Boromir Returns 4

Boromir Returns

Chapter 4

Sarelas attacked the hard ground with anger, driving the spade into it with all her strength. She simply hated this work, it was backbreaking and monotonous, but she knew too well that they depended on it. Cursing in time with her hacking at the barren soil, she continued her work. As little as she liked it, she remembered all too well that half of the potato crop had failed last year because she had not dug them deeply enough into the ground and they had gone hungry many a day because of her failure. She would not go hungry again this year.
She also knew that Asloren was right, that they should not leave this lonesome place without knowing where they could go and what they would do there. They had run out of places to go to.
But this was not living, she thought, this was surviving and barely that. If she had to eat another rotten potato, she would seriously consider returning to Lórien.
Her attention was distracted from her work, when Asloren came running towards her.
“Boats,” he gasped when he stopped, out of breath. “There are boats on the River. Three of them. Elven boats.”
“Great,” Sarelas replied and pushed the spade into the ground again. What did she care for Elven boats, they could only come from Lórien.
“But there is only one Elf travelling in them,” Asloren continued, “the others are no Elves. There are two Men, a Dwarf and four Halflings.”
Sarelas stopped her digging. “A Dwarf travelling with an Elf?” she asked.
Asloren nodded. “They are even sharing a boat.”
“I have to see that.”
Sarelas dropped her spade and ran towards the River. “Where are they?” she shouted back over her shoulder.
Asloren followed her. “They had just entered the Lake when I spotted them,” he called back, then he looked around quickly, as if he feared his voice would bring something evil upon them.
There was a foul presence in the air, Sarelas noted. It had been there for a while but now it was stronger, closer. It was like a bad smell, intangible but distinctly present, nevertheless.
She ran as fast as her feet would carry her towards the Lake. What - who could be travelling down the River Anduin, she wondered. She did not doubt Asloren’s words, but she could hardly imagine a Dwarf and an Elf sharing a boat. Nobody was travelling in these parts anymore. They had not seen another person for several months.
When she reached the edge of the forest from and could look out over the Lake, she saw three boats, just as Asloren had described them.
The boats of obviously Elven origin, with a company that was even more unusual. Two of the boats held a Man and two of the short halflings each, the third was indeed occupied by an Elf and a Dwarf.
They were paddling towards the far end of the Lake, towards the Falls of Rauros. The boats were too far away to see the faces of their occupants, but they seemed to be tense and determined, as if they had a great mission to fulfil.
The Elf suddenly stopped his paddling and stared towards the spot where Sarelas and Asloren where hiding. Without thinking Sarelas ducked behind a thorny bush, Asloren following her example.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
Sarelas shrugged. As if she knew.
After a few moments, she carefully lifted her head to look over the bush. The boats were almost out of her sight now. The Elf looked ahead again. He had probably not seen them. Though why she felt the urge to hide from him was another question she could not answer.
Asloren stood up and took a step towards the shore.
Sarelas followed the boats with her eyes until they had disappeared behind the trees lining the shore.
So, she thought and got to her feet as well, a rather unusual company travelling down-river in Elven boats. They had to have come from Lórien, she thought. But where they were going was a complete mystery and she would never to find out. The brief glimpse of the unusual companions was all they would ever know about this mystery passing their home. She could only guess that the strange companions’ travels were another aspect of the great events that were unfolding around them.
Looking to the eastern shore of the Lake, she could feel the ominous foreboding. Evil was stirring there.
But not only there. Sarelas felt that foul creatures were afoot not only on the far side of the Lake.
With a sigh she turned away from the Lake. The potatoes still needed planting.
“We should follow them,” Asloren said.
Sarelas stopped. There was a part of her that wanted nothing better than follow her brother’s suggestion. Strangers in these parts were rare enough, but a company as strange as this one certainly would have a tale and a half to tell.
But hearing a tale, or even a tale and a half, would not put any food into their mouths come winter.
“Whatever for?” she asked.
Asloren paid no heed to her question. He walked into the lake trying to keep the boats in sight, apparently oblivious of the water closing over his boots.
Sarelas knew she ought to turn around and walk back to the potato patch. She did understand Asloren’s fascination with the boats and their strange passengers, but she had to think of the future and how they were to survive the next winter.
“They are pulling for the shore,” Asloren stated.
“Even in Elven boats, they would find it hard to navigate the Falls,” Sarelas commented.
“We should follow them,” her brother insisted.
Sarelas shook her head, trying to shake off the urge to do as her brother wished. What good could they possibly do?
Staring in the direction of the Falls of Rauros, she felt a shudder run over her. There was a darkness gathering there, some grave danger, and it was coming towards them. They may be able to ignore the travellers on the River, but the forces of evil would sweep them away like so much driftwood whether they paid any attention to them or not.
“We cannot go unarmed,” she said.
“No.” Asloren turned to look at her, the grim expression on his face was ample proof that he, too, felt the presence of the enemy.
“Orcs on the western shore of the Great River…” He let the sentence trail off.
There was no need to say more.
Sarelas turned and raced towards their home.
Orcs? With Orcs afoot on this side of the River Anduin there was no time to worry about the potatoes. With the minions of Mordor at large in these parts, they would not be here to face starvation in winter as they would be dead.
And whoever these strangers were who travelled in elven boats down the River, they were in great danger, they would need all the help they could find.
The ramshackle hut they had lived in for the last year and a half, had never seemed like home to Sarelas, and even now when she considered that it may be the last time she returned to it, she felt no sorrow of the prospect of never seeing it again.
Evil things were going on, and she did not want to be stuck here, in the middle of nowhere while the shape of the world changed.
It was a matter of minutes to gather their weapons, as they had kept them ready all these long days, though they had expected to deal with had been brigands or thieves, not Orcs.
“What if we are late?” Asloren asked as they set out again.
“Let us hope we are not.”
The distance between the hut and the Falls was more than a mile, and Sarelas worried that her brother was right and they would be too late. Too late to aid the strangers they had seen.
What if there were no Orcs at all, a small voice inside her asked Sarelas. What if the strangers were the source of the dark feelings she and her brother had? What if they were racing towards their doom?
Then, suddenly, a great, piercing note rang out, echoing through the woods and through Sarelas’ body. It was as if every fibre of her body responded to the call, her very bones echoed with the sound.
She stumbled, almost falling over her own feet.
Again, the note rang out.
“What was that?” Asloren asked.
Sarelas shook her head. She did not know, but she knew that she had to follow the call.
The call went out again and again. Then suddenly it was cut off and, in the stillness, other sounds could be heard, the clash of arms, shouts rising in the air. The fighting seemed still to be far away, towards the Falls where the ruins of the high seat of the Kings rose out of the forest.
A strange dread overcame Sarelas as she ran towards the noises of the battle. Her step almost faltered as a feeling of loss and failure took a hold of her.
There was no time to worry now. No time to wonder why she felt convinced that they would arrive too late.
Drawing her sword, she found herself shouting, “No!”
An enormous shape emerged from the shadows in front of her. It was an Orc, but an Orc larger and uglier than any she had seen before. The creature did not seem to be surprised by her appearance. It snarled and drew a long broadsword, not the Orcs’ usual weapon.
There were more Orcs in the forests, spread out like a skirmishing line.
Then Sarelas sword clashed against the Orc’s sword.
Just as the Orc was taller and more horrid looking that the members of his race Sarelas had encountered before, he was also a better fighter. It took her more than a dozen strokes before her blade found its way into the brute’s stomach, just in time to parry the attack of a second Orc who came at her. This one was overly confident, expecting her to be still occupied with the first attacker. A mistake that cost him his head.
Running at the next Orc, Sarelas found herself analysing her situation with an odd detachedness. She could hear herself scream, saw her sword, now dripping with dark Orc blood. She was surprised how familiar it all felt, the jolt that went through her arms, as her blade was blocked by one of the Orcs’ weapons, the strange grinding noise it made, when passing through the neck of the creature. It had been many years since she had last been in a real fight, but she had forgotten nothing.
The Orcs, on the other hand, were well trained but they were fighting like recruits. They lacked experience, particularly against opponents with unusual techniques.
Sarelas observed her brother as an Orc tried to skewer him with his sword. Asloren did not try to parry the blow or even to avoid it. At the very last moment, he turned aside just enough to allow the blade to pass him by, no more than a hair’s breadth from his neck, and buried his sword into the Orc’s chest.
One day, he’s going to get himself killed doing that, Sarelas thought. But not today, not against these foes. They were not fast enough.
Ducking under the sword an Orc was swinging, she elbowed it in the face, and before it regained its balance, she had plunged her sword in his back.
Another Orc seemed to appear out of thin air in front of her, his face close enough that she could see the hair growing in his nose. It yelled, and his arm, stretched out somewhere above Sarelas’s head came down.
Without thinking, Sarelas let go of her sword, still embedded in the dead Orc’s back, and drove two of her fingers into the creature’s eyes.
The yell it made was ear-splitting. Stumbling back, the Orc dropped its sword and clutched his hands to his face.
Sarelas wiped her hand on the tunic of the Orc lying at her feet and pulled her sword free. With a quick stab she finished off the blinded Orc.
No matter how much more skilled a fighter was, if outnumbered he would still be defeated. And the travellers were heavily outnumbered.
But now, the Orcs were withdrawing, Sarelas noticed, as she ran down another of the brutes. She plunged her sword into its throat as it turned to face her. She could see Orcs running towards Amun Hen.
Almost at once, the forest seemed to be empty.
Whatever the Orcs had come for they had achieved it. There must have been a signal she had not heard that called the Orcs back.
Trying to calm her ragged breathing, Sarelas looked about her, but apart from a few bodies of slain Orcs there was nobody around. It was oddly quiet.
She knelt down next to the Orc she had killed and turned it over, having a good look at its dead features. These Orcs were different than the ones they had fought in Ithilien. While she wiped blood and gore from her sword, using a piece of the Orc’s ragged clothing, she wondered where these creatures could have come from. Perhaps these were the Orcs dwelling in the Misty Mountains.
She stood up and slowly followed the retreating Orc host towards Amun Hen. The Orcs had been here with a purpose. They had attacked the strange company not just because they happened to stray in their path.
Just as she began to wonder what happened to her brother, she spotted Asloren kneeling next to a fallen Orc. There was a puzzled expression on his face, perhaps he, too was wondering what these creatures had come for.
As she came closer, he got to his feet, pulling his dagger out of the Orc’s body and started to carefully clean it and a long knife. His sword was missing.
“He said that they have got the halflings,” Asloren stated when Sarelas reached him.
Sarelas looked down at the dead creature. “What do they want of these halflings?”
“He did not say, I doubt he knew.” Asloren shrugged.
Sarelas let her eyes wander around them, wondering what could have brought the Orcs here and who may have sent them. It was obvious that she and her brother had only encountered the fringes of the force attacking the strange companions. The main attack had been closer to the Falls. But why did a force as large as this one bother to attack a group of nine, four of whom could hardly be regarded as serious fighters - though she admitted that she did not know what strength the small people had.
“I think they took them alive,” Asloren added.
“We should find the others,” Sarelas stated, and they sat out towards the Falls.
There were more slain Orcs in the woods. Some of them pierced by arrows, some with cleft heads or chests. To Sarelas’ relief, it was only Orcs they found dead.
Asloren pulled an arrow out of one of the dead Orcs. “The Elf,” he commented.
Sarelas nodded. “And the Dwarf.” She pointed to one of the bodies whose chest had been cut open by an axe.
They had made a good account of themselves. It was easy to follow the trail of bodies leading towards Amun Hen. From the ruins a large meadow spread down towards the River. There were no bodies strewn across it. With the sun shining down with the early strength of spring, insects humming around the first blossoms, the place may be miles away from the shadowy forest and the dead Orcs.
As they climbed toward the ancient ruins, Sarelas wondered again who these people could be and what they were doing here. The company had come from Lórien, and the Orcs had been sent to intercept them and capture the halflings. But why?
“The boats,” Asloren said suddenly, pointing towards the Lake, “but only two of them.”
Down at the shore, Sarelas could make out the grey shapes of the elven boats, pulled up on the shore.
Before she had time to wonder what this new mystery could mean, two figures, one tall and slim, the other short and stocky, came out of the shadow of the trees close to the boats. The two, the Elf and the Dwarf, stopped short and from the gesticulating it seemed that they, too, were surprised by the absence of one of the boats. But not tarrying long, they pushed the remaining boats into the water and paddled away up-stream.
Asloren and Sarelas, who had watched them in silence, exchanged a quick look and without voicing their renewed wonder they ran towards the River.
What did they want the boats for now, Sarelas wondered. They were only a brief distance from the Falls now. Were they heading back towards Lórien?
Shortly before they reached the River, Asloren grabbed Sarelas arm and pulled her to a stop. “What are we going to tell them?” he asked.
For a moment Sarelas was just perplexed by Asloren question. “Tell them?” she wanted to know.
“Surely they will be suspicious who we are, why we are here, what we have been doing.” Asloren told her.
“I have the same questions about them,” Sarelas replied, but she knew he was right. The strange travellers had been attacked just now. They would not take kindly to strangers popping out of the woods. There was also the problem that they could not give account of their presence.
Until now events unfolded so quickly Sarelas had had no time to wonder what they would do once they had caught up with the strangers. Now, she was not sure what to do. She dreaded the questions that would be raised, and she particularly felt reluctant to reply to the Elf’s queries. But she felt that they had become entangled in the great events occurring, if only marginally, and returning to their miserable home without knowing what this all meant was a prospect she loathed. If there were more Orcs abroad and she and her brother found themselves in their path, she at least wanted to know why they were killed.
“Let’s see what they are doing,” she decided at last. Perhaps the question of whether or not they should approach the strangers would solve itself.
Asloren first looked dubious, then he nodded.
They pursued the boats up-stream.
If the Elf and the Dwarf had not been so concentrated on the mystery of the missing boat, they may have looked up toward Amun Hen and would have seen them. Then, Sarelas thought, they would not have to decide whether or not to approach them.
The forest grew denser again and the mile that lay between the meadow under Amun Hen and the place where the Elf and the Dwarf had taken the boats seemed to stretch on forever. At last, the two steered their boats to the shore, where a man was waiting. Crouching between some rocks and a tree, Sarelas was able to get close to the strangers without trouble. She was no further than a dozen yards from the companions. Asloren hid on the other side of the tree, where a thorny bush provided cover.
If the three travellers had been on the look-out they would no doubt have easily discovered her and her brother, but they were intent on something else.
The three huddled around one of the boats. At first Sarelas was unable to see what they were doing, then the Man stepped aside and revealed that the boat was set up as a funeral barge. The other Man they had seen travelling down the Lake was laid out in the boat and he was dead.
“Oh, no,” Sarelas whispered.
The dead Man had been carefully laid in the boat, weapons and armour were placed around him. His companions had taken great care to arrange his body. A folded-up cloak was put under the dead Man’s head. His hands were folded on his chest. His hair and beard looked newly brushed, particularly compared to the tousled look of his companions. His clothes were rich, and his cloak was lined with fur, but they were stained by a long journey, as were those of his companions, who now stood about the barge with sombre expressions on their faces. The dead Man wore a chainmail, but it had not saved his life. The dark stains of blood on his tunic told of many injuries. A broken sword and a shattered horn were placed on his lap, a helmet next to his head. He must have been a great warrior who had fought bravely against the attacking Orcs. The weaponry in the boat was proof of his skill. But in the end, he had lost his fight.
For a long while the three travellers looked down upon their dead companion as if they were reluctant to send him on his final journey.
Sarelas could well imagine the pain they felt now, having lost one of their number. She had bid farewell to fallen companions herself more often than she cared to remember. She felt suddenly like an intruder with these people mourning their dead companion and she was relieved they had not made their presence known.
Turning away from the scene, Sarelas stared blindly into the forest. Death, her father had been telling her over and over again, was part of a soldier’s life. One had to learn to life with it. Knowing this did not make losing a dear friend – or a father – any easier.
Sarelas swallowed, there would be a family, friends who would have to learn to live with the loss of this Man. At least his companions would be able to tell them of his death. Not knowing was far worse.
Judging from his appearance, the Man must have been from a rich and probably influential family. His clothes, the chainmail all spoke of this. There had been a glint of gold. A belt perhaps?
Sarelas turned back to find that the three living companions had tied a rope from the stern of the empty boats to the one carrying their dead friend. They were now embarking in the first boat, ready to push off the shore.
Yes, the belt the dead Man wore was made of gold, and around his neck was a collar of silver with a single white stone.
Quickly Sarelas looked away. What was she thinking, she admonished herself. Had she become desperate enough to consider robbing the dead?
No. Sarelas looked down on her clenched fists. She was not thinking of robbing the dead. There was another thought that had been slowly crept up on her from the moment she had noticed that one of the travellers had been killed.
Her mother’s parting gift.
Slowly, Sarelas unclenched her hands and rubbed the marks her fingernails had left.
The gift her mother had given her before she left. Many years had passed since, but Sarelas could still taste the anger she had felt then, anger at her mother and her mother’s thoughtlessness. Never considering once what the outcome of her actions would be. Even this gesture had been nothing more than an attempt to appease her daughter.
This, her mother had said, closing Sarelas fingers around the battered-looking minute flask, was an essence of great magic. It had been made in the times before time, when the world had been itself a place of magic. It was a dangerous magic, not to be used lightly, as it could bring back the dead.
‘Have you proof of that?’ had been Sarelas first reaction, but then she had remembered, and her anger had been hot enough to almost choke her. ‘What about father?’
Siriawen had turned away from her, hiding her face behind her hands. ‘It was too late. Do you not think I would have done everything I could, that I would have given my own life for his?’
Sarelas had not been in the mood to be generous. ‘I do wonder,’ she had said.
She had not stopped wondering since then. There was no way she could have tested it, and she was still far from sure it was for real. Her mother’s insistence that there was only enough of the essence there for one person to be revived, her warnings about its dangers, were they not designed to make Sarelas’s hesitate, always wondering whether this would be the right moment to use it, whether there would not be another occasion when she needed it more? Would there ever be an occasion when she was in the position to use it?
Despite all her worries, she had carried the flask around with her ever since then. Now, perhaps was the right moment to try its powers.
This could be the chance for her and her brother to return a life worth living, to leave this desolate place and their meagre existence behind and find to a place where they could be happy.
Asloren had said that they had to have a plan before they left what they had here. Now there was a plan; this dead Man would be their path out of here. Surely, he and his family would be grateful enough for their help to reward them. They could become heroes, rescuing the heir of a rich merchant, or the head of an aristocratic house.
But was it right? She did not know anything about this Man, who he was or what he had been doing here. What if he was just a simple soldier, with not family who would welcome him back and with him the people who had brought him back from the dead? - A simple soldier with a belt of gold? No. This Man was a person of great importance. They would be rewarded.
However, if she brought him back, there would be no second potion if they were ever in need of a magic as potent as this. It was possible that one day Asloren or herself were killed in a fight and what then?
What guarantee had they that even if this were to happen? That not both of them would be killed, or that it would be too late to use the potion.
There was a time when one had to take a decision and take a risk. If she kept wondering about all the possibilities that may or may not arise, she would never use it and what good was it then. The flask would just remain a not very attractive piece of jewellery.
“Sarelas,” her brother interrupted her thoughts. “What are we going to do?”
Sarelas turned back to the Lake, but it was empty now, there was no sign of the boats or the company travelling in them.
“What happened?” she asked.
Asloren frowned at her. “They let the boat drift down the Falls,” he said.
Sarelas could not stop herself from imagining what would actually happen to the boat. ‘Drifting down the Falls’ would hardly be a correct description.
“They were singing something, but I did not catch the words,” Asloren continued.
With an Elf among them, it was hardly surprising that some singing was involved. “Where are they now?” she wanted to know.
“I think they are going back to the place where they first came ashore,” Asloren told her.
“Let’s go after them.”
If they caught up with the strangers, they might find out who the Man was. It would be a useful fact to know something about him, even if it was just his name.
They ran back the way they had come just shortly before. When they reached the edge of the forest they stopped again, watching the three travellers.
The three strangers were debating what they were to do next. The Man seemed to be examining the ground close to the shore. He stared across the Lake and after a moment returned to his two companions who waited by the boat. Sarelas did not hear all they said but it seemed that two of their company had taken one of the boats and crossed the Lake. The three travellers were now at a quandary whether to follow those two or try to rescue the two who were taken by the Orcs. It was the Man who took the decision to pursue the Orcs and try to liberate their captured companions.
It seemed a foolish decision to Sarelas. What could three people achieve against an army of Orcs?
As they sat about to prepare their taking up the chase, Sarelas took Asloren’s arm and pulled him away from the shore.
“What are we going to do?” Asloren asked again. “We are going to do something?”
Sarelas nodded.
“We have to make ourselves known to them if we want to…, ”Asloren protested as Sarelas led him away, but she interrupted him, “We are not going to. Two more will not make any difference, if they catch up with the Orcs. We would only slow them down.”
Asloren looked at her askance.
“There is something else we can do,” Sarelas explained and pulled her brother behind the trunk of a fallen tree. She undid the clasp of the chain holding the battered flask and pulled the little vessel from under her shirt where she had worn it since they day she had received it. Closing her hand around the flask she looked up at her brother.
“Oh, no.” Asloren shook his head. “No, you are not considering bringing this Man back to life.”
“I am,” Sarelas replied.
“You cannot,” Asloren insisted.
“And why is that?” Sarelas wanted to know.
“The magic is our most valuable possession,” her brother protested, “It is priceless…”
“So is that Man’s life to him,” Sarelas returned. “And what good does this do us like this?” She shook her fist enclosing the flask at her brother. “None at all. I can carry it around till the end of the world and it would be no help at all.”
“We do not even know who he is,” her brother protested.
“No, we do not, but does it matter?” She looked at her brother challengingly. “He fought valiantly against the Orcs, is that not enough?”
“No, it is not,” Asloren stated vehemently.
“It is for me,” Sarelas said, intent that this would be the end of the discussion. The expression on her brother’s face showed her that he was far from convinced. “There is a Man who lost his life fighting the forces of Evil,” she explained. “We have the means to restore what he lost. Should we not do so? Yes, it is possible that we may need this magic in the future ourselves, but we do not know and if we would have the chance to use it at all. Why not use it now when we can?” She paused, and as her brother still frowned, continued to beseech him. “Whoever he is, his life is the most precious possession he has. His family and friends will be glad if we restored him to them. Maybe, he even is a person of importance who will be sorely missed and there will be others dependent on him. They, too, will be grateful…”
“Sarelas,” Asloren interrupted her. “Are you truly suggesting we should use this gift, our mother’s parting gift, to bring a Man we do not know back to life, so we are able to ransom him to his relatives and dependants?”
For a moment, Sarelas was taken aback by her brother’s words, then she nodded. “If you want to put it like that, yes.”
Asloren heaved a great sigh and folded his arms across his chest. “You want to make money.”
“Is that so horrible?” she asked. “I do not know about you, but I had enough of eking out a living here. I agreed to stay as you were right that there was no point in running away without knowing where to go to. Now we have a plan, a way out of this miserable place. We make some money and can start a new life somewhere else. We could go to Minas Tirith, for example. It is not as if we would hurt anybody to do this, quite the opposite.”
Asloren shook his head again. He looked down on the ground for a moment, then he shrugged. “All right,” he said finally. “Let us hope we find his body.”
“First, we need some provisions and bedding. His clothes will be all wet.” Sarelas looked around the trunk of the dead tree down towards the Lake, but there was no sign of the three travellers. They were probably by now on the trail of the Orcs.
“Come on,” she told her brother and ran back to the lakeside.

Back to Boromir
Boromir Returns - Chapter 5

Back Home