly. "I grow weary of always being on the defensive. This is a time for boldness, not for hesitation, so we must take the fight to them; we cannot allow them to bring the fight to Gondor. Perhaps our boldness may give us an advantage."

Boromir looked past Grithnir to the men milling about on the quay, waiting to take ship. He listened to the sounds of armored feet upon the wooden docks, and saw the light glinting upon sword and spear. His heart rose at the sight, and suddenly he laughed.

"Do not despair, Grithnir!" he said, his confidence restored. "In spite of our small numbers we do still have the advantage. They are on foot, with no horses and poor armor, according to the reports. We shall meet them with our riders, and our longbows and our spears. We will meet them in close combat and not fear their weapons, because our armor is heavy and our swordarms are strong. We shall bring the fight to them, before they set foot in our land and before they are close enough to call upon Mordor for aid. We shall be bold, and it will bring us victory! And Sauron shall think twice before sending his minions again to meet us!"

Grithnir grinned in reply and ran to do his Captain's bidding.

***

It was not long before Boromir saw Linhir approaching through the crowd.

He was a broad man, and tall, taller even than Boromir. His hair and beard were streaked with grey, and his face was lined and weathered, for he was past his middle years; but he was strong and hale, and put many a younger man to shame with his energy. He had the air of a captain of men, but a padded leather tunic was his only armor, and he carried no weapon but a long knife. Linhir was chief among the healers who accompanied the armies of Gondor, and he trusted Boromir and his men to protect him and his healers as they treated the wounded upon the battlefield.

"Well met, Boromir," said Linhir, as they clasped hands in greeting.

"Well met, Linhir," replied Boromir. "I am glad to see you with us. You were away from Minas Tirith when we received word of the march of the enemy, and I feared you would not reach us here in time to accompany us to battle."

"And great would have been the loss to you if you had gone without me," laughed Linhir; "for I am your greatest asset on the field and you know it well. But I am here, so fear not. Fortunate are you that I was already on my way to Pelargir, after completing my journey to the southern fiefs, for the purpose of training new healers. I bring with me several of my best apprentices, and sufficient supplies for treating wounds in a prolonged campaign."

"May it not be prolonged," breathed Boromir fervently, "for we have not the men to sustain a long campaign!"

"I thought as much," replied Linhir, glancing round at the men who still waited to board ship. "I fear that will result in more work for me, then, of the kind I do not relish."

"I wanted to speak with you to be certain you were here, and had what you needed for service to the wounded. I am confident we shall succeed, in spite of being outnumbered; yet it will be a fearsome battle nonetheless."

"I am ready, and have what I need," Linhir answered, "if nothing is lost in hoisting it aboard ship."

He was suddenly distracted by a noise from one of the nearby ships and turned his head quickly to look.

"Here now!" he cried, catching sight of a man wrestling a laden cart up a ramp. "Have a care, soldier! All my healing herbs and supplies be in that cart, and your fellows who come to me in need of repair will not thank you if those supplies are in disarray!"

Linhir turned back to Boromir with a rueful shake of his head.

"I had best see to my healer's kit. But you, Boromir, must see to your men. I fear they may lose hope well before the enemy battle is even engaged. My task to repair broken bodies will be more difficult if despair has taken hold. You say you are confident? Do not wait to tell them so. They can count as well as you, and they know they are outnumbered."

Boromir nodded his agreement.

"Well I know it, Linhir. Go see to your cart; I shall deal with my men."

Linhir gave Bormir a sharp nod, then turned and pushed his way through the men towards the ship.

"Here, my good man!" he called as he went. "Let me see to that. I know just the trick with that cart..."

Boromir watched him go, pondering the words that had passed between them. It was not good to be overconfident before a battle, but despair would be the death of them if they went to war expecting defeat. Grithnir was a reliable soldier, not given to fear and despair, yet he had been worried and doubtful of their chances. Linhir sensed that others were as worried as Grithnir, and that did not bode well.

Boromir began to move through the crowd. As he walked among his men, he spoke to those he knew, and inquired after the names of those he did not recognize. With a smile and a nod, he encouraged each one, speaking confidently of the battle to come. He greeted by name the unit commanders, and laughed with the new recruits. Soon the mood on the docks had changed from one of dread and fear to one of anticipation and pride: Gondor's Captain-General was among them and he would lead them to victory.

***

Denethor uttered a strangled cry and gripped the edge of the plinth upon which the palantír rested until his knuckles turned white. This could not be! How had he missed what the sphere now revealed to him? Why had he not seen this before, when he had searched the palantír for a sight of the army that was marching against Gondor?

His earlier viewings had revealed a large force on foot of perhaps a thousand men; no horsemen, no mûmakil. It would be a daunting task to defeat them, to be sure, but Boromir had been confident, and he did not doubt his son's skill at command, nor his knowledge of tactics.

Yet just now he had seen something that froze his heart with fear for Boromir, for Faramir, and for Gondor. The palantír had revealed to him unforeseen danger upon two fronts: a war mûmak traveling with the army from Harad, and to the west of the Harad Road, the gathering of hundreds of robed and turbaned horsemen.

We are undone! he thought despairingly. The enemy will be too strong and Boromir will not know of it until it is too late! But perhaps... perhaps it is not yet too late to warn them. I shall send a rider to tell Boromir of this new danger -- if he has not yet boarded ship, word may reach him in time...

He turned the palantír to the southeast, and composing his mind and his thoughts, gazed into the dark sphere with fierce concentration. The visions were random at first, but eventually he was rewarded with a sight of Pelargir, and the harbor, and a forest of masts silhouetted against the sky.

He sharpened his focus, then fell back in dismay. He was too late! The ships had sailed; even now they were on their way across the Anduin. And so few! Those ships could not possibly hold enough troops to defend against the force that now was massing in the South.

My sons! moaned Denethor silently. His hands dropped limply to his sides as the palantír went dark. All is lost... and I cannot even warn them...

Shahbaaz pulled tight the embroidered sash that bound his robes close about his waist, and nodded to Heera, who stood at attention nearby. She stepped forward, holding out a curved talwar in its sheath, attached by stout cords to a wide leather belt. Shahbaaz took the belt and sword from her hands; kissing the hilt of the sword before strapping it on. At another nod from her father, Heera silently handed him a folded cloth edged with gold and scarlet thread, and watched as he lifted the coil from her arms.  Slowly, with great deliberation, he wound the length about his head, leaving the long end to drape over his shoulder.

"Why so silent, my jewel?" he asked, when the turban was at last wound to his satisfaction.

"Alas! that it is I who must arm you for battle, and not your son and heir!" she said sadly.

With one long step forward, Shahbaaz was at her side.  Cupping Heera's face in one hand, with the other he caressed her hair tenderly in a slow, soothing motion.

"You are as precious to me as any son, dear heart," Shahbaaz declared. "Do not think otherwise!"

Heera lightly kissed the palm of her father's hand where it rested by her cheek.

"I have no doubts of your regard for me, Father," she replied with a smile. "I rejoice in it, and I am glad that you allow me the honor of arming you. But... I do miss him!"

"Yes," sighed Shahbaaz. "The loss of your brother has left an emptiness in our hearts that cannot be filled."

He frowned suddenly and fiercely. "He will not return to us, but he shall be avenged! The battle to come is the very opportunity for which I have waited so long! Years have passed, but the binding of the blood feud has not lessened; I cannot forget it! Your brother was taken from us by these people, and there is a price to be exacted for that death. That is the way of things."

Heera nodded solemnly.

"Proceed with great care, my father," she said in a low voice. "I do not... I do not wish to lose you as well."

"Do not fear for me, child," said Shahbaaz gently. "You shall not be left alone in the world. I will not fail in this, nor in the other venture. The instrument of my revenge shall also provide the way to good fortune for our people."

"May it be as you say!" sighed Heera.

Shahbaaz stroked her hair once more, lovingly, then patted her cheek and stepped away.

"Are your preparations in order?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Heera, putting aside her grief. "The wains are loaded with healing supplies and the healers stand ready, as do the men assigned to guard us. Kamran is seeing to the final preparations as we speak. We shall follow as soon as you send word of the best place to set our tents -- far enough from the battle for safety, but close enough to be of aid to the wounded."

Shahbaaz nodded, satisfied.

"My riders are gathering outside the encampment. I shall wait with them until the scout comes.  I expect him at any moment. I shall send word to you, when I have heard his report."

Shahbaaz looked at his daughter gravely for a long moment; then laughing suddenly, he held open his arms and Heera ran into them. She embraced him, then kissed him on each cheek.

"Farewell, my father," she said. "May Jahan-afireen, the Maker of the world, watch over you to guard you and keep you safe."

"And you, my daughter," he answered. "May the Maker keep you safe!"

***

The crossing had gone quickly and smoothly, and Boromir was pleased. The journey from Anduin to the Crossings of Poros was little more than twenty leagues, but he had taken it in two journeys, so as to allow the army to arrive well-rested at an early morning hour.

Faramir and his Rangers had arrived before them, and after consulting with his brother, Boromir gave orders for the army to set up camp among the low-lying hills overlooking the Crossings. Scouts were sent out to gather as much information as they could of the lay of the land and the approaching enemy. Linhir chose the lee of a protected hill on which to set up his tents for the wounded, while Boromir took up his command post atop the Haudh in Gwanûr, the great mound in which were buried the twin sons of King Folcwine of Rohan, fallen defending Gondor's borders in the time of Túrin II, against the very enemy which now threatened them once more.

***

Shahbaaz waited patiently, tall and silent beside his horse, his men ordered in ranks behind him. They had arrayed themselves for battle; loosely wound turbans obscured their faces, and long robes were cinched with belts hung with long knives, swords and talwars that had been oiled and sharpened.

A cloud of dust in the distance heralded the approach of a rider, and there was a stir of anticipation within the group of waiting horsemen.  Soon they would learn if this was the summons for which they had been waiting -- the summons to war.

The rider approached at a full gallop, reining in his horse at the very last moment. Sliding from the back of the animal, he bowed low and touched his forehead respectfully to the Sardar.

Shahbaaz murmured an acknowledgement of the reverence and bade the man rise and speak. "What do you have to report, my faithful one?"

"The army of Akhbaas the Wicked has passed the final outpost, lord. He follows the road to the Darya-e-Poros."

"Have you news of the army of Gondor?"

"Yes, my lord; the scouts report that Gondor is waiting at the Payaab-e-Poros.  They have not ventured to cross at the Fords. They are well-armored, and have many long spears and bowmen."

"Ah!" replied Shahbaaz with a knowing smile. "The one who commands them is wise; he means to draw Akhbaas across the River and fight there, where he has the advantage of the terrain. But will that be enough to help him, I wonder?"

He looked at the messenger keenly, a question in his eyes.

"No, my lord," answered the man. "Their numbers are few compared to those of the approaching army. And though they have knights on horseback, the horses will not stand against the mûmak."

"Then the Men of Gondor are easy prey for our friend Akhbaas -- if he does not act foolishly and throw away his advantage with his customary rashness."

Shabaaz looked to the north for a long moment, as if considering his course of action; then he motioned to a young boy who had been waiting at the edge of the ranks of men.

"Go, child. Tell my daughter what you have heard reported here, then go to Kamran of the Healers, and say to him also: the Healers must set their tents where the Darya-e-Poros makes its final bend, north and east, two leagues from the Crossings. The land there is firm, yet well-watered, and safe enough from the battle that is to come. Go now, run!"

As the boy ran to do his bidding, Shahbaaz turned to face his men. He looked at them solemnly, and they returned his gaze, silent and waiting. Suddenly, with a shout, he leapt onto his horse and unsheathed his talwar.

"It is time, my brothers! You know why we ride; you know our purpose! You know what to do and when to do it: ride swiftly, until we come nigh the River. There we will go carefully, riding in the wake of the army of Akhbaas.  The dust of his trampling will hide our full number and keep our presence hidden. Akhbaas will be drawn across the water at Payaab-e-Poros, at the ford of the River; but we do not follow. Our part will be to swim the River downstream and wait in the hills until our moment has come."

He paused for a long moment.

"And then we shall seize that moment for ourselves!" he cried loudly, for all to hear. "Who shall ride with me?"

As if with one voice, the men gave a great shout of affirmation. Shahbaaz answered with a grin and a shout of his own, as he brandished his sword and waved it in the air.

"Then let us ride, my brothers! Ride now, ride like the wind, to battle and glory and vengeance!"

***

Boromir waited patiently, tall and silent beside his horse.  With him stood Faramir and Grithnir, one on either side. Behind them waited row after row of Rangers and knights and foot soldiers, ordered by company. They were arrayed for battle; bright helms and gleaming armor caught the sunlight below a forest of spears.  Longbows were strung, arrows were at the ready and swords were loosened in their sheaths.

Looking out from atop the mound where he had taken up his defensive position, Boromir could see the sunlight glittering on the shallow waters of the Poros River, where the road from Harad approached the Fords. He lifted his eyes, and wondered if it was his imagination that made him think he could see a cloud of dust on the distant horizon to the south.

He stirred as a man topped the rise that led from the Fords and made for the top of the mound; an answering stir rippled through the crowd of men behind him, though whether it was one of anticipation or uneasiness, Boromir could not tell. A mixture of both, perhaps, for there was no doubt that this scout would bring them the news which would send them to their assigned postitions, to await the coming battle.

Boromir waited expectantly, as Henderch approached and nodded to his Captain respectfully.

"The other scouts have all returned, my Captain, and I have received their reports."

"Tell me, Henderch."

"The enemy approaches the Crossings, though they are yet some way off; a full thousand, marching in formation, well-ordered and led by a formidable-looking captain. The remainder are a rabble, but armed fiercely for all that."

Henderch made to speak further, but then he fell silent.  Shifting his feet, he glanced back from whence he had come. Boromir frowned.

"What bad news are you withholding from me, Henderch?" he asked sharply.

Henderch turned resolutely to face Boromir once more.

"There is a mûmak, my lord."

Boromir was stunned.  He had not expected that answer, and before he could stop himself, he cursed -- for he was suddenly afraid, and his fear made him very angry. He quickly schooled his face, so that his men would not see his fear, but Faramir sensed his distress, and moved to stand closer beside him.

"How soon?" growled Boromir.

"They should reach the Fords sometime after midday, my lord."

Boromir thought furiously, his mind racing as he discarded strategies and battle plans and replaced them with new ones.

"Very well," he said after a moment, his voice gaining confidence as he spoke. "We have some time to arrange ourselves. I had planned that some of us, at least, would cross and meet them on the other side, before they set foot on Gondor's soil; but with the presence of the mûmak... No, I think it would be best to remain on this side of the Poros, where we have the advantage of the hilly terrain and can guard the Fords closely. We do not want the River at our backs if we are facing a mûmak; better that they have the River behind them if they dare to cross. As they approach, the River will be between us for a time -- then our longbowmen will serve us well. Faramir?"

Faramir nodded as he listened to the rapid outlining of his brother's battle plan.

"Yes, I believe that would be better," he agreed. "Henderch, do horsemen ride with the army?"

"No, my lord Faramir," replied Henderch. "The scouts have not sighted any men on horseback."

"That is well!" responded Boromir, relieved. "An experienced cavalry could have come upon us unawares behind our own lines, by swimming the River downstream where it is too deep for footmen, but not for horses. Troops on foot will be forced to cross here, and it is here we shall meet them."

He nodded decisively and turned to Henderch.

"Set your scouts to alert us as soon as the enemy comes within three leagues of the Fords. Grithnir, relay word to each company that the men may stand at ease for the time being, but they should remain alert and ready to move out at a moment's notice. Have each company commander report to me here. There is much to discuss!"

Turning aside, he gestured to one of his men standing nearby.

"Arthad! See that Linhir knows of this turn of events. A guard of bowmen and spearmen will be assigned to the Healers' camp, to fence them in should the enemy break through in their direction."

As his men strode away to do his bidding, Boromir drew Faramir aside.

"Stay close, my brother," he cautioned. "I shall need all your wisdom and support now as we set our plans in order. I know what is to be done, but I need you by me now to keep me steady and hold back the despair that threatens."

"Can we truly prevail against such odds?" asked Faramir, concerned.

"I do not know how we may prevail," replied Boromir with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "But I do know that we must -- and therefore we shall! There can be no failing!"

They turned as one and looked southwards, across the glimmering waters of the Poros, to the cloud of dust on the horizon that seemed to hover ominously, though it grew no larger.

"May the Valar protect us and bring us through what is to come!" breathed Faramir fervently.

"Bring us through, indeed!" repeated Boromir solemnly. "May our strength and our might be sufficient to keep Gondor safe -- and whole!"

*****

Author's Note:

Terms used in this chapter:

Talwar = sword
Jahan-afireen = Creator of the world
Darya-e-Poros = River Poros
Payaab-e-Poros = Ford of Poros

Heera lifted an edge of the heavy cloth enclosing the wain in which she was riding, and looked out through the narrow gap at the surrounding landscape. The plain over which they rode was flat and featureless, but off in the distance she could see low hills against the sky, marking the border between the plain and the more fertile land which sloped down from the hills northwards to the River.

She shifted her position in order to look to the east. Far ahead, she thought she could discern a cloud of dust against the backdrop of blue mountain peaks -- the foothills of the Koh-e-Zulmat, the Mountains of Shadow. It was too far for her to see her father's horsemen, who rode within that cloud, but she knew they were there. Soon they would reach the Road where it made a wide turn westwards to skirt the out-thrust spur of the mountains. Heera knew it was there they hoped to come up behind the army of Akhbaas, which had already passed that way; to travel in its wake until they could cut away and cross the River, approaching the field of battle from an unexpected direction.

The healers' wains, on the other hand, were taking a shorter way through the hills to the north, so as to avoid the larger army passing along the Road. It would be a rougher road for the wains, laden as they were with tents, poles and supplies for the use of the healers. But the way was passable with care, and would bring them to the River in good time to set up the tents and make all things ready for the treating of the wounded. The riders who accompanied them had already received a scout's report that the way was clear through the hills, and they could proceed without further delay.

The turf over which they traveled was short grass mixed with a ground cover of tiny purple buds; the small flowers brightened the landscape with color, in spite of the obscuring dust that hung heavy in the air, kicked up by the plodding hooves of oxen and the wheels of the wains. The smell of dust bit at the back of Heera's throat, and brought a bitter taste to her mouth, filtering through even the covered sides of the wain and the folds of cloth which shielded her mouth and nose.

There was movement beside her, and a cautioning hand touched her own where it gripped the heavy curtain.

"Heera, child, have a care! It is not fitting to be seen looking out upon the men."

Heera obediently let fall the fabric and pulled it tightly closed before turning to the older woman who sat beside her. The woman was gazing at her with a look of disapproval, which was tempered by the glint of warmth and understanding in her eyes. She was well past middle age, yet still hale and strong. Because of her status as an older woman and honored widow, she went with her head covered only by a white shawl -- she had no need to cover her face. She was Heera's attendant, present always to serve her at need, and to see that her honor as the unmarried daughter of the Sardar of the tribe was protected and preserved.

"You speak truly, Bihar," said Heera contritely. "I fear my curiosity caused me to act unwisely. It is hard to be shut up inside when there are things to be seen in the world -- but I do not wish to court dishonor simply for a brief moment of personal satisfaction. But thankfully, no dishonor has come of it -- there is no one near but Kamraan, and as you know, he is a close relative as well as a fellow healer, with whom I may speak as I have need."

"That is well, then," conceded Bihar, leaning forward and lifting the edge of the cloth for a look of her own. "Your honor is safe with your cousin, as you say. But please be more careful with your looking, or we shall both be in trouble!"

Heera smiled fondly at Bihar.

"You are ever watchful on my behalf, and I am content that it should be so! With you to attend and guard me, I have no fear of any dishonor falling upon my father or his name."

"And I know when to look the other way, yes?" replied Bihar with a wink. "When your looking will do little harm, and more good for a young woman eager to know more of the world?"

"Indeed!"

Bihar took a final look outside, then closed the flap and sat back. The look of humor on her face had been replaced with a worried frown.

"I like it not that we go where you may be seen by strangers and foreigners," she announced fretfully. "I know it is your duty as one of the chief healers among our people, and I know you shall take great care, as you always do -- you are a credit to your father and your people, and can be trusted to do what is right to preserve our honor. But who knows what this war might bring to you, and what may confront you in the healing tents?"

"War brings difficulty and discomfort to us all, Bihar, and even honor must sometimes give way -- or at least we must be willing to stretch it, to allow for the unexpected. In this case, serving the hurt and the wounded is a greater need, I think, than my needs as an unmarried woman."

"I know this," sighed Bihar. "But I am still responsible for your well-being and the honor due your family."

Heera kissed Bihar's weathered cheek tenderly.

"Fear not, my guardian! You shall be with me and I shall be safe; and honor will be answered."

"Indeed!" replied Bihar, managing to look pleased and fierce at the same time. "No man shall approach you without first passing my scrutiny, be he wounded or hale!"

***

Akhbaas the Wicked sat tall and straight upon his horse, on a knoll overlooking the road. He watched with great satisfaction as his army passed by, observing and noting the sharpened weapons, the fiercely eager faces painted and tattooed, the hoarse chanting of Men hungry for the blood of their enemies. His eyes strayed to the mûmak, where it paced slowly and ponderously at the end of the ranks -- huge, powerful, a mountain of strength in the form of a beast. His eyes gleamed with possessive pride to have such power at his command, a living weapon to strike fear in the heart of any enemy.

A faint breeze brought with it the smell of dust and heat, and the heavy, musky odor of the mûmak. The horse shied and danced sideways in fear at the scent of the beast; uttering a sharp oath, Akhbaas struck impatiently at the animal with his whip. His horse had been giving him no end of trouble since the army had set out upon this venture, as the steed sensed the presence of the mûmak. He cursed again, applying his whip once more, and the horse settled at last.

Akhbaas looked back along the Road through the swirling dust, in an attempt to see those who followed. Another army was there, though they remained hidden in a dust cloud of their own, kicked up by the hooves of many horses. As soon as it had become known that an army was following, scouts had been dispatched to bring word of who it might be, friend, or foe. Akhbaas was not surprised to learn it was Shahbaaz, who claimed lordship over this land through which the road from Harad ran. Shahbaaz the Falcon was known to him, a fierce warrior at whose side he had fought in the past, to the glory and enrichment of both their tribes. Yet it had been some time since Shahbaaz had gone to war, and it was wondered by some if he had lost his fire and his zeal.

Akhbaas did not like the thought of being followed; he was a man who was feared rather than trusted, and so he himself placed little trust in other men -- even one so honorable as the Falcon. He would rather have him riding where he could see him, than behind him, not knowing what was being planned in secret. A man had been sent to invite Shahbaaz forward to ride at his side, but the offer had been politely refused, on the excuse that the horses could not endure the presence of the mûmak.

Shahbaaz, the Falcon! sneered Akhbaas to himself, irritated afresh at the refusal. A falcon, perhaps -- brave enough, but too cautious now that he grows old and weak! Too fearful of committing himself to alliances that are certain to bring power and fame to his people! Too committed to honor to see the path to wealth and the enlargement of his territory. No doubt he wishes to partake of the spoils in this venture against Gondor, but he will not brave traveling with the mûmak! He has grown weak, indeed, and I have nothing to fear from him. Let him follow, then, if he dare not approach me!

Akhbaas snorted loudly, and turning his horse, rode away swiftly towards the front of the line.

It is as well, he mused as he rode. The Falcon rides behind, where he is safe from the beast, and I will not have to deal with the skittishness of his mounts. His part in the battle will be small if he cannot bear to approach my mûmak. He may partake of the spoils once we reach the rich cities of Gondor -- if his horsemen can survive the battle!

A sudden thought brought a smile to his lips. If horses trained for battle in the South feared the great beasts of war so common there, what effect would his mûmak have upon the horses of the hated Men of Gondor?

It was indeed a thought worth relishing!

***

Boromir walked among his men as they waited, armed and ready. He spoke words of encouragement to keep the fear of the impending battle at bay. The men listened eagerly, and took comfort in their Captain's bold confidence, for many of them were young and had never before met the Haradrim in battle. They had heard many tales of the fierce cruelty of the Southrons, as they were sometimes called by the men in the ranks; and of the enormous beasts of war which accompanied them to battle. Word had gone round that a mûmak of Harad approached with the advancing army, and the men of Gondor wondered how they could possibly prevail -- so few, against such enormous odds. Yet they put aside their doubts as Boromir passed by, for he was their High Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of all the forces of Gondor, and they trusted in his leadership.

Behind Boromir walked his standard bearer, holding high the banner of the House of Stewards. The plain white standard had no device or distinguishing emblem, a symbol of the House of those who ruled in the place of the King who did not return. Yet its sheer whiteness caught the bright sun and drew the eye of the men who looked to it for strength; so too was their eye drawn to the Captain who walked beneath the banner, with his long stride and gleaming armor, his confident laugh and his seeming lack of fear. They would succeed -- against even a mûmak of the Southrons -- if their Captain was with them.

Boromir walked among the men, speaking words of encouragement, laughing loud and with assurance, to hide the cold fear that was settling in his heart.

*****

Terms used in this chapter:

Heera = diamond
Koh-e-Zulmat = Mountains of Darkness
Bihar = spring
Kamraan = successful one
Akhbaas = wicked
Shahbaaz = falcon

The eastern road from Anduin and the northern road from Ithilien met and became one just north of a tumbled grouping of foothills which thrust outwards in a spur from the main mass of the Mountains of Shadow. Skirting the hills which loomed sharply upwards against the eastern sky, the road then widened into a flat thoroughfare, passing under the watchful eye of the Haudh in Gwanûr, Mound of the Twins, which guarded the shores of the River Poros. Running over gently sloping terraces to the water's edge and out again on the other side, the road leading southwards passed on until it bent slightly westwards, to be hidden behind the slopes of a low hill.

The river at the Crossings of Poros ran broad and shallow over a bed of stony gravel; it could easily be crossed by men on foot or on horseback, for the water was no more than knee deep, and the current was not treacherously swift. There was no other safe way across the River for a large force of men, so an attacking army had no choice but to cross here. The defending army had every advantage, if they could maintain their position and keep the enemy forces from gaining the northern road.

As he watched the sunlight glinting brightly upon the rippling water, Boromir recalled what he knew of other historic battles which had taken place at this very spot. He had memorized the strategies of those great commanders who had successfully defended the Crossings in the past, and he wondered if any of those same strategies would be of use to him now against such overwhelming numbers -- or if he would have to rely only upon his own ingenuity and quick thinking to defeat the enemy that gathered beyond the fords. Behind him, the army of Gondor stood silent and orderly, footmen and archers and horsed knights awaiting the imminent battle with patience and well-concealed dread.

Boromir raised his eyes from his contemplation of the water to look upon the vast Southron army which now faced him across the River; the dust that had followed the enemy like an enshrouding cloud had dissipated with the breeze as the multitude approached the grassy banks of the Poros.

The sight of the opposing army was daunting: wild-looking men in scarlet robes and tattooed faces, chanting and beating upon drums of hide and screaming their hatred of those who stood between them and their plunder. The banners of many different tribes waved and tossed in the breeze as it blew through the valley, ruffling the waters of the ford and catching Boromir's own standard so that it stirred and lifted in the currents of air.

Even as Boromir watched, the milling crowd fell silent and parted to let pass a tall man upon a horse, who rode forward to the very edge of the water. Boromir could not clearly see the man's face at a distance, but the manner in which he sat upon his horse and surveyed the men of Gondor standing before him spoke of nothing but contempt and utter disdain. The man called out something in a sneering voice, and then with a shout of derisive laughter, he turned to face those who followed him. Grasping a tall spear from a nearby soldier, he waved it in the air and gave a hoarse shout, which was answered by a roar from the Southron army. Tossing the spear aside, the tall man rode back through the crowd, shouting as he went.

Boromir watched silently, and wondered what would happen next. The tall man on the horse was obviously in command of this force, and he had given his challenge to the men of Gondor. But as yet, no enemy soldier was making a move to enter the water to begin the crossing.

He sensed movement at his side, and glancing to the left, he saw that Grithnir had approached on his horse. He did not speak, but stood ready to relay the orders of his Captain, as soon as Boromir was ready.

The shouting of the enemy was now answered by loud drumming and the sound of horns blowing, and a strange trumpeting sound which Boromir instantly recognized as the call of a mûmak. He saw it then, heaving into view from behind the hill where it had been hidden from sight. As it advanced, the Haradrim drew back to allow it passage to the front of the line.

With a flash of insight, Boromir realized what the enemy commander's strategy would be -- he intended to send the mûmak to the forefront of the ranks, breaking their line, and wreaking havoc among the forces of Gondor. That would leave the field wide open for the enemy to cross at will while Boromir's men were engaged in defending against the great creature. Boromir's face set grimly as he turned to Grithnir.

"Take command of the knights and retreat behind the ranks; take up your position well back from the front of the line. If the enemy comes nigh, fight without hesitation, but do your best to keep your distance from the mûmak -- the horses will not be able to endure it. Prepare the knights for the dirnaith; that battle formation will serve well if the mûmak can be dealt with quickly. I shall lead the men in the thangail formation. We will fall back at first to let the mûmak pass through our ranks, then close up the shield wall behind and hem the creature in. If the Southrons attack while we are still engaging the mûmak, the knights will have to enter the fray regardless. Send a rider to Faramir and tell him we need more archers below here on the flat. He must send me his best men, those with the keenest eye and the strongest nerve."

"Will you keep to your horse, my lord, or do you wish to fight on foot?"

"I will be better able to command if I am on horseback, in spite of the danger from the mûmak," replied Boromir.

Grithnir nodded sharply, and wheeling his horse around, rode away to carry out his Captain's orders, as Boromir turned to face the men who remained.

"Form ranks to execute the thangail!" he shouted. "Spears and pikemen to the front, long swords behind. As the mûmak approaches, give way and let the creature pass, then close ranks behind him. Bowmen, array yourselves well behind the shield wall. Shoot high and concentrate your fire on the mûmak; aim for the eyes, and for the men who ride atop the beast. Pikes and spears, aim for the feet to turn him aside and send him back upon the enemy. Our foe will attempt to advance while we are occupied with that fight; if we are outflanked, close the thangail into a ring around the mûmak, and let our knights deal with the others as they can."

He surveyed the lines of his men and saw in their faces that they knew what to do -- and he was satisfied. Grasping the helm that hung at his side upon the saddle, he raised it and placed it firmly upon his head. The forces of Gondor watching him gave a great shout, for this was the signal that battle was about to be enjoined, and Boromir, Captain of Gondor, would be at the forefront of that battle.

***

Akhbaas laughed as he gave the signal for the mûmak to lead the attack. He had been angry at first when he saw that the men of Gondor were indeed waiting for him, and barring his path to wealth and fame. But it was of no consequence, for their numbers were small compared to his own, and the beast would see to it that those numbers were reduced even further. He laughed again, gloatingly, his good humor restored at the thought of such an easy victory.

He looked about him, seeking the best vantage point from which to observe the slaughter -- and suddenly realized that the Falcon and his horsemen were nowhere to be seen. He scowled angrily, more because Shahbaaz was choosing to follow his own plan of attack than because Akhbaas missed having him present with his own troops. This army he had gathered from among many different tribes was loyal to him, and would obey him faithfully, as long as they were well paid with plunder. But Shahbaaz was of another sort; he had fought alongside Akhbaas in the past, but only against a common enemy, and not for the sake of wealth or plunder. Even so, it was possible he had changed in his old age, and was willing to bend his neck and his honor for a chance at easily gotten riches...

The Falcon is no fool, thought Akhbaas, but he grows weak, and when weakness comes, so too comes fear for one's own safety. Perhaps he thinks to spare his horsemen the worst of the battle. Let him, then! Better to have him away from me so that his horses do not interfere with the beast's attack. Let him hide somewhere safe, waiting to attack when the need is greatest -- or when the worst part of the fight is over! I need him not! If he comes too late to be of use to me, he shall suffer the consequences of interfering uninvited!

Behind him, the trumpeting call of the charging mûmak split the air, and the ground beneath him shook as the creature began to run. Akhbaas turned in his saddle in time to see the huge creature splashing into the shallow waters of the crossing, sending up waves of water on either side. Akhbaas laughed at the sight and spurred his horse up the slope of a low hill that rose up beside the road. He did not want to miss seeing from on high the utter defeat of his enemy.

***

Heera was restless. This was the hardest time for her, when all was made ready in the tents of healing, and there was nothing to do but to wait for the wounded to be brought to them. She had been in such situations many times before, but it never seemed to get easier. She found herself straining at every sound, expecting at any moment to hear the call of horns and the cries of men and the clash of weapons upon armor that would signal the beginning of the slaughter.

Not for the first time did she wish she could accompany her father as one of the healers who aided the wounded upon the very field of battle, instead of being one who waited in the tents for the hurt to be brought to her. But though she knew herself to be eminently capable of such a task, she also knew it was not fitting for her -- not as a woman, nor as the daughter of the Sardar. At least she was allowed to be here in the tents, accompanying the healers when they went into battle; that was more than most of the women were allowed. Their task was to wait at home until their men returned -- or did not return. Heera was indeed thankful that her father was broad-minded and lenient enough to allow her this service to the men in his company; her skill in healing was very great, and so allowances were made for her to enter into a world that was normally only open to men.

The breeze quickened and brought with it the sound of a roaring shout, and the call of horns, and the trumpeting of a mûmak, faint yet clear.

"Jahan-afireen keep us!" she sighed sorrowfully.

Bihar was immediately at her side.

"What is it, my child?" she asked worriedly; she stopped still as the sound of the battle reached her own ears.

"It has begun," Heera replied, bowing her head. "It has begun."

*****

Terms used in this chapter:

Dirnaith = "man spearhead" -- a battle formation of the Dúnedain, wedge-shaped and launched over a short distance against an enemy amassing but not yet arrayed
Thangail = "shield fence" -- a battle formation of the Dúnedain, a shield wall of two serried ranks that could be bent back at either end if outflanked until at need it became a closed ring.
Sardar = Chieftain
Jahan-afireen = Creator of the world

Language:  Even though I note the meaning of unfamiliar words at the end of each chapter, I thought a special note about languages might be helpful.   Some of the words are straight out of Tolkien's works: dirnaith and thangail, for instance, are words used to describe Gondorian battle formations in Unfinished Tales, and Haudh in Gwanûr, which is the mound at the Crossings of Poros where two famous Rohirrim soldiers lie.

However, the words and phrases used by the men and women of Harondor and Harad, as well as the meanings of their names, are based upon the Urdu language -- more specifically, those words in Urdu that are Persian based.  I am familiar with the Urdu language, and while some of my Persian-based translations might be stretching things a bit, I think they are accurate enough that they make sense and also fit the culture I am trying to develop in this tale.

Culture:  The culture of the people of Harondor is based to some extent on that of Pakistan, particularly that aspect that relates to the veiling of women.

Harondor:  A word about Harondor might be helpful here.  I may add more information as the story develops, but for now, the article found at The Encyclopedia of Arda should be helpful (http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/h/harondor.html).