Chapter Thirteen - Fortitude

The wizard held Faramir so close that the Prince of Ithilien could feel Saruman's cool breath on his face.

"Stay still and live a few more minutes," said the hateful, melodious voice from but an inch behind his left ear.

Faramir closed his eyes and fought to remain conscious. He was tired, wounded, and would probably soon be dead. One of Saruman's hands was entwined in the hair at the back of Faramir's neck, painfully forcing his head back, while the wizard's other hand held a dagger to Faramir's exposed throat. The wizard had a very strong grip for such a physically aged man, Faramir observed.

When Saruman cut his throat, he would at least be spared further embarrassment, Faramir reflected grimly. He could scarcely think of worse humiliation! He had set out from Emyn Arnen with perhaps a foolhardy hope to confront Saruman alone and take back his pride, his life, his honour. Now Saruman displayed him to his King as a helpless captive, to be bartered for like a rabbit at market! Eomer would certainly never be caught in such a snare! How had it come to this?

Just an hour or so earlier, he had dared to hope that the worst was over, that he at least would be able to free the boy. But he had failed. Faramir remembered, his mind returning to the moment when he and Saruman had faced each other after he had lost the fight on the stairs. Although Eldarion was still alive, he was very much under the wizard's power. Saruman had stood motionless, surveying the four Uruk-Hai corpses littering the steps.

Saruman took a deep breath. He placed his hands behind his back, stepped off the last step and walked slowly across the hall, as if in deep thought.

Finally Saruman turned back to Faramir. “Before we meet your King, I must heal the boy. I need him able to lift his sword-arm in the future, if only to make a show of waving Anduril about to claim Elessar's legacy. Do you have even an inkling of the implications of my work?” he asked haughtily.

Faramir shook his head both in answer to the question and in an attempt to clear the blood that meandered lazily down his face from his head wound. Why was Saruman seeking his praise? Perhaps the wizard needed a new sycophant, now that Wormtongue had apparently abandoned him. Faramir was acutely aware of how much he missed his old friend Mithrandir; and how much he wished the Grey Pilgrim could appear and destroy this ancient, posturing windbag!

Saruman moved into one of the rooms off the hallway where the Uruks had taken Eldarion. Faramir staggered forwards, trying to follow. Saruman barked an order and two Uruks stepped up and thrust Faramir back against the wall.

Faramir allowed himself to slide down the wall to a sitting position. Moving and thinking at the same time was growing more difficult; he had to hoard his strength as much as possible. He gritted his teeth and pulled Wormtongue’s dagger from his thigh. He used the dagger to cut off half his shirt and slash the cloth into strips; with which he staunched the blood that welled up from the wound. He wadded up two of the strips against the wound; then wrapped the other strips around it as tightly as he could manage. The wound needed to be cleaned; but there was no time for that chore even if Saruman were kind enough to offer him a healer's provisions. He would just have to stay conscious long enough to try again to save his Prince. There had to be a way. He had been Steward of Gondor, and before that the Captain of her Rangers, descendant of a long line of men who had protected the realm, yet he had not even managed to succour Gondor's threatened heir when he stumbled across the boy. And he was so very weary now, reconsidering Eldarion's plight just made Faramir's head ache.

Faramir's eyes fluttered shut for a few moments, only to open when one of the Uruks moved in close and grabbed both the dagger and the hammer he still carried in his belt. Faramir doubted that such caution was needed since he lacked the strength to wield even a paring knife. Gulping in air he forced the welcoming darkness of oblivion from his mind.

"Bring me some water, Uruk!" he ordered his guard. "Saruman wants me able to walk. I must quench my thirst first, or I will faint and your master will be displeased."

The Uruk growled, but actually moved away to find some. Faramir did not care at this point whether Saruman wanted him to walk or planned to have the Uruks drag him, but he knew he needed water if he was to compensate for the blood he was losing. The Uruk returned bearing a flask. He seized Faramir's head, pulled it back, and started pouring some kind of liquid down his throat. Faramir managed three good swallows. The liquid actually was water, and tasted good, if somewhat murky. The Uruk laughed raucously as Faramir gagged and spit up the rest, too much of it was going down his throat too fast to drink. The Uruk helped himself to the last dregs at the bottom of the vessel.

Faramir turned away from the sight of the complacent Uruk sloshing down the last of the water he craved. Instead he watched the locked door of the room where the wizard had taken Eldarion. Was there anything more he could have done to save Eldarion from Saruman’s clutches; and was there anything else he could do now to free the boy? Through the crack between the door and the floor, he discerned the strange green light that he had seen come from Saruman before. He listened intently trying to hear over the noise of his own heart beating in his chest but he could ascertain nothing. Finally he simply sat, his head leaning on the wall, and waited.

A swish of his robes preceded Saruman as he returned to the room. He stopped and eyed Faramir with, it seemed, some frustration as well as disdain.

Faramir detected that the wizard’s aspect had changed. The fire in Saruman's eyes had dimmed; and he was walking stiffly rather than gliding effortlessly as he moved. Could it be that treating the Prince’s wound had taken a greater physical toll on the wizard than he would wish to disclose? Faramir believed that the former Lord of Isengard no longer possessed the power he had wielded for so many centuries.

But when Faramir had confronted him, Saruman had maintained that he could bespell Eldarion because of his youth, and had also mentioned the importance of the boy’s relationship with his father as a factor in that spell. Saruman certainly seemed to have the boy enthralled when he called him on the stairs. The wizard might have lost much of his power; but Faramir reminded himself that Saruman had still been resourceful enough to capture him, along with the only son of the King of Gondor and Arnor, and imprison them both.

“The wound was deep. He has lost some blood and is in pain but he will live to wield a blade,” Saruman pronounced finally to Faramir’s unspoken question. “You however, will not.”

“What have you done to him?” Faramir asked, ignoring the personal threat.

“He is bound to me,” Saruman had answered mysteriously and though Faramir had persisted, the wizard had refused to reveal more.

Since that exchange of words, Faramir had been feigning more weakness than he actually felt. His wounds and blood loss troubled him but he stayed conscious, although he appeared to all others to be swimming in and out of wakefulness. It was a simple subterfuge but all he had been able to contrive. The moment might come when his captor would relax his hold, and then he must be ready to make a swift and effective move. He might get one chance; but he had no doubt that there would be no second such opportunity.

He stood now, forcing his body to stillness, waiting like the hunter he had always been, waiting for his one moment and praying it would come. His positioning was such that he could not see anything but the bright blue sky above him. He felt Saruman tense behind him and he reasoned the King must be coming.

Faramir heard Aragorn’s strong voice drift up from the ground far beneath him; and was filled with hope and renewed resolve. As far as he knew, Aragorn knew not that his son was Saruman's prisoner. If he could not free Eldarion himself, Faramir had to live long enough to at least tell the King!

Faramir closed his eyes and pictured the scene below. Legolas and Gimli would have accompanied the King; possibly with elves and stout dwarves to swell the King's ranks. No, he thought; Legolas would not be with the King, he would be hiding elsewhere trying to get a shot at Saruman. Faramir tried to judge what parts of the wizard’s body could be reached by the arrow of that peerless archer. He realised that his own form was shielding the wizard and though he believed his own life an acceptable sacrifice for Saruman's death, his friends might not concur.

Faramir glanced down at the claw-like hand that held the dagger at his throat. The fingers were colourless as the skin was stretched so tightly across the bony, elegant digits. On the back of the hand the knobbled knuckles protruded like a mountain range. Black hairs vegetated the area in between which was crisscrossed by blue ridges of river-like veins. Faramir found himself mesmerised by every minute detail of the hand in front of him. Would this hand carry out its owner's threat and slit his throat?

“I am not begging!” Aragorn’s voice cut into his consciousness like the knife. “I seek to find out what you want wizard. I did not say you could have it!” He was angry now.

Faramir sensed a corresponding shift in the wizard’s stance behind him. Saruman pulled Faramir further backwards, forcing his back to arch like one of his own bowstrings.

Somewhere in the distance Faramir heard Wormtongue whine mournfully but he pushed it from his mind. He concentrated now on the wizard; gauging the tension of Saruman's body and the power of the two hands that held him helpless, as if they were the only two people in the world. He could sense that the longed-for moment was near. When that moment came, he must seize the chance it gave him or forever suffer the penalty. Below him gaped a deadly drop from the tower to the ground. As Saruman opened his mouth for another insulting reply to the King, Faramir summoned all his remaining strength and readied himself to act.

Eowyn sat silently on Daisy's broad grey back, peering through the dust rising from the barren landscape, at the tower. The King had given her the opportunity to accompany him to talk with Saruman but Eowyn had declined. She, had faced and slain the Witch-King, but she could not find enough courage to face whatever awaited them in the tower. She had learned what many soldiers had come to know before her; to face personal fear takes great courage but to know that it is a loved one facing that fear instead of oneself is ten times worse. She would fight any horror to save Faramir. But she could not sit by helplessly and listen to the wizard who had nearly destroyed Rohan stand in his tower and mock all that she cherished.

So she had stayed with the King's forces, with Elboron at her side. They waited astride their horses, knowing that this time was the calm before the storm. Her strong, handsome son would soon ride into a battle for the first time, prey to any arrow or sword or spear. Bron was a valiant young warrior, the blood of brave men sang in his veins, but he was still her baby. She checked him over with a quick glance to assure herself that he was properly helmed, and his armour well-fitted to his still growing body. She proudly noted his relaxed, calm grip on his mare's reins. Now and again, her son would reach across and squeeze her hand. Their eyes met and she would smile reassuringly. No words were spoken, none were needed.

But while she sat and waited, the troubling inconsistency that had plagued her mind suddenly became clear. After all the time she had spent trying to force the solution into her mind, the answer had finally come to her like an autumn leaf falling to the ground unrushed and unconcerned as to the time it takes.

She stiffened and Elboron sensed the change in her mood.

“What is it?” he asked nervously.

“Where is Anborn?” Eowyn asked.

“Yonder,” Elboron responded. “Why?”

“I have realised what has puzzled me all this time. We need to move quickly.”

They rode back to Anborn.

“My Lady, my Lord,” he said his stiffness extenuating the concern in his eyes.

“We need to change formation, Captain,” Eowyn said. “And quickly.”

“My Lady?”

Eowyn snorted her impatience. “When Beregond and I were attacked, the main force of Uruk-Hai did not come from the tower. It has been bothering me ever since. I have been so stupid, to overlook this.”

“Where did they come from, mother?” Elboron asked, trying to deflect her away from her self-absorbing regret back to the present.

She pointed down the valley. “They came up as from the earth over there. There must be tunnels or caves under the ground.”

“And while we focus our attention on the tower. . .” Elboron began.

“They creep up from behind and butcher us!” Anborn finished his sentence. The Captain turned and barked out a command. Quickly his Rangers moved to take up position facing down the valley behind the King’s men, who continued to face the tower. Eowyn and the others sat between the two lines of the men they commanded.

The Rangers re-formed not a moment too soon. As the last Ranger took up his place, the ground before them seemed to collapse, causing a terrific dust cloud to swirl into the air. Deep openings formed where the earth seemed to simply disappear revealing a warren of tunnels beneath where they stood. A rift in the earth snaked straight through Gondor's line; men screamed as they fell deep into the abyss. Other chasms could be seen criss-crossing the plains.

The men of Gondor waited, hearts racing with fear as the dirt began to settle and a fell vision seared their eyes. An army of Uruk-Hai rose up from the ground, weapons raised in challenge and hideous shrieks screaming from their lips. The monsters were flanked by the more familiar and scarcely less dangerous orcs, hissing and cawing like crebain feasting on corpses.

Elboron glanced over his shoulder to where the King still stood. He noted a newly formed gorge now meandered almost to the base of and then beyond Saruman’s tower. Fighting down the fear that arose in his stomach, Elboron clung to his well-developed sense of fair play. “They cannot attack yet,” he said. “King Elessar still parleys with the wizard.”

“Why trust the wizard to follow the rules?” Eowyn hissed, her eyes suddenly bright with excitement. “He has not done so up until now.”

“And if the Uruks wait, it would ruin their little surprise would it not?” Anborn muttered grimly. “I hate surprises!”

Eowyn lifted her sword. “And I hate Uruk-Hai and every other spawn of that wizard. They shall not remain alive any longer than it takes for me to kill them all!” Eowyn turned Daisy around and moved to engage the enemy.

“Stay by me, my Lord,” Anborn whispered to Elboron who hesitated as if he contemplated whether to follow his mother. “The battle lust is upon her. It would be better for you both if you did not accompany her just now. Do not fear for her, she is the White Lady of Rohan and she bears a charmed life. Stay with me and the Rangers. You can watch my back and I yours.”

The boy nodded gratefully, gritted his teeth and gently urged his mare to follow Anborn into the battle.

The first wave of Uruk-Hai ran through the arrows of the Rangers with only a few casualties and crashed into the front line of the army of Gondor. The air was full of keening screams and the clash of weapons. Bearing in mind his own stupefying fear, Elboron felt sure that the men of Gondor would turn and run but they did not. The knights of Gondor stood firm and the power of the Uruk-Hai charge was absorbed.

The fight shifted into a series of deadly skirmishes. It seemed to Elboron that everywhere he looked it was the men of Gondor who fell as the Uruk-Hai moved ahead, chopping furiously with spears and spiked blades. Gondor's line seemed about to break! Beside Elboron, Anborn swore as he gutted an Uruk. Elboron realized for the first time that the monsters were poorly armed; only about one in four wore hauberks or helms; the rest seemed to wear motley combinations of leather over cloth.

“Hold the line!” the Ranger Captain bellowed, as he too sensed the fear building in his men.

Elboron gulped in sudden terror, the hot fear twisting his stomach. A massive Uruk-Hai approached him, growling and making strange chuffing noises as he circled around the mare, brandishing an axe. Elboron fought the strong desire to throw down his sword and turn his horse, Snowflake, around and flee. He had never seen Uruk-Hai before. Until this day, the giant orcs had been faraway figures in his parents' stories and minstrels' lays. He was certain that he never wanted to see them again either! Biting down his lip and his fear, Elboron steadied himself. As the monster lifted his axe to slash at Snowflake, the boy turned her quickly and thrust his sword downwards below the creature's upraised arm. Elboron felt his blade hit bone with such force that it was almost pulled from his hand, but he hung on and pulled the sword free. The Uruk staggered away, blood gushing from his chest, and was soon lost in the fray.

Elboron sensed rather than saw Anborn at his shoulder. The boy waited grimly for the next attack, Snowflake taut between his knees. "Good girl, my brave one," He crooned to her. Truly the mare was worthy of her Mearas bloodline, crossbreed though she was. He must remember to thank his uncle again for the use of Snowflake's sire, son of King Theoden's own Snowmane.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder toward the distant tower, expecting to see the King and Gimli returning to join the battle. Instead, he glimpsed through the dust that an equally savage battle now raged where the King had stood. Elboron had no time to discern what was happening there, his attention was needed close at hand.

A second wave of Uruk-Hai hit the brittle line of men and it wavered. Then, from over to their left Elboron heard a terrifying cry. He looked through the dust and debris and saw a truly extraordinary sight. His mother was galloping between the length of the Uruk-Hai front line and that of Gondor.

"Ride now!” She shouted, raising a war cry of Rohan. Her voice pierced through the battle’s roar and her sword flashed like a silver flame. Eowyn's golden hair and white cloak held the light as she rode between Saruman's dark forces and the soldiers of the King.

“The White Lady of Rohan! It is Eowyn Wraithbane!” somebody cried in awe.

Cries of "Eowyn" and "Wraithbane!" were taken up along the line of Gondor’s soldiers as each drew new courage from the sight of the sunlit woman at their head. Elboron too found himself crying his mother's name and raising his sword in salute.

As Elboron watched with a pounding heart, Eowyn turned Daisy and drove straight at the enemy line, smashing her way through it. Elboron then realised that the enemy line was only three soldiers deep. This was no army! He reasoned that if the Uruk-Hai had reinforcements they would send them into the fray now or forever lose the initiative. He looked past where his mother turned Daisy once more to re-engage with the monsters, but save for a few orcs the plains were empty behind her.

Anborn saw it too. “Come on, Rangers!” he roared. “Prince Faramir needs us! Charge!"

The men of Gondor streamed forward. Elboron’s heart now beat so fast that he could hear nothing else. He was so frighteningly alive that his exhilaration had chased away all fear. He felt suddenly invincible and indestructible as the battle rage took him. He screamed at the top of his lungs and urged his horse forwards with his sword held high.

“Lord Elboron!” Anborn called but he realised that the boy was in a place where no words could reach him. The Ranger had hoped to stop Elboron from following the others into the desperate fracas. Anborn knew from experience that surviving such a close combat was chancy at best. Cursing, he followed Elboron straight into the heart of the battle, determined that the son of Faramir and Eowyn should not come to harm.