The Captivity of Boromir
by Varda
9; The Silver Mask
‘Come with me, hurry!’
Taise took Boromir by the sleeve and hauled him after her the length of
the great feast hall and into the guard room at the end, pushing the
door closed behind them.
The room was larger than it appeared from the low, narrow entrance.
Inside it was lit by braziers and a row of iron sconces along the stone
wall, although these had burnt down and some had gone out, leaving the
room in half-darkness.
As Boromir’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light he saw a crude
wooden table in the middle of the room, marked with food and drink
stains, and benches alongside it. The bare stone walls were not covered
by any rich hangings and with the fire in the brazier almost dead the
room itself was grim and chilly. On racks along the sides and at the
end however there reposed a sombrely impressive array of weapons.
Boromir quickly went to examine the rows of lances and swords, kept
sharp and burnished, their tips winking red in the dying glow of the
brazier. He unhooked a sword and holding the blade up to the light saw
on the steel the star and crown of Gondor. He turned to Taise and asked
angrily;
‘What knight of Minas Tirith did you slay to win this?’
Taise shrugged.
‘I never slew any knight of Gondor' she replied. '.. but in your
halls I deem there are many swords and lances of the noblemen of my
people, taken by your warriors in battle. That is war, as well you
know, Boromir of Gondor, for you are a champion and chieftain of great
valour yourself….’
Boromir stood with the sword in his hand, and his anger died away.
He replaced the weapon on its rack. The girl was right; war left scars
on both sides, and her respect for his valour in battle had perhaps led
her to keep him alive when he would have been more easily transported
to the North as a severed head, and would probably have yielded her
more gain and far less trouble as such…..
‘You speak true’ he said with a sad smile. ‘It is unworthy of me to
complain of losses suffered in honourable battle.’ He drew a deep
breath. ‘..but the war you fight for Sauron, that is not honourable. He
wants to defeat and enslave us, and in doing so he will enslave you…..’
‘I know…’ said Taise, cutting him off. Boromir looked sharply at her,
but she went on quickly.
‘I know it well, better than most, for I myself have seen the
armies of Sauron doing their fell work. But Boromir, I am but a
champion of the Tetrarch, fighting for my keep. And a woman at that,
with no voice in council. I agree with what you say, but there is
nothing I can do about it….’
Boromir sighed, and nodded. Taise smiled and took his arm.
‘Come, maybe there is nothing we can do about that, but there is much
we can do to disguise you as a man of Rhun…..’
Taise dragged a low stool out from under the table and ordered
Boromir to sit down on it. Then she poked about in the ashes of the
brazier, at last retrieving a piece of charcoal. Boromir looked
doubtful. Taise grinned.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t do any permanent damage. A little soap and water
will call back the fair-skinned prince of Gondor once more…’
Looking among the earthenware vessels on the floor, Taise picked up
a couple and sniffed their contents. After a while she nodded with
satisfaction and put it on the table. Then she broke off some of the
charcoal and crushed it then tipped the contents of the jar and mixed
the two together. A kind of dark paste resulted. Dipping the hem of her
cloak in the mess, she said to Boromir.
‘Tilt your head back, and hold still….’
With deft, strong strokes, Taise rubbed the greasy dye into Boromir’s
skin. At first it just looked dirty, but she took a clean cloth and
rubbed away till the skin had the appearance of an Easterling swarthy
from the bitter salt winds of Lake Rhun. Then she rimmed his eyes with
black, as the Easterlings do. Boromir shifted uneasily, but Taise
laughed and said;
‘Don’t worry, it will come off. And you will attract more
attention without it than with it for it is the custom here. I warn
you, do not rub it off yourself, not before it is safe for you to do
so. Now, I will bind up the mask, and you will just be another of the
Airgead’s Red Guard….’
Then her voice faltered and for a moment a look of sadness came over
her face as she remembered Airgead.
‘Well….Saothar’s Guard, now.....'
Clad in a black, hooded cloak and mounted on an emaciated black
horse, the emissary of Sauron moved swiftly and silently through the
scattered outer dwellings of the Easterling encampment on the windswept
shores of Lake Rhun.
Although it was not quite dawn many people were already out in the
narrow streets, braving the frosty darkness as they made their way to
the open plain for the army muster. This was the day when the army of
Rhun was due to march south to Mordor. But when the Easterlings saw the
figure on the black horse, attended by his equally sinister guards,
they quickly shrank back and took cover inside their wide round huts.
From the entrances they peered out after the riders had passed, as dark
and menacing as shadows, and whispered to each other;
‘The Lords of Death are here….!’
The foremost rider and the Captain of the Lords of Death was known
as Iarnlaw, or in the language of men, Iron Hand. His right hand had
been stuck off in battle, it was said, and Sauron had replaced it with
a cunningly made hand of steel, perfect as a human hand in every
detail, only stronger and capable of crushing a man’s skull with a
single blow.
Iron Hand’s face, too, had been horribly disfigured in battle, and
Sauron had disguised his lieutenant’s ravaged features with a mask of
burnished silver, in mocking likeness of a stern but fair king of
ancient Gondor. When Iarnlaw spoke in his commanding but melodious
voice, it seemed as if a King of old was speaking…..
What the people of Rhun did not know was that Iarnlaw had once been
a man just like them, who had dwelt in the far North-West of Middle
Earth, in the lands bordering the great Road, near to the town of Bree.
He had great wisdom and courage, and for that he had been elected head
of his village, and given the name Ceann, or chief.
Ceann had used his skill in speech to persuade the men of his own and
other towns to help the Rangers who sought to protect their borders.
But one night Ceann’s village had been attacked and he had been struck
down by orcs as he fought to defend it. His people had all fled or been
slain and he had been mortally wounded and left to die in the ruins of
his blazing village.
Hewn by the orcs and hideously burned, Ceann had however not died.
After the battle the captain of the retreating orcs had found him
barely breathing and had carried him back to his master, hoping to gain
praise, if the prisoner could live long enough to be tortured into
revealing anything of value to Sauron.
The Lord of Mordor was amused to have a living captive to play with,
especially a northman of courage and strength. For ever it was the
delight of Sauron to spoil and slay the brightest and bravest of both
men and Elves. This time, however, Sauron did not torture the captive
to reveal any secrets. Instead he amused himself by seeking to save the
man’s life, and make out of his maimed body something that would be
more his own creation than a free, living human being.
Sauron was assisted in his task by the fact that, because of his
terrible injuries, the man remembered nothing of the night he was
wounded and captured. The Lord of Mordor had a blank page on which to
write whatever life story he wished for the man without a face or a
right hand.
Sauron began by healing the man’s wounds; his hand which had been
struck off he replaced with a steel limb, and he built a mask as stern
yet beautiful as the faces of the ancient statues of Numenorean kings
to replace his destroyed features. Other sinews and muscles and tendons
that fire had eaten away he also replaced, for Saruman had learned his
skill at making creatures from Sauron, even if the Dark Lord had not
practised them for a long time. Now he amused himself by creating a
creature of steel and silver with a tormented mind that remembered
nothing of who he had been, save only that he was the slave of Sauron
and bound to carry out every fell deed that he was commanded to perform
in his master’s name….
Now, attended by tall wolf-faced Uruk-hai, Iarnlaw rode up to the
gate of the Tetrarch’s compound and dismounting he walked towards the
great wooden palisade which housed the quarters of Airgead, lord of
Rhun….
Usually, well warned by his people, Airgead had the gates wide
open, and guards ready to take the horses and usher Iarnlaw into his
presence. This time, however, the gates remained firmly shut in his
face, and Iarnlaw marched right up to the wood then had to stop, his
silver mask reflecting the flames of the torches flaring on the
gates-posts.
Rage, unreasoning as that of a wild animal, rose in Iarnlaw, for Sauron
had trained him to fall to anger on any pretext, and exact a bloody
punishment for even a minor infringement of his dark commandments.
‘All those within!’ he shouted, and the sweet and musical voice that
Sauron had given him was twisted to a shriek with indignation. ‘What
mean you by denying me entrance? Know you not that the emissary of Lord
Sauron is at your gate? Open up!’
From inside the gates came the sound of feet running and desperate
whispers. But still the gate did not open.
Iarnlaw stood staring at the great doors, his inscrutable silver
mask concealing all emotion. A chilly grey light was beginning to creep
through the miserable alleys of the settlement. In a voice now low and
calm, Iarnlaw called out;
‘For every minute more that I am kept waiting here, I will cut off the
right hand of one of your people and throw it into your compound…..if
any resist, I will cut off their heads too….’
Panic quickly ran through the camp like a cold wind through barley.
Although the Lord of Death was accompanied by no more than a dozen
guards, such was the terror of his sorcery amongst the Easterlings that
they did not doubt Iarnlaw’s ability to carry out his threat.
From inside the compound there came the sound of urgent consultations,
and just as Iarnlaw was reaching for his long black sword, there came
the rattle and scrape of a bar being withdrawn, then chains being
pulled through rings, and at last the rumble and clatter of a great
bolt being dragged back. Then, at last, the tall wooden gates creaked
open…..
Iarnlaw strode through the gates, knocking them open as he went.
His Uruk-hai hurried after him. Inside, the compound was empty, except
for a small detachment of the Tetrarch’s Red Guard who stood immobile,
their masked faces giving away even less emotion than Iarnlaw’s own.
Iarnlaw strode towards the Great Hall…..
The doors of the hall were open, but the torches in the sconces at
the entrance were burned down to the sockets and merely sent out a dull
red glow in the chilly dawn light. It was a detail that Iarnlaw did not
miss; he at once realised that something had thrown the tightly
disciplined household of the Tetrarch into disarray. And despite their
masks, he sensed apprehension and even a trace of panic in the iron
demeanour of the Red Guard….
Iarnlaw’s boots echoed on the great cold flagstones of the feast
hall of the Tetrarch as he walked quickly down its length, then stopped
abruptly in amazement.
Airgead, the Tetrarch of Rhun, lay dead on the floor, his blood dark on
the white stones and a long black lance still thrust into his chest.
Standing beside him, unarmed and alone except for a single Red Guard
and the dead chieftain’s woman champion, Taise, was his son Saothar.
‘What has happened here?’ asked Iarnlaw, and his voice was low but full
of menace. No-one answered. Iarnlaw looked from one to the other then
roared;
‘Whoever has done this, you will all follow your lord into the land
of darkness if you do not answer me. Tell me who has done this, or I
will behead all of you, here and now….!’
Saothar, as if waking from a spell, spoke up then.
‘My Lord, the Tetrarch has been slain!’
Iarnlaw swung round and advanced on him, his hand on his sword hilt.
‘I can see that for myself, wolf cub. But your Tetrarch was sworn
to take the field this very day in obedience to the wishes of Sauron
and to march South to Mordor. My master awaits the arrival of your
troops. Now it seems his plan is in peril, and if that is in peril, so
is your head, and that of all your captains and all your warriors, down
to the lowest horse-boy…tell me now, who has done this!’
Stammering slightly, Saothar said;
‘My lord, do not take it out on us. The Tetrarch…my father…was
slain by a captive taken in the South and brought here by his champion,
Taise. Somehow in the night he freed himself and found his way to the
feast-hall, where my father lingered. They fought, and my father lost.
You see the outcome for yourself…..’
Iarnlaw stood listening intently to what Saothar was saying. The
young man showed grief; tracks of tears were on his cheeks and his face
was bone-white. But he also trembled slightly, and Iarnlaw thought to
himself that the lad was a poor liar….
‘I don’t believe you!’ he barked at last. ‘no-one could defeat
Airgead of Rhun in combat, certainly not a captive brought long miles
in the snow….’
Suddenly he hesitated.
‘unless….' he said quietly. '....who was this captive?’
There was silence for some moments. Taise was worried that the
pounding of her heart could be heard in the quiet hall. Boromir felt
the coarse material of his mask chafe against his skin and the
unaccustomed Easterling armour heavy and tight on his shoulders. But he
stood as still as he could, and kept his eyes looking straight in front
of him.
Iarnlaw waited for Saothar to reply, and as he hesitated, he
glanced at Taise, who looked away. And then he looked at the Red Guard
who stood behind them, noting that his eyes were grey and he was
broader and stronger than most of the other Red Guards. Seeing his gaze
linger on the man, Saothar spoke up quickly;
‘My Lord, the captive was the son of Denethor of Gondor; it was
Boromir….’
The name made Iarnlaw jump as if struck by a whip. Above all things, he
was commanded by Sauron to seek out and take captive any of the royal
house of Gondor or of Rohan. Now one had escaped from under his very
nose. Or had he….?
‘Boromir of Gondor?’ asked Iarnlaw in a dangerously mild voice.
‘Indeed? I gave orders that any of the ruling house of Gondor who was
taken captive was to be yielded up to my master…..’
Then his voice changed to a bellow;
‘You have disobeyed!’ And he drew his sword, and behind him his
Uruks drew their long crooked scimitars. The Red Guard behind Saothar
fumbled for his sword as if he did not know where it was, and at last
disentangled it from its ornate scabbard and held it out in front of
him, in defence of his master Saothar…..
But abruptly Iarnlaw’s rage turned to a smile.
‘But of course….none of this was your doing, but of this traitor,
Airgead…’
And Iarnlaw kicked the lifeless body of the dead Tetrarch, grazing his
cheek.
Now it was Saothar’s turn to jump as if struck. He would have
leaped forward to attack Iarnlaw but a strong hand gripped his arm from
behind.
‘Do not let him provoke you!’ whispered Boromir in a low voice.’..it is
just what he wants!’
The silver mask of Iarnlaw turned quickly at the sound of a voice, and
the empty eye sockets, deep in the bottom of which burned two red
sparks, looked towards Boromir. But his hearing, keen as it was, did
not catch the words….
Restrained by Boromir, Saothar mastered his anger. Then, in a calm
voice, he said;
‘My father was no traitor, whatever you think, Iarnlaw. Your army
is mustered and ready to march as Sauron commanded, it lacks only the
order to move. But now it has been robbed of its leader….’
And at this Saothar smiled into Iarnlaw’s metal face.
‘…and be assured, emissary of Mordor, that even though they may
fear you, the people of Rhun will never follow you in battle. They will
only follow their Tetrarch, and however much you and your lord are in
haste, a new Tetrarch must be elected before you can lead the armies of
Rhun south to war….’
Even masked, the force of Iarnlaw’s rage could be sensed. Ignoring
him, Saothar turned his back and slowly walked the length of the hall
to the high chair of the Tetrarch which stood on a dais at the end.
Mounting the short flight of steps he threw himself into the chair,
arranged his cloak about him, and said with a cold smile;
‘I believe I am the heir to Airgead the Tetrarch. I claim the
throne of the Easterlings, and hold it against all other contenders….’
There was a stunned silence in the hall. Even Iarnlaw could not
think of anything to say. There was a subdued creak and a cold draught
swept the hall; the Tetrarch’s Red Guard and others of the royal
household were peering inside, gaping at the sight of Airgead dead on
the floor and Saothar on the throne of Rhun. Iarnlaw looked at them and
knew that in only a few minutes all that had happened here would be
known throughout the camp, and Saothar would be Tetrarch in the hearts
and minds of the Easterlings.
Despite their danger, Boromir smiled under his mask; how deftly the
young man had turned Iarnlaw’s attention from mention of his name. But
he quickly realised that Saothar was about to pay for it….
Furious at being outmanoeuvred, Iarnlaw advanced on the young man
and shot out a metal hand that clamped sharp steel fingers into his
shoulder. Saothar winced with pain as he was lifted bodily off the
throne and flung headlong on the stone floor. So great was the momentum
of his fall that he slid for some yards along the polished flagstones
before coming to rest at the feet of Boromir.
Bending quickly to help the young man, Boromir saw a trickle of blood
running from his mouth.
‘Are you all right?’ he whispered, but Saothar shook his head sharply
as if to warn Boromir not to speak to him. Just then he heard swift
steps and as he turned he caught a blur of black and silver and Iarnlaw
picked Saothar up with his steel claw and shook him like a hound shakes
a hare.
‘Sauron will decide who will be the Tetrarch of Rhun!’ he snarled.
Saothar twisted in his grip and shot out a fist to strike the metal
face only inches from his own. His knuckles connected with a
bone-numbing thud, but to no effect except to make Iarnlaw pause,
looking at Saothar as a lion might look at a puppy snapping at its
heels, then bending backwards he once again flung him as far as his
unnatural strength allowed him to…..
This time the young man landed heavily, knocking his head on the
stone floor. He sat up slowly, grasping his torn shoulder, struggling
out of a daze. Iarnlaw advanced once more upon him and was reaching out
his steel claw to grasp him again when a voice rang out in the hall,
loud and clear and threatening;
‘Ar Stad!’
Boromir had heard the Easterling phrase for stop from Airgead
during their fight, and he shouted it now, praying that his accent did
not betray him.
Iarnlaw whirled round and looked at him. Boromir held his breath; he
had seized a bow from the wall and a dusty arrow from a display of
trophies. Now he drew back the bowstring and he levelled the arrow at
Iarnlaw, ignoring the Uruks who at once drew their swords and started
towards him. But he had just spoken the only Easterling words he knew,
now what could he say?
'Stay right where you are....' he shouted, aiming through the dull red
tip of the copper arrowhead at Iarnlaw's heart '..or I will shoot you
where you stand....'
And he added to himself; '..none of us will leave Rhun alive now.....'
