The Dragon and the Fox
by Varda
Chapter 90: A Gift from the Dead
Seolta woke with a start and scrambled to
his
feet. He had slept on the hard ground, under a spring frost, and
despite his Elven cloak he was chilled to the bone and every joint and
muscle in his body ached.
But the Ranger did not think of his stiff limbs; looking all around
him, he realised that while he had been sleeping, his companion, the
Elf Dearfa, had deserted him.
Elves do not need sleep, but men do. When Seolta indicated to Dearfa
that he had to get some rest the Elf had merely nodded and sat down
wrapped in his silver-grey cloak, his pale, stern face impassive.
Seolta stretched out on the rocky, parched bed of a dried up stream and
fell at once into a deep sleep.
As soon as he was sure the Ranger was asleep, Dearfa got up and set off
at a swift run, tracking Marfach and Liofa by the leprous glow of a
sickle-shaped moon.
It was not entirely in disloyalty to the Ranger that Dearfa the Elf
abandoned him. He knew that Seolta no longer believed they should
pursue Marfach and kill him, and certainly the Ranger would never kill
Liofa. Dearfa however was resolved to kill both of them, and feared he
might have to fight Seolta to do it if they stayed together. So when
the man announced he needed an hour's sleep, Dearfa seized his chance
to leave him behind.
Seolta had slept at the bottom of a little ravine. When he climbed up
to the top, he looked out in all directions, and the land was empty.
Not even a black crow of Mordor flapped across the dead earth, but in
the distance the row of mountains that marked the border of Mordor rose
into the smoky mist like jagged and broken teeth.
'What a fool I was!' thought Seolta. 'I would wager he left me when I
had just fallen asleep, and by that sun I have slept almost six hours!
I will never catch up with him now...'
For all his dismay at being left alone, Seolta felt hunger gnaw at
him.Taking his leather pouch he drew out a hard piece of dried beef and
tore a bite from it and chewed the tough meat thoughtfully. Above him
the sky was clearing before a fresh breeze from the West and the sun,
pale as old gold, gleamed through the shreds of grey clouds.
The faint heat warmed Seolta's chilled limbs. Despite everything, his
spirits lifted. Perhaps, he thought, what had happened was not such a
disaster. He had been dreading the moment when they caught Marfach and
Liofa. He did not want to kill Liofa, and searching his heart, he found
he no longer really wanted to kill Marfach. He sensed now that this
creature, whatever else he was, was no simple enemy or servant of
Sauron.
Seolta sighed; now as often in his life, his rashness led im into a
situation that he later came to regret. He threw away the inedible hank
of meat and washed down his meagre breakfast with a few mouthfuls from
his waterskin. He smiled grimly to himself; somehow, he suspected that
even that stern Elf Dearfa might find the slaying of Marfach beyond his
powers.....
Seolta now admitted to himself that Dearfa had far too much of a head
start to be caught.
There was nothing for the Ranger to do but return to the service of
the King, and make what apologies he could for deserting the army of
The West on the eve of battle. He belonged with the Black Company, and
nowhere else. And yet he was grieved that the bond of man and Elf that
existed in their company had been severed in such a way. Marfach it
seemed always set friend against friend, and man against Elf.
Seolta got stiffly to his feet, but almost at once he threw himself
down again and lay flat on the rocky ground, every sense alert....
Over the rush of the wind through the dead trees, Seolta had heard
a sound all too familiar to him from years of fighting the servants of
Sauron; a sniffling and snuffling along the ground, accompanied by a
grunting and snorting. An orc on the hunt.
Moving slowly, Seolta inched to the top of the ravine and peered out
through the long, withered grass. To the North-East lay a track, once a
road when roads were needed in this land. Spread along it and fanning
out through the surrounding countryside, was a large force from Mordor.
Seolta peered intently and counted a great number of Uruk-hai and among
them, some mounted and others afoot, a force of Easterlings with their
red gilded armour and their long glaives flashing in the weak sunlight.
Under orders from Orc commanders, the human and non-human army were
infiltrating the land, settling into every defile and always,
inexorably, moving Southwards.
The army of the West had set forth just after he and Dearfa left Minas
Tirith. They must even now be just behind Seolta on the road north to
the Black Gates, and they were heading right into a trap.
'I have to warn them!' thought Seolta.
Crawling on his stomach, his grey Elven cloak making him
indistinguishable from the rocky stream bed below him, Seolta made his
slow and painful way down the valley. By the position of the sun he
knew he was heading South-West, and if he was not seen, he could join
up with the army of Gondor before they came within range of this hidden
enemy and their ambush.
Despite the great danger he was in, Seolta was almost happy; now he had
a task he could fulfill for the cause of the West, and prove his
loyalty to the king. And if he achieved it he could return to the Black
Company with honour.
But he put aside hope and concentrated on the present. He could
hear the murmur of voices from beyond the escarpment above; orcs
grunting in their bestial language, and men speaking to each other in
theirs. Seolta moved more quickly, but soon he could hear noises ahead
of him as well as behind, and realised that his enemies had overtaken
him; even with the Elvish cloak, it was only a matter of time before
they saw him. He threw caution aside and began to run.
For a few heartbeats, nothing happened, and all Seolta could hear
was the crunching and slipping of his own feet on the stones. But then
there came a cry of warning from a human voice. In a moment of almost
abstract thought, Seolta wondered how men could bring themselves to
fight with orcs, and then the first of a hail of arrows hit the ground
in front of him, the long barbed iron point striking sparks off the
stone, the shaft shattering into splinters on the hard rock.
A great chorus of yells, human and orc, rose then and arrows and
crossbow bolts rained down into the ravine. Whether the Elven cloak
deceived their aim or whether Seolta was just running too quickly, all
the shafts flew wide. At home in the North it was said that what Seolta
could not outfight he could outrun, and now his speed was tested hard,
as the end of the ravine drew closer with agonising slowness and the
cries of pursuit grew fiercer behind him.
The Ranger had reached the bottom of the slope and was clawing up its
loose stony face when an arrow at last found him. Some of the others
had hit his Elvish cloak and it had entangled the points and saved him.
But now the cloak blew aside and exposed his left shoulder and a long
black shaft tipped with barbed steel struck him just below the top of
his shoulder blade, slicing his leather tunic like silk and embedding
itself in his flesh. The force of the arrow pitched Seolta forward onto
his face, and other missiles pattered about him on the ground.
'Get up!' he heard a voice say, and it was his own. The world was
spinning and the sun had turned to darkness, but he put his hands under
him and pushed himself to his feet and tottered on till he had reached
the top of the valley. Then he staggered into a grove of dead alders,
and at once the arrows stopped. Dragging his feet and holding his
shoulder to staunch the blood he ran on towards the South...
The night after the unwilling warriors were dismissed by Aragorn
and left the army, the host made camp in a sombre and silent mood.
Fires were lit, but the men who sat around them spoke little and
laughed but rarely. They ate their meagre supper staring into the
flames, seeing such visions as they would not want to share with their
comrades.
Legolas and Gimli made camp together, as was their custom. Gimli ate
heartily of what rations were available, then fell to energetically
honing his axe with a whetstone. He glared at the neighbouring
campfires and said to Legolas;
'You would think it was a funeral, not a campaign. They could at least
wait till we are dead to mourn!'
Legolas gave a low chuckle but motioned to Gimli to keep his voice
down.
'It has long been evident to me that Dwarves fear little if they
fear anything at all, my good friend.’ He said. ‘But others may not be
so hardy...'
Gimli grunted and continued to hone his axe. After a moment he
nodded in the direction of the large fire that Aragorn shared with
Gandalf and the other leaders of the army.
'Our former comrade is no longer free to share our fireside with
us....'
Legolas looked round at Aragorn and sighed.
'Since Prince Imrahil declared that he must go forth at the head of the
army as King Elessar, I think he feels he must behave more as a king
than a common captain of Rangers...'
Gimli snorted again.
'Will he forget how he made one of the Three Hunters? He was not loath
then to share our fireside...'
'I think he would much prefer to be with us...' Legolas corrected
his companion gently.. 'Kingship, my dear Gimli, is a lonely place to
be....'
Gimli nodded and looked at the Elf from under his bushy eyebrows.
'You are the son of a king yourself, my friend Legolas, are you not?'
Legolas's fair face grew solemn in the firelight. He never spoke of
his father, Thranduil King of the woodland realm of Mirkwood. The Elf
drew a long sigh and turning to Gimli he said;
'My father thinks as much of gold and jewels as of his people.
Once, too, he led them in war, and his pride and rashness resulted in
many of our folk being slain.'
Legolas shook his head. '..I owe a son’s duty to my father, but no love
for him, Gimli....'
The Dwarf nodded and put down his axe.
'A love of gold and jewels, that I can understand, as we Dwarves
too love such things. But to lead your people to destruction in battle,
no dwarf would ever forgive a king such folly. We pride ourselves on
our tactics...'
Legolas laughed suddenly, the sound like the tinkle of bright water.
'Tactics!' he said merrily. 'That is a bold claim, coming from one who
is behind me in the tally race...'
'I am not behind you!' exclaimed Gimli, leaping to his feet and
brandishing his axe.
'In fact, I am ahead of you on points!'
'Only if you count the Mumak as one....' objected Legolas
'I do count it as one!' retorted Gimli. Legolas laughed again and said;
'That is not fair! There were at least twelve on that archery platform
on the beast's back...'
'Bad luck to them!' snorted Gimli. 'It still only counts as one....'
Legolas was by now almost helpless with laughter. He waved at Gimli to
resume his seat.
'Sit down, my old friend!' he said. 'I will allow it, this time.
But from now on I will find it much harder to keep in the race, as my
arrows are almost all spent, even those I was given by Galadriel
herself...'
And Legolas lifted his quiver, the one with the peacock worked in
silver on the leather. Inside it there were no more than half a dozen
arrows.
The name of Galadriel momentarily distracted Gimli, and he stared into
the fire for some time without seeming to notice Legolas at all. But
then he shook himself and gazed at the half-empty quiver.
'Can you no get some from the men of Gondor?' he asked. Legolas shook
his head.
'They are too short for the great bow of the Galadhrim' he said. 'They
fall inside it when I draw it fully'
Gimli made a sympathetic face, but in truth Dwarves are not great
archers, preferring to fight with axes. A gleam lit up his eye.
'It does mean I will probably win then...?' he said happily.
'Yes, if we don't both die first...' said Legolas with an exasperated
frown.
The two friends lapsed in to silence, gazing into their fire. But
around them were men with keen hearing, and after a while a few figures
stole away into the darkness. Soon two figures emerged from the night
into the circle of light cast by Gimli and Legolas's campfire. The Elf
quickly got to his feet.
'No, do not rise, please!' said the tallest of the two, and Legolas saw
by the firelight on his gilded mail that he too was an Elf, of the
Galadhrim. He bowed to Legolas.
'We are sorry to disturb your rest....' he indicated his friend.
'..this is Callanach, leader of the Black Company of Rangers of Arnor,
and I am Rosc, the leader of the Elves of Lothlorien who have sworn to
fight alongside them. My duty to you, Legolas Greenleaf, Prince and son
of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and to you Gimli son of Gloin...'
And the Elf swept Legolas and Gimli a low bow, and the smaller
figure of the young Ranger captain followed suit. Then they
straightened up and there was an awkward silence. Gimli broke it.
'Friends, do not stand on ceremony, sit by our fire and share what food
we have....'
Callanach now spoke for the first time.
'My Lord Gimli, we thank you but we have already supped. We will sit
with you for a while, though, as we have long desired to speak with
you, and....'
Cal stopped abruptly, and Gimli with a gleam in his eye finished off
his sentence;
'...and, you were going to say, there might not be another
opportunity...'
Cal bent his head.
'Yes...' he muttered. 'I was going to say something like that.....'
Gimli poured a horn mug of beer and pushed it into the boy's hand.
'Drink that and don't think any more of war tonight. Can I tempt you,
Lord Elf..?'
Rosc held up a hand in polite refusal and Gimli and Callanach took
deep draughts of their cups while the Elves looked on. Then Gimli put
down his mug and smacked his lips.
'Ah! that is good. The brewers of Minas Tirith are almost as good as
the ones of Eriador. Almost....'
'My lords...' broke in Callanach. 'We really do not want to intrude...'
'You're not' said Gimli flatly, thinking of the glum fireside they
would have been keeping anyway. But Callanach went on;
'We are honoured to meet you, but that is not why we came; we heard
that you, Legolas, lack arrows. We brought you some....'
And from under his cloak Callanach took a large linen bag closed at the
mouth with a drawstring. He loosed the string and pulled open the top,
and Legolas glancing in could see a great sheaf of arrows of
Lothlorien. He would know them anywhere, with their white fletches and
grey shafts.
Legolas rose quickly to his feet and stepping across to where Callanach
sat he took up the bag and ran his hand over the silky swans-feather
fletches. The Elf Rosc smiled.
'We know you were given a bow of Lorien, and we know also that only
arrows of Lorien can be used with it..We have great store of them, and
so we thought to give you some....'
Legolas was lost for some moments in admiration of the arrows. Then he
suddenly looked up and his expression changed.
'How came you to have so many?' he asked with foreboding in his voice.
Rosc sighed and looked down.
'We fought at Helm's Deep, and most of our company were slain,
along with our captain, Haldir. Those who remained decided to continue
in the service of the King. Our fallen were buried with those of Rohan,
the first time in many ages that the battle dead of men and Elves have
been laid to sleep under the same mound. Their bows we also interred,
but the arrows we kept, for our own use. That is how we come to have so
many....'
'Dead men's arrows; a gift from the departed ....' said Gimli,
stroking his beard thoughtfully, Legolas drew the string tight on the
arrow bag and looked up at Rosc.
'I will use them well, my lord Elf. I thank you for your offer, it is a
gift of more than just arrows....'
At a campfire some distance away, Aragorn sat also aware that he was no
longer keeping company with his friends. He missed Legolas and Gimli,
but the captains of the West sat around him talking in desultory
manner, and he felt he should listen and respond. Eventually however
they all took their leave and returned to their men, and only Gandalf
remained. But the Wizard did not speak to him, merely sat puffing on
his pipe, gazing into the dying fire.
Feeling restless, Aragorn got to his feet and walked around the
perimeter of the camp, speaking to the guards. The men were alert and
watchful, and Aragorn returned to his fire reassured about the army’s
safety that night at least. Gandalf had wrapped himself in his cloak
and lain down to sleep, so Aragorn, not hoping to get much rest
himself, did the same.
Whether he was more tired than he realised, or whether some evil dream
was waiting to draw him into its dark world, he fell asleep almost as
soon as he closed his eyes.
At once he found himself back in Minas Tirith. But it was not the city
he had left a few days before; standing on the upper level, before the
White Tower, he looked out over a city wreathed in flames. It was not
the partial sack of the city that had taken place during the battle of
the Pelennor, but a complete invasion by the enemy. From his high
vantage point, Aragorn could see that every one of the seven levels of
the city but the uppermost was burning. Screams rose to where he stood,
and leaning over the low smoke-stained wall Aragorn watched in horror
as orcs and other nameless creatures pursued the inhabitants of the
city through its burning streets.
As he looked, he could pick out a woman in a blue tunic with a child in
her arms. Keeping her breath for running she neither screamed not cried
out, but fled as swiftly as she could along a burning alleyway. But
behind her, also silent but in the manner of wolves pursuing a hind,
ran a great pack of Uruk-hai.
Aragorn willed the woman to greater speed, hoping against hope that she
could escape her pursuers, although where she could escape to in that
burning city he could not guess. But his hope was in vain. The first of
the fell pursuers eventually reached the woman, and she at last gave a
scream that rang in Aragorn's ears. He clapped a hand to the hilt of
his sword, only to find his scabbard was empty. But when he moved his
head to look down he became aware of a figure at the corner of his eye.
He turned; standing beside him at the wall, also looking out at the
scene, was Boromir of Gondor.
Appalled, Aragorn forgot all about the fleeing woman and stepped back.
Boromir continued to gaze down at the burning city and he said with a
grim little laugh;
'What is the matter, Aragorn? Can't you bear the sight of what you have
done?'
'What do you mean?' asked Aragorn. 'What have I done?'
Boromir extended his arm.
'This is what I mean!' he cried. 'You took this city from my
father, Denethor the Steward. You, Aragorn, descendent of Isildur. You
promised me you would save our people and our city and now look what
you have done with them! You have lost, and led them to death and
ruin!'
In spite of himself, Aragorn looked down at the ravaged streets,
engulfed in fire and smoke, and the carnage raging there. He had no
answer. He looked again at Boromir.
Then he saw that the arm Boromir extended towards the burning city
seemed just a stick in a sleeve, and the hand that pointed was nothing
but bones covered in dried skin.
In horror, Aragorn looked at Boromir's face, and the son of the Steward
as if reading his thoughts turned it to him, and Aragorn saw it was
just skin stretched over a skull, with two red lights burning deep in
the empty eye sockets.
Aragorn wanted to retreat but his legs would not obey him. His gaze
fell on Boromir's tunic where it covered his chest and stomach; the
rich fabric twitched and heaved, as if a mass of worms feasted on the
body inside. Despite the rushing in his ears Aragorn heard the dry,
scornful laughing of the dead Boromir;
'This is what Sauron will bring you to as well, descendent of
Isildur...Death!'
Aragorn opened his mouth to scream, but no sound would come. Suddenly
he felt himself shaken roughly;
'Aragorn! Aragorn! Wake up....!'
He scrambled to his feet, bathed in a deathly cold sweat. He looked
about; beside him, his hand on Aragorn's arm as if to restrain him,
stood Gandalf. In a circle around them stood the sentries, holding
torches that threw a yellow light on their pale, frightened faces.
Aragorn realised he had been dreaming. He bowed his head.
'It is nothing....I did not summon you here.....'
'You had a bad dream, I know...' broke in Gandalf brusquely. 'we
did not wake you for that. A messenger has come from the North, a
Ranger. He says there is an ambush waiting for us on the road
ahead...'.
Aragorn was shaking; the memory of the horror in the dream sat on him
like an evil spirit. Passing an arm across his brow to wipe away the
cold sweat he nodded.
'Very well, bring this messenger to me....'
The men turned away then, and Aragorn had a moment to himself to regain
his thoughts and let his pounding heart resume its normal rhythm.
Gandalf stepped up to him.
'Is all well with you, Aragorn?' he asked, then narrowed his eyes.
'What did you see in this dream?'
'Nothing...' replied Aragorn in a shaking voice. 'Nothing,
Mithrandir...'
Just then the sentries returned with Seolta. Aragorn raised his
head and looked into his face. He remembered this man; he had given the
Black Company leave to join the army, and this Ranger was their leader.
How then came he to be wandering alone in the country of Ithilien?
Aragorn frowned.
'Why were you out in the land where only our enemies are at large?'
Seolta bowed stiffly. He straightened up and Aragorn saw his face was
yellow-grey in hue, as one with a deadly fever.
'I ask your pardon, my lord Aragorn...'
'King Elessar to you...' murmured one of the guards. Seolta stopped and
bowed again.
'Again I beg your pardon, my lord King. I was abroad on an errand....'
'Errand?' interrupted Gandalf. 'What errand could you have in this
deserted land?'
Seolta hesitated and Aragorn saw the look of shame and uncertainty in
his face. Before the Ranger could speak, Aragorn said;
'It matters not. I am sure it was an errand of honour, and we need not
know of it here. Just tell us what you saw.....'
Seolta's face lit up with relief.
'Thank you, my lord King. What I saw was...a great force of orcs and
men of Rhun settling into position to ambush you, just in that place
where Faramir of Gondor ambushed the men of Harad days ago....'
There was a sharp intake of breath by the guards. More men were
gathering round. Already dawn was streaking the sky. Aragorn knew he
must take control of the situation. He inclined his head.
'My thanks for your warning. I will send out scouts to confirm the
enemy's position. In the meantime.....are you hurt?'
Aragorn had noticed that Seolta was swaying unsteadily and sweat
gleamed on his face.
The Ranger replied;
'An orc arrow struck me as I was trying to escape ...'
Aragorn nodded; now he understood the man's greenish pale face. He knew
that orc arrows were often anointed with venom. He met Seolta's gaze
and saw that the Ranger knew he was poisoned. Awake or asleep, Aragorn
could not escape death.
He said to one of the sentries;
'Take this man away and dress his wounds. Bring him back to his
company, they will care for him...'
And not meeting Seolta's eyes again Aragorn turned to the captains who
had hurried up;
'Go and rouse your companies. The army will strike camp right away; we
must be ready to encircle this ambush, and attack the attackers....'
As they hurried off Aragorn's thoughts returned to his dream. A
trickle of ice cold sweat ran down his face. Was this indeed what lay
in store for him, death in battle, and the burning of Minas Tirith and
the slaughter of its people? Or was it just a dream sent by Sauron?
Gandalf was watching him closely. Aragorn shook off his thoughts said
to him in a grim voice;
'Either this day or the next, Mithrandir, we will learn wo will live
and who will die.....`
