Young Boromir
by Varda
Chapter 17: Death of a Ranger
Just at that moment a great bank of dark snowclouds, as if in
league with Sauron, obscured the clear sky and the sunshine failed. As
the light dimmed the orcs regained their strength and courage and their
ragged inaccurate fire became deadly. Boromir, still far behind
Galán, felt the black darts zip past his heard, and saw several
strike the Ranger galloping ahead. Two broke on the horse’s breastplate
and one scored the beast’s neck and then finally one hit Galán,
piercing his chain mail to bury itself in his chest.
‘No!’ cried Boromir in dismay and urged his horse on.
But he was too far away and helpless to aid Galán. The Ranger
fell forward onto the neck of his startled mount and the orcs with a
fierce yell of triumph rushed forward, striking at the horse and
causing it to rear. Galán was pitched onto the ground and his
sword broke under him. He pulled out his dagger and scrambled to the
shelter of the trunk of a willow tree and the first orc who attacked
him discovered too late that he was as yet only wounded, for he buried
the long blade in the creature’s throat. But almost at once the others
fell on the Ranger with screams like those of hunting beasts and
although Boromir spurred Stormwing desperately on he could not reach
Galán in time and saw with horror the Ranger fall under the
scimitars and pikes of the orcs…
The wild cries carried through the trees to where their leader stood
holding Faramir. Giarsa knew well the sound of orcs at the kill, it was
what they were bred for. But he had been bred for another life, and now
he recalled it, despite the pain it cost him. He looked down at the
long black blade of Mordor in his hand, then into the grey eyes of the
prince of Gondor. With a sigh he placed the knife between Faramir’s
bonds and pulled sharply. The black cords fell away, and blood from a
nick in the boy’s wrist ran onto the dark steel. Faramir stifled a cry
and looking up saw Giarsa’s scarred weatherbeaten features twist into a
bitter smile.
‘Tell me the truth now, Faramir…’ he said in a voice almost pleasant. ‘…can you swim?’
‘Swim?’ stammered the frightened boy. ‘…why… yes.’
‘Good!’ said Giarsa briskly. ‘then swim……’
And he took hold of Faramir by his collar and belt and strode to the
edge of, the cliff. Realising at last what the orc intended to do,
Faramir clutched the creature’s armour and began to struggle. Giarsa
said to him in a language not of Gondor, more like Elvish;
‘Swim now, Faramir, the one Sauron cannot touch. Swim for your life, and for your people….’
And with his great strength he easily hoisted the lightly built
youngster almost to his shoulder and with a great swing he flung him
far out, far enough to clear the thickets and slopes, far enough to
plunge Faramir into the water of the fast flowing Anduin.
‘Swim for your soul’ said Giarsa to himself, then turned to stride back to the trees where his orcs were engaged in battle…
Orcs fear horses, for they are creatures of the sun, and orcs are
children of the night. When the main body of Rangers appeared on the
crest of the hill they loosed some stray shots at the horsemen then
trusted to their own speed and agility and fled along the thickly
wooded slopes towards the river. Boromir, enraged, pursued them but the
thickly entwined branches of the willows forced him to stop and he
turned and jumped from the saddle and ran to where Galán lay in
the snow.
Even with no leechcraft Boromir could see the young Ranger was dying. A
black-fletched arrow had pierced his chest above his heart and the
links of the chainmail were stained with bright blood. Boromir put his
arm under his head and raised him up gently but he could see the boy’s
face was grey and he took quick gasping breaths but breathed out only
blood. Boromir rolled up a corner of his cloak and pressed it on the
wound to stay the bleeding and Galán opened his eyes and looked
at Boromir, not seeming to recognise him at first but then he raised a
hand and feebly grasped the prince’s tunic. In a voice no more than a
whisper he said;
‘I am sorry…’
Galán’s grip loosened and his hand dropped away. Boromir felt a
shiver run through the young man’s body, and the choking breaths
ceased. The prince took the cold hand in his own then laid Galán
down gently on the snow. He kissed the white forehead and bid the young
Ranger’s departing spirit a silent farewell. Then he brushed away his
tears with his sleeve and murmured.
‘I am sorry too….’
Boromir knelt for a long time beside the dead boy, in his grief
forgetting where he was. Then he became aware of a sudden silence, even
the galloping hooves of the Rangers’ horses as they pursued the orcs
had died away. And in the silence a sound of soft footfalls in trampled
snow came to Boromir’s ears and he looked up.
At once he pushed himself away from Galán’s body and scrambled
to his feet; an orc was walking towards him steadily through the trees.
No ordinary orc, but tall and broad and clad in chain mail that shone
with brass gilding and the ancient devices of Gondor. In his armoured
fist he carried a broadsword not of orcish but of Numenorean
manufacture. But more terrifying even than his size and finely-wrought
arms was his face, lit by amber eyes shining with malevolent
intelligence.
He advanced upon Boromir who realised that he was alone; by chance or
his enemy’s design the Rangers were far beyond his call. The creature
read Boromir’s glance and a fierce smile crossed his dark face. In his
ancient dialect he said;
‘Do not look for help, son of the Steward. Your Rangers have left you alone… ’
He came to a halt before Boromir who gripped his own sword tightly. The
creature nodded with something like resignation and the smile vanished.
He said quietly;
‘Prepare to die, Boromir….’
