He was trapped. But it was a risk he had been willing to take. He had kept imagining the look of Denethor's face if they had returned without the Horn. It was a symbol of greatness for the ruling stewards. The people of Gondor might have preferred a King, but until that day came, the Horn represented their right to rule. Generations of ruling Stewards had kept it safe, and Faramir was not going to let it be said his brother was the weak link of the family.

The flaming torch was burning closer to his hand now, he could feel its heat upon his skin. So far it had kept the Orcs back, but not for much longer. He had given Boromir his sword, that had been necessary to collapse the tunnel. Faramir had seized one of the torches from the walls out of pure desperation. He hated the flame and would have preferred any other weapon to this.

Faramir sensed a presence behind him. Boromir had come! He risked a quick glance behind, and sure enough Boromir was lying flat on his stomach on the path above. The Horn! Ducking to avoid a flying spear, Faramir swept the Horn from the ground and threw it up to Boromir's waiting arms.

The Orcs, following the path of the Horn, realised Boromir's position. As Faramir had suspected, the Orcs holding spears had turned their attention to the higher ground, sending a volley of weapons to the path above. Boromir drew back from the edge, barely escaping the deadly attack.

Blocking a sword thrust, Faramir wondered desperately whether his brother would understand the significance of what had happened. When Boromir's head reappeared Faramir knew he had not.

"Boromir, the spears! The spears!" he shouted, making another sweep with the fiery torch. Realisation dawned in his brother's eyes and he was gone again, scrambling back from the edge.

Turning back to the fight, Faramir saw how little time he had left. He now had hardly enough room to manoeuvre, and despite the fire holding the Orcs back, he could not defend everywhere at once. They were closing in on him, slowly but effectively.

He cried out suddenly as the flame from the torch singed his hand. The handle was suddenly burning hot, the flame so close to his fingers that he could no longer keep his grip. The torch slipped from his grasp and hit the cave floor, sending shower of sparks up from the ground.

Faramir jumped back at once, moving as far as he could away from the fire and the Orcs until his back touched the wall. Boromir was above him, he hoped, and would soon have a tool to lift him up by. But there was no more time! The Orcs had finally run out of spears, giving Boromir the opportunity to move, but that also meant there were more Orcs for Faramir to contend with.

The Orcs had chosen their new leader, and it was he who stepped over the dying torch towards the wall. Faramir shrank back as far as he could, feeling utterly vulnerable and defenceless without a weapon. Then, as Faramir watched with eyes wide open in fear, the Orc's hand darted out towards his neck. He threw himself to the side, but the Orc managed to catch hold of his shirt and he was dragged upright again.

"Lurbak was a fool!" the Orc told him, lifting a knife close to his face, "don't think I'll make the same mistake."

The knife moved downwards, and Faramir gasped out loud as he felt the cold metal slide into his shoulder. The pain was both ice and fire, it tore through his body as the Orc dragged the weapon slowly across towards his heart.

There was a terrible cry from above, and turning his face to the side Faramir felt the rush of air as the spear flew downwards and into the heart of the Orc. The creature fell heavily, its knife wrenched from Faramir's shoulder as it fell. Faramir almost sunk to the ground with relief, but Boromir had lowered the shaft of a spear to pull him up, just one final effort.

Faramir gripped the spear in both hands, breathing in uneven sobs as Boromir hauled on the other end. He could not climb, and had to rely of Boromir having the strength to lift him. The Orcs rushed forwards, reaching for his legs and ankles. Faramir tried to kick out at the clutching hands, but just as one caught hold of his ankle, Boromir's hand closed about his own. His brother was telling him to let go of the spear, to trust him, but Faramir's mind whirled and he did not hear anything. A last heave from Boromir dislodged the hand clutching his foot and pulled him up to the level of the upper path.

Faramir felt Boromir grab him under the arms and lift him up and over the edge, away from the Orcs and to safety at last. Faramir just kneeled there for several minutes, shaking from exhaustion and relief. Boromir did not speak for a moment, and looking up Faramir saw his face was pale and sick looking.

"Come on," Boromir breathed, "They may find a way to climb the wall."

Fear raced through Faramir at the thought. But climbing to his feet, he extended his good arm to Boromir, helping him rise to his feet.

They stumbled back up the passage, being cautious not to slip on the sand. Boromir laid an arm on Faramir's good shoulder to support his leg as they moved.

They came at last to the place where the passage grew level and Faramir stopped. "My sword," he asked, reaching across Boromir for his weapon. "Move further along, I will join you shortly."

It took Faramir three swings of his sword to hack through the thick wood of the support beam, and even when he had done so the tunnel still did not collapse. The wood splintered where Faramir had cut it, and a deep groaning noise sounded overhead. Quickly, he ran up the tunnel, arriving at the place his brother was waiting. There was a tremendous crash from behind as the supports finally gave way. A cloud of dirt and rocks filled the thin passage and Boromir and Faramir found themselves coughing.

One hand holding his straining ribs, Faramir thought of the horrible death they had condemned the Orcs to in their own caves. He shuddered, but feeling the burning pain in his shoulder return, knew that it had to have been done. The Orcs would ambush no more innocent travellers, they had seen to that.

When their coughs had died down, and all was quiet once more, Faramir took his brother's arm and together they left the caves into the dark night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A chill wind swept the base of the mountains north of Minas Tirith as two dark figures made their way towards the city. The night air was icy to the skin and Faramir found himself shivering. But, he was more concerned about Boromir than about himself, the coughing had become worse, and Faramir was having to support more and more weight as his brother grew weaker.

At last it was clear they could go no further. They were close to the city, even the dim lights of the Tower could be seen on the horizon. But Boromir's condition had taken another turn for the worse and they could travel no further that night.

"If only we could find some place out of the wind," Faramir said, "we could rest and you could recover your strength." Boromir did not answer, he had not spoken for over an hour. All his strength had to be regained for simply moving.

Faramir had been watching the wall to their right for some time now, hoping he might spot some shelter. But his eyes had been unusually dim in the past days, and in his mind he kept feeling the stinging pain caused by the cuts near his eyes. Gorburg had been intent on gaining revenge, what if his eyes had somehow been damaged by the blows?

But if he could not see, for whichever reason, he would have to find a place to shelter using his other senses. He guided Boromir over towards the wall, easing him down gently onto a tuft of course grass. Then he set to work searching for a wind-break. He discovered a large rock that was on a right angle to the cliff face. If they were to sit in the corner made by the cliff and the rock, they might just be out of the wind. He went quickly back to Boromir, wrapping his arms tight about himself from cold.

"Faramir?" Boromir groaned as he was helped to an upright position.

"Yes, Boromir. I have found somewhere we can be out of the wind. You must help me now, just one last effort."

"One last effort," Boromir repeated slowly, and although Faramir could hardly see his brother's face, he knew there was determination in his eyes.

It took almost five minutes for Faramir to help his brother to their little alcove. And when at last they collapsed behind the wind barrier Boromir was unconscious. Faramir had recovered his cloak from the Orc cave before they had fell upon him, and taking it off he laid it over his brother's still body.

Loneliness and fear flooded over him as he sat shivering in the dark. His eyesight was darker than ever, the only thing he could see being Boromir's pale face. Faramir laid a hand on his forehead, it was cold and wet with perspiration.

Something else caught Faramir's eye, something just bright enough for him to see. He reached out, curious as to its identity. His fingers closed over the smooth silver binding of the Horn. He lifted it carefully into his lap, wondering whether the Horn of Gondor, blown close to Minas Tirith, would truly bring them aid.

Doubt suddenly consumed him. The Horn belonged to Boromir, it was his by right. Faramir would feel wrong using it for himself. A glance at his brother told him that Boromir would probably never get the chance to blow the Horn if help did not come soon. If it was a matter of choosing between his brother's life and the dishonour of taking what was not his, Boromir came first every time.

He raised the mighty horn to his lips, feeling it tremble with anticipation as he tried to hold it steady. The note was clear and long, sounding out over the empty plains like the call of morning to a sleepy town.

Silence followed. Faramir lowered the Horn to the ground, resting his head in his hands. There was nothing he could do now but wait and prey that help would come.