The Ring will come to Gondor by Varda

The Ring will come to Gondor

by Varda

Chapter Twenty-eight: A Fine Escape

The black-clad soldiers ran up the wide marble steps and beat on the heavy oak doors of the Houses of Healing with the butts of their swords. It was a chilly grey dawn and the curfew was not yet lifted, but a few shutters creaked open in the street below as the thunderous knocking reverberated round the little square beside the great stone building….

‘Open up! In the name of the King! Open the door….’

Not giving any time to those within to respond, the foremost solder stepped back and raised his foot and kicked the solid oak panel with all his strength. The lock broke with a tinkle of metal and the heavy wooden doors flew open and the squad of men, swords drawn, rushed into the Houses of Healing…..

In the Herbarium Ioreth was instructing two of the younger Sisters in drying and storing healing herbs. The girls were clad in blue gowns with white aprons, frowning with concentration as they watched Ioreth pour the precious grains of powdered herbs from a mortar into a labelled jar. When the sound of mailed feet running down the hall reached them, she put down the bottle as the two girls went pale. One of them began to speak but Ioreth gestured for silence.
‘Find Airdeall and warn her….’ she said. When the girl stared at her she added;
Hurry!’
‘But what shall I say?’ asked the girl with a shaking voice.
‘Tell her they have come for the Elf….’

A hand laid gently on Legolas’s shoulder and a voice speaking softly in his ear roused him;
‘Awake, Master Elf; men are coming to kill you. Rise, and follow me….’

Legolas sat up on the bed then got to his feet, not quite steady yet and holding onto the wooden post for support.

Elves do not sleep, but they can fall into a state like sleep when they are healing after grievous injury. Legolas had slipped into such deep rest in the Houses of Healing after his wounds had been dressed, and the woman Airdeall had watched over him as the night came on in deep blue twilight.

Now the peace of the Houses of Healing was shattered; heavy footsteps were heard running along the corridor and whispers in doorways, voices raised in panic….
‘You are in great danger’ Airdeall said to Legolas. ‘You must rise and follow me…’

‘What has happened?’ asked the Elf as he got to his feet. Airdeall looked up at him and shook her head sadly;
‘The Houses of Healing are sacred to the people of Gondor, as a place of sanctuary as well as healing. But someone, perhaps even one of our sisterhood, revealed your presence to the agents of the Steward – nay..’ and she shook her head in distaste ‘of the King, as he now calls himself…’
‘The King!’ exclaimed Legolas. ‘The King has not yet come to Gondor, nor will he be pleased to see what has happened when he does….’
‘If he does’ said Airdeall sadly, then she shook her head and said urgently;’But we have no time for this; soldiers are coming to slay you….’

Legolas felt a tightening in his chest; not fear, for this royal wood-elf knew no fear. But he felt a horror of the evil that had invaded every sacred place and corrupted every time-honoured custom of Minas Tirith. He shuddered to think that the Steward whose family had born the title for so long had brought shame on it by usurping the name of King….instinctively Legolas reached for one of the white-handled knives he customarily bore in his quiver, then remembered that they had been taken from him when he was brought into the city….
‘Follow me, and be quick….’ whispered Airdeall.

The door of the Herbarium was thrown violently open and the soldiers rushed in. They stopped abruptly when they saw Ioreth, flanked by a younger Sister of Healing, calmly pouring medicine into a small jar.
‘Where is the Elf?’ shouted the leading soldier. Ioreth continued to pour the mixture. The soldier pushed towards her. Another of the black-clad men spoke sharply to him.
‘Get back! Leave this to me…..’

This second man was an officer; his black uniform, devoid of signs of rank, yet bore a spindly white tree on the breast, and the other soldiers deferred to him. He walked over to Ioreth and shook back his cloak to rest his gauntleted hand on the hilt of a long hunting knife. He spoke to Ioreth as a man would speak to a stubborn child.
‘Come madame; we know you have an Elf in your care. We will find him eventually. Save your Houses from destruction, and let us have him now…’

Ioreth slowly replaced the stopper in the jar and put it down. She turned to face the officer and said;
‘Save the Houses of Healing from destruction? You have no warrant to destroy this place, soldier, and you know it. There are no Elves here….’

And she turned away from the man and began to fill another bottle.

The officer went red. Of course he had no authority to destroy the Houses of Healing, but he had not thought the old woman would have had the nerve to challenge him. He did, however, have the right to do anything required to find the Elf.
‘Very well…’ he said grimly ‘We will tear the place apart to find him. He gestured to the men.
‘Start over there….’ And the soldiers moved to the neat rows of glass jars arranged on the shelves.
‘Break everything…..’
‘And when the men of Gondor need healing, where will they go?’ asked Ioreth quietly.
‘With what shall we soothe their pain and heal their wounds when all our salves and potions are ruined?’

The soldiers looked at their leader over their shoulders; from childhood they knew the Sisters in the Houses of Healing cared for men wounded in battle, and brought them back from the shadow of death. It was bad luck to destroy their herbs. The officer frowned, then said;
‘Get out, all of you. Search the rest of the building. She is only delaying us…’

The men hurried out, glad to escape the task of destroying the sacred herbs. The captain followed them. He said to Ioreth as he passed;
‘If we find him here, you will be taken too, for harbouring a traitor.’ Ioreth smiled.
‘If you find him, you can take me too. But you will find no Elf in the Houses of Healing….’

When the men were gone, Ioreth went back to filling her medicine jars. She said to the open-mouthed young Sister beside her;
‘This my girl is comfrey, called Knit-bone by the wise women of the country, for it heals broken bones.’ she looked at the youngster and said, thinking of Airdeall;
‘As for broken hearts, other remedies must be found….’

Airdeall, moving noiselessly on the white stone flags of the long gallery of the Houses, led the Elf from the room and quickly to a doorway hidden by a tapestry. From a chain at her belt she drew out a ring of keys and chose one without hesitation and slotting it in the lock she turned it and the door creaked open.
‘Follow me’ she said.

Inside a narrow, winding flight of steps wound away upward into darkness. As Legolas looked up he heard the sound of voices raised in protest, and a man’s voice shouting.
‘They are here; hurry…’ said Airdeall.
But as she went to ascend the staircase Legolas took her hand and said;
‘Why have you not asked me my name?’

Airdeall turned to look at the Elf and said;
‘Because you will go away; even if the soldiers do not find you and slay you, you will leave, for you are an Elf and this is no place for you, a great city of stone without trees or streams of bright water. I can forget you more easily if I do not know your name…..’

From somewhere high above the first cold light of day filtered down into the stairwell and by it Legolas saw Airdeall’s face was marked with lines; lines of loss, perhaps, or of grief. He wondered if she kept in her heart the memory of one who had left to fight in Gondor’s wars and had not come back. Suddenly they heard the clatter of mailed boots running along the great hallway. Airdeall said in alarm;
‘Hurry! I will bring you where it is safe….’ She went to lead the way but the Elf blocked her path and said in a quiet voice.
‘I will not make it easy for you to forget me; my name is Legolas….’

Sam was awoken by cold rain falling on his face. He sat up stiffly in the little boat which had borne him from Isengard, and looked around…

He was passing along a stretch of river flanked by thick stands of willow and alder. The long trailing branches of the willow dipped in the water, and a cold wind sent cat’s-paws across the choppy grey water. Sam shivered and pulled the cloak tighter round him. He noticed that the water was becoming shallower….

Then the coracle rounded a bend of the river and began to drift as the current slowed. At the same time from a wide thicket of reeds beside the bank there burst a great dark-armoured figure, and Sam stared in horror; it was an Uruk-hai!

The hobbit, stiff from his wounds, tried to crouch down in the little boat, but he felt horribly exposed, stalled in the water under the creature’s very nose. But the Uruk-hai did not seem to see him; it was hurtling forward as if pursuing something. Despite his alarm Sam raised his head enough to see along the bank and to his astonishment he glimpsed a band of horsemen, warriors with long fair hair and helmets wrought in designs of horse and flying bird, with above them a great green banner displaying a white horse at the gallop.

But the horsemen were surrounded by orcs, Uruk-hai who came crowding up out of the thick woods that ran almost to the water’s edge. Even from the river Sam could see the fierce fighting, as the horsemen defended themselves and their comrades. Sam stared, helpless to escape notice or to hurry his craft away. He was forced to watch the battle…..

Brave as they were the horsemen were overwhelmed by the Uruk-hai. Some took to the river in desperation, and Sam watched in horror as one horseman plunged straight towards him. But before he could reach the coracle he was struck by a hail of arrows from the Uruk crossbows. The heavy bolts plopped into the water round about him then struck him in the back with a sickening thump. He fell from his steed and sank into the deep water by Sam’s coracle and did not rise again.

The horse, also wounded, swam straight on, and Sam thought it would collide with the boat, but at the last moment it swerved and avoided him. But just as Sam heaved a sigh of relief he heard a faint bubbling noise….

He looked down and saw that an orc crossbow bolt had embedded itself in the leather side of his coracle. The water was spurting in around the hole.
‘Oh no!’ he said aloud. On the riverbank the Uruk-hai were pursuing the last few Riders but Sam suddenly had no thought for the brave warriors being hunted to their deaths; the thought of his own death, by cold water, took all his attention. Weak as he was from his whipping he cupped his hands and began to bale frantically….

He looked at the paddle and thought;
‘Perhaps I should steer to the river bank before it sinks…’
But on the bank Uruk-hai were swarming in their hundreds, massing for an even greater battle with more Rohirrim beyond the willow grove….Sam could neither land nor stay afloat for much longer as the water was now pouring into his frail little craft…

‘A fine escape this is!’ he said in annoyance. ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire, or the river. I would have been better off staying back in Isengard, at least I would not have drownded...hobbits don't belong in boats, large or small...’

The exertion of baling had opened the weals on Sam’s back and he felt faint. He thought of Frodo…
‘Well Mister Frodo, I guess I won’t get to find you after all. I did try to get back to you, Mr. Frodo, I did try….’

And wishing he was with his beloved master, and feeling weak and sore and defeated Sam sniffled and went to wipe his nose on his sleeve. But just then something snagged the bottom of the coracle and threw him off balance and he toppled backwards from the cross beam that served as a seat and hit his head on the wooden frame of the coracle and saw an explosion of bright stars and then only darkness….

‘Is it a dwarf? He has no beard. Maybe he is a very young dwarf….’
‘He’s no dwarf! Dwarves are broad and strong and have beards from an early age and never go anywhere without their axes and chain mail coats….’
‘Well he is not a man, he is but half our height…’
‘Some stunted creature of Saruman, perhaps….’

‘Hey you!’ said Sam angrily, struggling to open his eyes and sit up.
‘Who are you calling stunted? I can tell you I am as tall as any hobbit in The Shire…’

Sam stopped. When he opened his eyes he realised he was sitting on the ground, in wet clothes, with all around him a great circle of mounted men, grim-faced and pale, some wounded, all armed, their horses streaked with sweat and mud. One rider urged his horse, a great grey charger, through the ranks to rein in looking down at Sam.
‘Dwarf or man, what are you doing here? This is a place of battle, and we have no time for courtesy. All strangers are enemies in Rohan now….’

Sam peered up at the speaker. He was tall and his fair hair fell to his shoulders under a helm decorated with a brazen horse’s head. A long white horse-tail was attached to the crest. He bore a bloody sword in one hand and under his vizor his grey eyes blazed. But when he looked hard at Sam his expression softened; the hobbit was wet and his clothes were stained with blood from the weals on his back. He got to his feet with difficulty and faced the Rider with a brave look, but Éomer could see the little creature was close to falling down from exhaustion and shivering with cold.
‘I am not an enemy’ Sam said, as defiantly as he could ‘I’m just lost….’

Éomer dismounted and walked up to Sam. He took off his helmet and asked in a quieter voice;
‘Who are you, and how did you come here?’
‘My name is Samwise Gamgee, of the Shire’ said Sam in a tired voice. ‘and I have escaped from Isengard, in that little boat…’

And Sam indicated the coracle, which now lay swamped in the reed beds, just prevented from sinking by the shallow water. The Rohirrim looked at each other and all began to talk together. But Éomer studied the hobbit’s face and clothes. He noticed the bloody lines on the back of Sam’s jacket.

‘Did Saruman have you flogged?’ he asked in a gentle voice. Sam went to reply, but just then his weariness, made worse by the cold and the pain of his wounded back, overcame him. His legs gave way and he would have fallen on the muddy ground had Éomer not caught him in his arms in time…..