The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Fifty: The Meeting of Boromir and Éowyn
Éowyn
was a shieldmaiden of Rohan, trained to war, but she knew a lone
warrior on foot had little chance against a squad of armed and mounted
men.
The princess however had chosen her ground well; a slope of shifting
sand topped with thorny whin, and she at its crest, her back defended
by the prickly furze and Samwise the hobbit at her side, gripping the
long hunting knife as if it were the finest Elven blade in the West…
When the band of black-clad pursuers saw them, they gave a wild cry of
triumph and spurred their horses forward. The great beasts ploughed
down into the deep sand and laboured up the far side of the hollow.
Their leader, a tall ruffian with a broad swarthy face and a long mane
of coarse black hair, raked his horse’s flanks with long spurs and
leaned forward in the saddle, his curved scimitar upraised to smite the
slender warrior maid standing before him…
But his blow cut the air without meeting any resistance; Éowyn
smartly dodged aside as the horse heaved itself up onto the crown of
the hill and as the keen blade flashed past her cheek she lunged
forward with her bright Rohan sword and buried the steel in the man’s
leather armour almost to the hilt.
A terrible cry of rage and pain went up, and the horse, panicking,
reared up and slithered back onto the other chargers, pawing their way
up the bank after him. The first rider tumbled backwards off his mount,
which swerved and galloped away. Éowyn was dragged down the hill
by the weight of her fallen attacker, her sword still stuck fast in his
chest…..
And that was her undoing; for in trying to free her blade she was open
to attack by the soldiers that followed. Seizing the hilt with both
hands she tugged desperately and the sword pulled out halfway, but
looking up she saw a great armoured warrior, his vizor of black steel
pulled down over his face, his eyes bloodshot and full of rage,
spurring his exhausted horse straight at her.
One last pull and it would be free….the charging horse struck
Éowyn a glancing blow and she was thrown to the sand, her sword
free in her hand, but the rider loomed above her and she saw a glint of
steel and a lance flickered down and pierced her through the thigh,
pinning her to the sandy ground.
Despite her bravery, Éowyn gave a scream of pain. The rider at
that moment should have drawn his sword and taking advantage of her
impaled and immobile state, hewn her to death. But he was too
impatient, and yanked the spear out of the ground, the shaft pulling
out of Éowyn’s leg with a rush of bright blood. She felt faint
and the day swirled round her, darkening…then there was a loud cry and
a small figure, a grey cloak flying behind him and a blade shining in
his hand, flew past her and plunged his weapon into her attacker,
crying;
‘The Shire! The Shire!’
The man’s horse, sensing something small and swift almost under its
hooves, reared and screamed, and its rider, wounded in the leg by Sam’s
swift thrust, tumbled backwards. As he fell Sam slashed at him again…
‘Take that, you filth!’ he shouted, stabbing at the armoured bandit who
tried frantically to crawl and roll away from the hobbit down the hill.
‘Are you wounded, my lady?’ gasped Sam, taking Éowyn’s arm and pulling her to her feet.
‘It’s nothing, Sam, nothing…’ panted Éowyn, ducking to retrieve
her blood-stained sword and looked desperately round like a cornered
lioness.
The ruffians they had wounded and beaten off lay at the bottom of the
sandy slope, their mounts cantering away across the plain, but the
others had learned their lesson and wheeled their horses and galloped
around the lip of the hollow to attack the brave pair from above.
Éowyn saw them coming and said urgently to Sam.
‘On guard, Sam! Here they come again….’
And the princess of Rohan and Samwise the Gardener, of the Shire, stood
back to back to meet the onslaught of their mounted attackers….
But horses will not ride down one who stands steadfastly in their way.
Time and again the ruffians spurred their beasts forward, but they
threw up their heads and sidled away when Éowyn or Sam waved
their bright blades under their noses and shouted their war cries.
Eventually, in a fury of impatience, the ruffians dismounted and rushed
on Éowyn and Sam with bloodthirsty cries…
Éowyn wished she had a shield, but her brother, and long ago her
uncle the King himself had taught her swordcraft, and she feinted and
tricked the first of their attackers and before he could recover he had
keeled over, run through with her bright Rohan blade. But as he fell he
collided with her shoulder and she lost her balance and staggered back,
almost over the rim of the hollow. Sam saw another attacker take
advantage and dart forward and thrust a black blade towards her heart.
‘No!’ shouted Sam, lunging at the man with his long dagger…
His blade nicked the sword and deflected it. But Sam stumbled and the
blow sheered towards his face. He ducked sideways, but not far enough
and the jagged edge of the blade, with all the force still in the man’s
blow, struck Sam on the head and knocked him to the ground.
‘Sam! screamed Éowyn, more concerned for the hobbit than
herself. Sam lay as if he was dead, and another attacker rushed on
Éowyn, this time with an axe raised to kill her….
Éowyn looked up at the crescent of steel, glinting in the late
afternoon sun, and knew this was the end. The axe seemed to take an age
to descend, and as it did so she was aware of another sound, a sort of
whistling, like something hurtling through the air, and at that moment
a great black horse, twice the size of her lost Rogha and black as a
night without stars, sailed over the gorse bush like a stag over a rock
on the mountainside, and a great bright sword scythed the air to
decapitate the man who wielded the axe. The weapon, and the headless
corpse, fell to the ground at Éowyn’s feet with a dull thump….
Éowyn twisted round in amazement; the black steed landed halfway
down the sandy slope and kept going, up the far side and round to fall
on her dark-clad attackers. Éowyn caught a clear look of its
rider, a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with long fair hair and a pale,
angry face. He wielded a broadsword with one hand and as he turned
Éowyn saw he wore a surcoat emblazoned with the arms of Gondor….
Grima’s ruffians had been eager for the chase and for a fight with an
unarmed woman and a wounded hobbit; but this great warrior on a tall
warhorse was more than they bargained for. As if in a daze they raised
their weapons, then as Boromir sliced through their blades and another
head bounced down the sandy slope, they panicked and turning their
horses’ heads they spurred frantically away in all directions.
Boromir urged Seabhac after them, easily overtaking one and burying his
blade in the creature’s spine. He fell off his horse with a shriek, and
the others spurred their horses desperately and melted away into the
late afternoon shadows on the plain….
Boromir turned his hourse and cantered back to the hollow.
Éowyn, breathing hard, watched him approach, her bloodied blade
still in her hand. The man dismounted and strode over to her, a
half-smile on his face. Éowyn looked at the tree and stars on
his fine black tunic and raising one white fist she swung it round in a
blow aimed at his face….
Boromir was trained to meet any attack, although few as unexpected as
this, and he swiftly raised his arm and the girl’s hand glanced
harmlessly off his leathern vambrace.
Éowyn lowered her bruised hand and transferring her sword she
raised the other hand to hit Boromir with that, but he fended off that
blow too. Then Éowyn took a hold of her sword. At this Boromir
stepped back and raised both hands in a gesture of entreaty;
‘Nay, nay, my lady! If I am to be struck, at least tell me why. Or do
you want me to leave you to the attentions of your former companions…?’
And Boromir nodded towards the distant figures of the fleeing ruffians.
At this, Éowyn lowered her sword and with a bruised and dirty
hand she pushed back a lock of fair hair that had fallen across her
eyes. Boromir said in a gentler voice;
‘My lady, if I have done you some wrong, at least tell me what it is. You don’t even know who I am!’
Éowyn drew herself up as straight as she could on her wounded leg and leaning on her sword she replied proudly;
‘From your livery and your bearing I know who you are; you are Boromir
son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. I struck you to pay you for
breaking your oath to Frodo, and for involving me in your disgrace, by
taking me as your betrothed!’
