The Ring will come to Gondor

by Varda


Chapter Sixty-one: The Black Glen

Cathach was afraid of wizards, by general rule, and Gandalf was no exception. In fact, in the archer’s mind, Gandalf, or Mithrandir as he was better known in Minas Tirith, was the lord of all wizards and the more to be feared on that account.

On gaining the open air outside the narrow alley that led to the dungeons, Mithrandir let go of Cathach’s arm and raised his head, drew in a long breath of the cold, clean wind from the West, and leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. Cathach realised the wizard was sick….

Gandalf felt the rough stone against his back. Every bone in his body ached, and his head throbbed. He felt by turns icy cold and burning hot. Had he not been a wizard, and understood his own symptoms, he might have thought he was going to die….

The West wind stirred his long grey hair, but Gandalf kept his eyes closed. In the darkness behind the lids, he saw shapes; fiery shapes of fountains, dolphins, mumakil and rainbows….and then a dragon, soaring into the dark sky to explode in a shower of gold and red. The Birthday Party fireworks!
‘Ah yes…‘ thought Gandalf. ‘how they shouted and laughed, and threw themselves on the ground in terror. Would that a rain of coloured sparks was all we had to fear in Middle Earth. Would that the Shire folks had naught else to worry about than draining an ale barrel or winning the last piece of rhubarb tart….‘

But in the comforting dark, Gandalf sighed.
‘I wish I was back there, with the Boffins and Bracegirdles. Perhaps Saruman was right, and that is where I belong now, an old dotard weaving cheap spells and amusing the children with fireworkds on a summer evening. Maybe that is all the power I will ever regain, for all my wisdom….‘

Gandalf paused. The darkness had taken on another quality; deep and chilly, with a dank, sulphurous smell. The wizard looked down, and saw at his feet the edge of a great chasm…..
‘Khazad-dum!‘ he gasped, and craned to look once again into the bottomless abyss of the Mines of Moria….

It reached to the heart of the Earth, it was said, and as he wavered on the brink, the Balrog, with its whip, reached out and clutched at him, snaking its lash round his ankles, tearing him from his place on the bridge and pulling him after it down, down, down, into the endless deep. Scorched by the fire of the Balrog, Gandalf came to himself, and snatched his own sword, Glamring, as it fell past him, and with it he hewed and hacked at the great horned and winged beast.
‘Fool, you fool!’ Came a voice in his head, and he realised it was the Balrog’s, even though it was in an ancient tongue that he had not known he knew…..
‘What aid can you give the world of men? Immortal as I am, let me live, and aid me and my master, Sauron….‘
‘If your master is Sauron, mallacht mór…‘ said Gandalf, speaking in the same ancient tongue ‘…then your immortality will not save you from the abyss….‘ and with all his strength he thrust at the fiery maw of the creature. But just then the black waters of a great subterranean lake rushed up to engulf them. Nothingness, The Dark, the only thing Gandalf feared, closed over him and he woke from his dream with a cry…..

He looked round, dazed. He was high on the battlements of Minas Tirith, and beside him was the slight, dark-clad figure of the archer, Cathach. The evening breeze stirred the man’s long black hair, and his face was pale, but not from fear. He said in a voice almost gentle;
‘Master Wizard, would you take my arm to lean on? For I see you are not yet strong enough to walk unaided….‘

Gandalf gazed thoughtfully at the man. At last he said;
‘Why did you not kill Boromir when they ordered you to?’


‘Why do we not attack?‘ asked Boromir impatiently, raising his head cautiously to gaze down into the silent shadowed valley.

It was dawn, a slow, grey winter morning trailing long veils of mist through the crabbed oak and lichen-covered ash of this lonely valley. Even Boromir, never bothered by the mood of a place, kept glancing over his shoulder, imagining always that someone or something had whispered in his ear…

‘We can’t go any further, my lord!’ said Athlá in an urgent tone, but keeping his voice down. He cautiously extended his arm and pointed to the dense forest that clothed the slopes of the valley.
‘The orcs have withdrawn into the woods. But our scouts tell us they are there, waiting…’
‘In other words‘ said Cliathach angrily ‘This is a trap and you have led us into it….‘

Before Athlá could retort, Boromir held up a hand for silence, and returned to studying the quiet valley. He knew Athlá would never rush into a fight - his name meant Delayer. Among his generals Boromir knew also that Cliathach was not a rash leader and in the grey light of dawn his gaunt face showed only doubt and hesitation. But in the valley below where they lay concealed with their men stood a fortress they had thought besieged, or even taken, this score of days past. A spent and wounded messenger had barely reached the river castle of Cair Andros to beg for aid, and now, after long and perilous marching through the woods that clothed this remote valley of the White Mountains, Boromir and his relieving force looked down on the fort, and saw all at peace….

But it was not the peace of a securely defended castle. No sentry looked out from the wooden walls. A dog barked, but no cooking fires sent smoke up into the chilly morning air. A banner of the army of Gondor hung limply in the windless air, displaying the emblem of the garrison of this place, known only to the people of Minas Tirith as Scoilt Dubh, the Black Glen.

This was the farthest Northwesterly outpost of Gondor, further even than Cair Andros, the castle on the Anduin. And because it was far from any quarry or a waterway along which to convey stone, the fort was made all of wood. Oak beams, as old as the forest around them, stood solid and dark against the yellow winter grass of the glen. Boromir spoke quietly;
‘What did the messenger say?’
‘Before he collapsed….’ replied Athá in a low voice
‘...the messenger said the fort was besieged by a great host of orcs, coming from the North, overrunning the lands between the Entwash and the hills. Long we have known the forces of Mordor have crossed the Entwash….‘

‘Well..’ broke in Cliathach impatiently ‘where is the siege?‘

A sudden breeze shook branches above the men and showered them with drops of rain. A sound, like the long exhalation of some great animal stirring in the forest, came to their ears. The hairs on the back of Boromir’s neck rose; Cliathach was right; this was a trap….

A bowstring sang. Those not accustomed to the sound might not have noticed it, but Boromir and his men instinctively ducked low in the wet grass. Risking a glance at the fortress, Boromir saw an arrow, trailing a long plume of fire, arc towards the fortress.

With a hollow thump it embedded itself in the ancient wood of the fort and stuck fast, burning steadily. Boromir stared at it, his mind racing. He sought desperately to think ahead of his enemy, but instead raced to catch up with them. Ever it was so, now….

Another arrow sailed through the air, trailing another fiery tracer, and hit the wooden walls beside the first. It too burned on when it struck, and narrowing his eyes Boromir realised that both were coated with a finger’s thickness of pitch. Not too much, lest it would hinder the arrow's flight. They would burn all day, and perhaps the dry ancient wood of the fort too….

Realisation rushed on Boromir and he felt horror tingle through his whole frame. At that moment, a whole volley of burning arrows was released, hurtling towards the fort to stick in the wood and burn like torches. The flames were almost dazzling in the dim dawn light. Boromir reached to his sword hilt and closed his hand on it. The trap was revealed…

Now came the first signs of life from the inhabitants of the fort; a face, pale and terrified, appeared on the wooden battlements. Instantly a volley, not of arrows but of bolts from crossbows, clattered through the branches of the trees to left and right of the fort. Nothing could stand such a hail, and the face disappeared.

Dimly, Boromir and his men could see the assailants; dark shapes far back in the shadows of the forest. Great orcs, not the small, light-fearing Mordor orcs. They drew great black bows as tall as the red yew bows wielded by the Rangers of Ithilien. Boromir thought suddenly of Faramir….
‘Would that I had you by my side, little brother…‘ he thought grimly ‘..with a legion of your Rangers….‘

For now he knew his force of fivescore soldiers of Gondor was too light to rescue the fort from this attack; out of the forest on three sides now a fiery hail was launched, and the arrows and bolts stuck fast in the wood and soon the flames joined up and the fort began to burn fiercely….

For weeks the defenders of the fort had been pinned down and picked off by a furious hail of arrows and crossbolts from the woods. At night attempts were made to scale the walls, and although every attack had been repulsed, from a garrison of fifty now only a dozen men survived, scurrying from barracks to mess to well, death raining from the sky and the night an enemy to sleep as constant watch guarded against sudden attempts to rush the gates…..

And now, at last, fire. Helpless to prevent the burning of the fort, Boromir watched the flames spread, gritting his teeth, clutching at his sword hilt, his face as dark as thunder.
‘This is what they want!‘ hissed Athlá in his ear.
‘For us to lose our heads and rush to the rescue of the men in the fort…‘
‘They will be burned like cattle in a barn!‘ exclaimed Cliathach, and his face shone with a red hue from the fires.
‘There!‘ snapped Athlá, pointing to the trees;
‘There is our doom, the snare waiting for us…‘

But behind them the men were fidgeting and murmuring; had they come all this way, through the southern reaches of the marshes of the Nindalf and the barren hills under the White Mountains, only to watch their friends and brothers burn to death? Boromir shook his head desperately; his men would never forgive him. He gripped the handle of his great round shield. An orc arrow sang past and fell with a thump in the long grass beside his hand. Athlá whispered;
‘Do not forget your father, or your house….‘
‘I never do..‘ thought Boromir ‘But a man must be master of his own fate, not slave to his father’s….‘

With a whoosh and a shower of sparks the thatched roof of the stables within the fort caught fire and fell in. A dog was barking, its urgent howls giving way to yelps of pain. Great black dogs were kept in the fort to warn of approaching enemies, especially at night. Now the fire licked up the walls of the buildings where they were chained. Boromir shut his ears against the screams. He turned to Athlá and said;
‘I must help them, Athlá. May father forgive me, but I would hear their screams till my own day of death….‘

Boromir tensed to rise and run forward. He sensed his men ready to follow, eager and angry, their blood roused. Cliathach laid a hand on Boromir’s mail-clad arm.
‘Skirt the clearing, my lord. Give them no good view, no easy shot…’

In the long grass under the oaks, Boromir got to his feet, still crouching, and ran forward stealthily. He knew this was a trap and he was running straight into it. But sometimes traps had to be sprung. He knew his men were with him.

The fort was on fire. Only now did Boromir see a great wooden beam had been wedged across the gate. Not by the defenders, but by the orcs, perhaps in a night sortie. The garrison could not get out. Flames played about the beam and Boromir wondered could it be raised to open the gate. Almost without thinking he wrapped his long black cloak around his left arm, as a protection against the fire, and raised his great black shield, with its inlay of silver gulls‘ wings, and throwing it before him he started to run, as fast as he could, right into the trap….

As soon as they left the shelter of the trees a volley of bolts and shafts buffeted them and despite their mail and shields at least a dozen men fell. One orc arrow, tipped with black bronze and yellow venom, stirred Boromir’s hair. A blunt cross-bolt hit his ribs and knocked the breath out of him. Beside him Athlá shouted;
‘For Gondor, For Gondor!‘ Boromir called to him;
‘Keep to the trees while I free the gates! Find the orcs!‘ And then he ran on, not waiting for any, not looking back.

The glade seemed not wide, looking down from the wood. But running across it, fast as a fleeing stag, Boromir thought it was endless. The heat of the burning fort fell on his face and another arrow tore a hole in his chain mail above the elbow. The wails of the dogs had been joined by frantic shouts of men as the fire encroached on the people inside. On a sudden instinct, Boromir pulled his great round shield onto his shoulder and felt the shudder as an arrow struck the black, ox-hide covered wood….

Then, just before he reached the fort, aware of Cliathach’s footsteps just behind him, Boromir felt something on his cheek; something like the touch of a grave-shroud, cold and damp and stinging. Pushed along by a suddenly arising West wind, a wall of morning mist swept down into the little valley, and all at once nothing could be discerned, not even a hand before a face, and the shower of orc bolts and arrows ceased….

Frantic to use the time so unexpectedly granted to him, Boromir threw his shield away to run the faster to the gates of the fort. When he reached them, the heat from the fire almost beat him back, but he held his cloak in front of his face and tore at the beam of wood with his gauntleted hands. The wood was smouldering, small flames appearing at the ends, and Boromir’s gloves began to scorch, but then another gloved hand reached out from behind, and another, and with a yell his men overtoppled the beam and it fell hissing into the wet grass. The men gave a roar and hauled the blistered gates open….

Inside looked at first like an inferno; blazing stables and living quarters, burning wains and stores, and the baying of the watchdogs. Boromir strode in, his tall, broad-shouldered shape dark against the yellow and red flames, and kicked in doors and unloosed latches, shouting for the men of the fort. A thatched roof gave way under the fire and slid into the courtyard, and from under it there staggered, black as pitch with smoke and burns, one who looked more like a wraith than a man. Boromir seized his arm.
‘Where are the rest of you?‘ The man, unable to speak, just gestured to the burning building behind him. Boromir fought his way to the doorway. Another apparition arose, and Boromir took his arm and pulled him out as well. Two more staggered out unaided. By now Boromir’s men were filling the burning courtyard, and they helped the rest to safety. Athlá shouted in Boromir’s ear;
‘My lord, let us retreat before the mist clears! They will be waiting to shoot us when it does, and we will be without cover….‘

‘Let us retreat, then!‘ Boromir shouted back.

The men needed little urging; their hair singed to their scalps, their beards crisped and their faces black with soot, they sought the open gate and ran out. Before them, bounding out into the white wall of mist, ran the freed mastiffs, their mournful baying echoing through the woods. Boromir ran out last.

In the gateway he paused, and looked back. The wooden fort, now well ablaze, burned all around him. Sweat streamed down his face. He had to force his legs to move, and go back into the courtyard….

He passed the well and approached the empty barracks and bowing down went inside the doorway. In the dim smoky interior he saw the shape of a man, or perhaps it was a boy, so slight he was, lying curled up in the dense smoke. Boromir reached down and taking his arm he shook him roughly.
‘Wake up, wake up! You must flee, or burn to death!‘

Boromir thought for a moment that the man was dead, so still did he lie. Then he suddenly looked up, and Boromir saw that he wore the livery of an Archer of the city. Boromir lifted him to his feet.
‘Come with me…‘ he said, and pulling the man after him he ran through the narrow street of fire and out into the Black Glen. There he paused to catch his breath. He looked down at the archer and asked hoarsely;
‘What is your name?’
‘Cathach‘ said the man.

‘And so, my lord Mithrandir…’ said Cathach with a sad smile
‘It was no accident I refused the order to kill Boromir. For all time our fates are entwined, for he is the man I would not kill, and I am the man he would not leave for dead….‘