The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Forty-nine: Will No-One Fight Me?
Faramir
helped Frodo to his feet and guided him across the broken glass to the
door of the tiny turret room. As they went out through the heavy oaken
door, torn and splintered by the glass storm, Faramir looked back,
scanning the broken window for any sign of the winged creature that had
tried to take the Ring; but no dark shape appeared against the clear
sky beyond…..
‘What is it, Faramir?’ asked Frodo, seeing the man’s face pale and anxious.
‘Nothing, Frodo’ murmured Faramir. ‘Nothing…it is gone now. Let us go
down to the Hall of the Stewards. It is a long descent and you are
shaken and tired, let me carry you…’
But as Faramir bent down to pick Frodo up he staggered and put a hand
on the rough-hewn stone wall of the tower. Before him the stairs, grey
granite glistening with flecks of mica in the dim light, wound away
endlessly into the gloom. Frodo put a steadying hand on Faramir’s arm.
‘Carry me?’ the hobbit asked gently. ‘I think it is rather I who must carry you, Lord Faramir…’
Faramir nodded with a rueful smile, but his face was grey, the cut on
his cheek livid in the dim light. He held a hand to his side, wondering
had he broken a rib in the fight with Meriadoc’s tormentor in the
dungeon. The hobbit was right, he was in no state to carry anything.
‘Here’ said Frodo briskly. ‘Lean on me, Faramir. We cannot stay here all day. Let me help you down the stairs…’
Faramir would have refused, but he was too weak. Something of the evil
creature sent from Mordor seemed to have quelled his strength and made
his hurts worse. Gratefully he took the arm the hobbit offered and
leaned on Frodo as they painfully descended the long, winding stairs….
Now that his senses had cleared, Frodo himself felt quite strong. He
could remember only dimly the vision he had seen in the
Palantír, and from it he took nothing but the sad memory of a
being so fair it hurt Frodo to think he had turned to darkness and
evil. Of his conversation with Sauron he could remember little, nor did
he strive to recall it. He felt that in some strange way the Ring had
taken over the encounter, and in striving to reach its master it had
brushed the Seeing-stone and some charge of energy released by both the
Ring and the Stone had caused the shattering of the Palantír.
Now the Ring swing glowing on its chain, humming as if in triumph. And
yet it had not succeeded in returning to its master, nor had it
extended its power over Frodo. On the contrary, the hobbit felt a sense
of relief, of reprieve, as if the Ring and Sauron were momentarily too
caught up in their private inferno to notice him.
For the time being….
At long last they reached the bottom of the stairs and Faramir with
shaking hands inserted the key in the door and swung it open. He was by
now barely able to stand, and Frodo, taking almost the full weight of
the tall man, supported and guided him to the only chair in sight, the
great hard black chair of the Steward placed at the foot of the Throne
of the Kings of Gondor.
Faramir slumped into the chair and closed his eyes. Blood still
trickled from the cut on his cheek and Frodo folded the hem of his
Elven cloak and pressed it against the wound. The grey material woven
in Lothlórien seemed to have some healing quality for it
staunched the flow of blood. Faramir sighed with relief and seemed to
slip into a doze. Frodo pulled his cloak round him tenderly, wondering
if he were seriously hurt, and if he had taken some spiritual wound
from the shattering of the orb. He stood thinking it over, then
shrugged.
‘It is more likely the wounds he had already, and the thought of his brother riding away to his doom….’
Frodo arranged the cloak and stepped back.
‘Sleep for a bit, then….I will keep watch till you wake.’ he said to Faramir under his breath.
Frodo turned then, for the hall seemed to be growing brighter even
though evening was drawing on. The hobbit walked up the short flight of
marble steps beside the high throne and looked up at the great gilded
crown suspended over the seat of the Kings.
‘So much suffering, just to gain a crown…’ he thought. And he thought
of Aragorn, as he had first appeared to the hobbits in the inn at Bree,
a ragged wanderer of the forests and moors. Frodo smiled.
‘A man is king by virtue of what is inside, not what is outside….’
The light was growing even stronger, and Frodo walked round to the back
of the throne of Gondor and into a high round gallery with windows on
all sides, their shutters open and fine, lacelike grilles of wrought
iron letting the late afternoon sunlight stream into the Hall.
Frodo put his face right up to the window and peered out….
Far below him the city of Minas Tirith basked in the golden sunshine of
spring. Smoke rose from cooking fires and a bell rang for the changing
of the guard. On the outer wall the helms and spear-tips of the
sentinels glinted in the sun, and far beyond stretched the dusty plain
of the Pelennor. Frodo narrowed his eyes to see, and could make out, at
the very edge of his vision, the great squadrons and columns of the
armies of Mordor, drawn up waiting to attack the city.
Frodo frowned, squinting as he tried harder to see, for what appeared
at first had to be a mirage, a vision not of what was there but of what
he wished was there….
Frodo gasped; it was no vision. The enemy armies, great black
formations under vile banners, were breaking up. Even as the hobbit
watched, great columns of men, orcs and fell beasts began to break
ranks and stream back towards the distant river. Stragglers were
scattered all over the plain, like ants when a nest is destroyed,
running this way and that, doomed.
‘It can’t be!’ breathed Frodo to himself, rubbing his eyes and looking again.
But it was. Overhead the dark cloud sent by Sauron to protect the orc
squadrons from the sun had shredded in the strong West wind and was
streaming away in tatters towards the East, whence it had come. All the
forces of Mordor were in disarray and retreat. Frodo turned and ran
down the steps and across to the Steward’s chair. He shook Faramir
awake.
’Come and look, Faramir!’ he cried in excitement ‘Sauron’s armies are falling back. Your plan is working!’
Scenting the enemy, An Seabhac lengthened his stride as if eager to
close with the orcs and trample them into the hard dry earth that shook
under his great hooves. The line of the enemy came closer and resolved
itself into spearmen clad in armour of gilded brass with fantastic
designs of snake and dragon, and flying overhead banners of black with
the Red Eye bold upon them.
‘Not much further now, my brave steed…’ muttered Boromir, and his great black charger snorted as if it understood him.
Boromir drew his sword, wondering when the arrows would find him. He
prayed that the foe would be so surprised by the attack of a single
horseman that they might not have time to loose more than a few darts
before he was among them, hewing and hacking. But he knew it would
probably be otherwise, and he and Seabhac might be struck down long
before they reached the enemy spears.
But as they galloped on and on the air remained clear and not a single
missile was cast against them. Boromir frowned, suspecting a trap. A
circle of pike-wielding orcs, perhaps, to surround him and Seabhac and
make his killing into sport. Boromir shrugged off the thought; a
warrior had to take whatever chance the battlefield threw up, however
cruel…
The enemy line drew ever closer, the mass of glittering helms and
bright axe-blades and ragged banners resolving itself into individual
orcs, clad in their outlandish armour and bearing fearsome weapons, far
beyond the strength of mortal men to wield.
Boromir held out his sword over his horse’s straining neck and dug his
heels into the beast’s flanks to urge it on. But even while he was at
some distance from the foe and the enemy ranks were still partly
shrouded by mist, Boromir could see there was something wrong….
The line of orcs and Easterlings and warg-mounted commanders was retreating.
Boromir lowered his sword and laid it across his saddle-bow and
strained his eyes to see clearly; there was no doubt. The enemy were
falling back.
Not in orderly ranks and columns, but just lowering their shields and
sheathing their crooked swords and looking in bewilderment at each
other they were drawing back, at first slowly then as some unseen panic
took hold, at a run, colliding with each other and trampling any who
fell….
Boromir reined Seabhac to a halt and gazed in bafflement at the scene
before him. Thousands of orcs and their allies were flying back across
the Pelennor towards the river. Overhead the long black cloud sent from
Mordor to shield the passage of the orc army had blown completely away
and the sun shone in a blue sky. The air was strangely empty of any
cries or shouts; the orcs fled in deathly silence, only the drumming of
their shod feet on the hard winter grass and the clash of their sword
and pike blades making any sound.
‘What is happening?’ asked Boromir in dismay. All he could think was
that death in battle had been denied him, and so set was he on wiping
away his shame in a glorious but doomed battle with the enemy that he
felt not relief but anger and despair.
‘Where are you going, you cowardly cur?’ he bellowed, reaching down
from the saddle to seize the harness of a fleeing orc. But the creature
looked up at Boromir and in his red-rimmed eyes the prince of Gondor
saw not even fear, but a terrible void. Like scattered sheep the orcs
fled, their ruling intelligence, their mastering force, Sauron, no
longer in control….
His dream of redemption in ruins, Boromir shouted at the orcs;
‘Blast you, you fiends! Will you deny me your swords this one time I need them? Will no-one fight me?’
And spurring Seabhac forward Boromir swung and slashed at the
retreating orcs. Some staggered with pitiful cries and fell, not to
rise again. Others ran on, as Boromir hacked at their backs and
trailing pikes and swords, not seeming to care if they were slain from
behind. Not seeming to know what was even happening.
Boromir stopped, disgusted. There was no honour or even sense in
killing here. He felt like a wolf harrying sheep. Sweat ran down his
face and under him Seabhac sidled and snorted, uneasy and alarmed.
Boromir laid a calming hand on the beast’s neck.
‘Easy, Hawk. We must just wait and see what is happening…’
But even as he spoke the words Boromir saw a thick white mist rise from
the distant river Anduin and begin to roll across the plain of the
Pelennor. It was no supernatural event; the hot sun suddenly beaming
down on the river swollen by the cold waters of early spring had caused
a dense white mist to form. But it gathered with supernatural speed,
and now the Western wind was blowing it across the plain.
‘Oh no…’ thought Boromir, afraid of being caught in a blinding pall of
white. But before he could urge Seabhac out of the way, the mist
enveloped him and his mount, and nothing could be seen for more than a
few feet in all directions….
‘We must get clear of this, old friend…’ Boromir whispered to Seabhac
and turned the horse’s head to ride out in the direction of the city.
But then, looming up out of the wall of white, came a giant form, a
monster with curving tusks as thick as ash saplings. A great trunk,
sinuous and grey, curled up into the air over his head and a deafening
trumpet was emitted, causing Seabhac to scream and rear up on his hind
legs….
A Mumak! Boromir had seen them in the distance when he had fought off
the attacks of the Southerlings during Gondor’s long wars. But he had
never seen one as close as this; the mist made it look even bigger and
Boromir caught a glimpse of the red- and white-painted face of its
leering rider. As the monster raised its trunk to seize him Boromir
ducked and tried to turn his horse’s head and escape….
But the Hawk was too quick for him. Horses fear Mumakil and Seabhac,
seeing and smelling the beast, swerved away from the upraised trunk and
bounded off into the white emptiness of the mist with Boromir clinging
to the saddle, powerless to stop him….