Chapter 20

The Exhale Begins

May 4

Runda Garrison, Southern Gondor

Faramir looked down from the garrison into the deep green of the gorge below him. The sides sloped down rapidly, ending in a flat bottom wide enough for ten men to walk abreast. It was simultaneously a great deterrent for any foes and a great asset to them. With the upper ground held by the Gondorians an attack from below would be suicidal, but should Queen Mavranor choose anything more subtle than a direct attack it would be simple enough to use the thick cover of the trees to slip up on the garrison unawares. He had no intention of falling prey to such a simple stealth trick.

Not after all they had already lost.

"Lord Faramir?" Erynbenn asked, pulling him from his reverie. "My men are in place."

"Mine as well," Bartho added briefly.

Faramir nodded. "Good. Return to your positions and give the orders: we leave immediately."

The two Dúnedain bowed and obeyed. A few minutes later the fort was nearly emptied as the three contingents of soldiers made their careful way forward. Faramir took the center line, Bartho the left, and Erynbenn the right. Bartho's group was the first to disappear from view as their path led them down and out of sight into the gorge. A little later Erynbenn's followed suit, and then Faramir's path led him downward as well.

The feeling might have been claustrophobic if not for the day's beauty and Faramir's knowledge of traveling through wooded areas. Their march was not seriously impeded and every once in a while a scout would be sent forward and would return with reassuringly mundane warnings of an occasional rockslide that ought to be avoided, or of a river up ahead that they would need to cross.

At the river their ravine joined with the one that Erynbenn had followed and the two companies of men paused to exchange observations.

"Nothing unusual, then?" Faramir asked.

"An Ent could list our findings in less than three sentences," Erynbenn said lightly, rubbing his forehead. "It shouldn't be too difficult to station outposts in this area, so long as we don't build down here at the bottom."

Faramir looked upward along the ravine's edges high above him, his keen eyes picking out the firm stone and guessing at how much of this maze such an outpost would be able to watch. "True enough. But there is something that makes me uneasy."

Over Faramir's left shoulder Beregond stirred, his hand gripping his sword hilt. There was an odd glint in Faramir's eyes that he recognized all too well. It suggested trouble.

"What?" Erynbenn asked calmly. His long friendship with Bartho had rendered all talk of disaster commonplace.

"My research of history did not restrict itself solely to Gondor, but to all the lands I could find documented in my father's library. And Queen Mavranor has time and again proven herself cleverer than this… Ready the men; we must move on, but be cautious."

Erynbenn nodded, and then drew his sword as a scream split the air.

"What—?!" Beregond barked, stepping up close behind Faramir, his eyes searching wildly for the cause of the sound.

"It came from over the ridge," Faramir snapped, looking upwards. "Captain Bartho's men."

For a few moments they stood, their sharp ears now picking out clearly the sounds of weapons and the further yells of injured soldiers.

The sea-gray in Faramir's gaze transformed to molten steel. "Hold! Beregond, take half my company back twenty yards to the lowest drop in the gorge wall — send one man back to tell me how many men strong the attackers are, and if Bartho needs aid then see to it."

If Beregond hesitated, it was only for a second and only out of concern for his first duty of protecting Faramir. Then he had turned to collect his men.

Faramir turned back to Erynbenn, "Split your company, send half back up your divergence to make sure we are not surrounded, take the second half back the way I came and confirm the same. If you meet no resistance, take your whole company and return to aid Bartho. Have scouts ahead of you — if there is more than one company in here to engage us they must not have the first blow again."

Erynbenn's men were already moving, not as silent as rangers, but capably. Faramir took the remainder of his own company on down the gorge, always searching diligently ahead. Whatever else was lurking in these verdant tunnels, Faramir felt in his bones that the enemy had not only come to attack through one ravine. Not when there were several to choose from.

They had traveled on for only a short while before the sound of running footsteps came from behind and the messenger that Beregond had dutifully sent came panting up to Faramir.

"My lord," he said, still walking to match the pace of Faramir's company, "it is difficult to tell through the undergrowth, but it seems there are five or six hundred men at least! They were hidden up the sides of the gorge and came down on General Bartho in an ambush. He's been surrounded — half his men appear to have been scattered or killed."

"Has Beregond gone?"

"Yes, sir, but he fears there is little he can do—"

"He's right," Faramir nodded, experience lending speed to his decisions. "Go back and instruct Beregond to pull back up to the top of the gorge wall and hold it. Under such losses Bartho will begin a retreat and we must keep the enemy contained."

"Yes, my lord." The messenger turned to go back the way he had come.

With a sudden buzz of vibrating air and a triple thud of impact, the two scouts up ahead fell to the ground and an arrow caught the messenger in the back of his neck. He fell to the ground, dead instantly.

"Cover!" shouted someone farther up the line, and in front of them a veritable wall of Southrons rose from the undergrowth and began firing in earnest. Black-feathered arrows streaked the air, taking down half a dozen men with injuries in the first rush for shelter and then taking down a dozen more when no real shelter could be found.

Faramir's eyes swept the enemy line, running a swift count. More than five hundred, and his company had only half its usual compliment — the rest were with Beregond. For a moment he prepared his mind to hold the gully, and then the idea faded as he caught distant glimpses of campfire smoke and concealed shelters. They were too late.

"Fall back!" he cried. "Bring the wounded! Fall back!"

The men responded instantly, catching their comrades under the arms and hauling them back the way they had come. The best of the Gondorian archers remained unencumbered, covering the retreat with a hail of green feathered arrows. Faramir pulled his own bow free and felled several Southrons farther up the ravine wall. Moving in as orderly a line as they could manage in the brush, the Gondorians retreated.

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Beregond did not usually operate in the capacity of an army captain, even though he formally held the title, but in circumstances where Faramir needed someone to trust in battle, he was frequently given temporary authority. Knowing his standing with their lord, the men followed obediently.

The chaos in the next gorge was total. Unaware of the danger, Bartho had traveled a good ways into the Southrons' trap and was now surrounded — his men all but scattered as the combatants became completely mixed together. It was difficult to tell where the Gondorians ended and their enemies began.

Sending the messenger back, as ordered, Beregond steeled himself and gave the command to descend. "Aim for the center of General Bartho's company. We must help them press their way back up the gorge." Moving as quickly as they could, the men followed him over the low place in the ravine wall and left it behind, rushing towards the center.

It was only once they reached the bottom and had plunged into the mêlée that Beregond realized just how serious the situation was. His men were still about him, he supposed, but he was mostly hemmed in by the Haradrim. His sword, moving independent of his mind for the first few minutes, blocked a number of cuts from a massive scimitar before stabbing the Southron holding it in the chest.

Behind him he was suddenly aware that Southrons were forging up the same way that he had come down, spilling over into the next gorge, trying to cut off Faramir's way back.

Over the noise came a shout, rumbling like a horn call. It was Bartho calling for the retreat.

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When the second half of his company did not rejoin him, Erynbenn guessed trouble was coming. When he turned back towards the direction Faramir had gone and discovered a river of Southrons pouring over the ravine wall, he realized trouble was already at his feet.

I wonder what Melima is doing right now…? Drawing his sword, Erynbenn yelled a battle cry. His men echoed it.

With the footing and speed only Dúnedain possessed, Erynbenn led the attack. Southrons here meant Southrons farther on down the gorge, and somehow he had to clear the way for Faramir's charge.

The first Southron he slammed into bodily, bracing his feet so that his larger enemy went tumbling over his bent back. His sword swung forward in a slash at waist height, catching two more Southrons in their sides and sending them to the ground. From the side one of his lieutenants let out a scream and fell silent, but Erynbenn blocked it out, silencing the world and whipping his knife from his belt in time to save his second lieutenant from a similar fate.

Wielding his blade with two hands he met each blow as it came, ducking out of the way of the ones too heavy to block. Dropping almost to the ground he swung out a leg to trip his current attacker and dispatched the Southron with a straight upward thrust. A premonition made him drop flat to his back as a scimitar sliced above him at neck height. Arching his back, he got back to his feet and swung in a flat arc at the Southron's chest. A clang sounded as his sword was blocked and a shudder ran up his arm.

And the more he fought, the more he realized it would not be Faramir's charge that would be coming through. It would be Faramir's retreat.

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Bartho hoped some of his men had heard his order to fall back. He couldn't actually see them, but that was the fault of the Southrons and their obsession with the distracting color red. It seemed even camouflage was not a good enough reason to change their wardrobe… Granted, they'd snuck up on him masterfully, regardless of their garish turbans.

Two men came towards him from the front, long-handled scimitars scything towards his head. Leaning to the side to avoid the left-most blow, Bartho brought up his sword in time to block the second blade. Pressing a moment's advantage, he took a quick step forward, parrying rapidly enough to throw sparks off the opposite two weapons. When both Southrons suddenly dropped their blades, he tried to take advantage of the coincidence and lunged into a swing intended to kill both of them — but their maneuver hadn't been a mistake. Just inside his peripheral vision he saw the two scimitars lock and come slicing towards his legs. With his momentum going forward he couldn't sidestep, and with the two Southrons moving outward in tandem he couldn't now hit either of them.

An instant before the blades cut him off at the knees, Bartho ducked his head and drew up his legs, sailing over the scimitars and tumbling, hedgehog-like, to the ground beyond them. Rolling back up to one knee, he swung his heavy sword in a back cut that caught one of the Southrons on the arm. When he staggered into his companion, Bartho used the moment of lost balance to slam his hilt down on each of their heads, felling them instantly.

That little portion of his brain that was freed for frivolous and optimistic thought mused wryly, I wonder what Erynbenn will say when I tell him his trick was well-used… He'll laugh, I don't doubt. Ah, well, likely I won't live to tell him anyway.

It was a familiar conclusion. What was unfamiliar was the rush of relief — that he wasn't actually dead yet — and the hope his life would not end here. So far from Minas Tirith.

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Faramir wiped impatiently at his face, wishing for a moment to bandage the gash across his scalp. He was too concentrated on other things to notice the pain, but the constant stream of blood was getting in his eyes.

As he passed the fork in the ravine that the other half of Erynbenn's men had traveled down he could only see Southrons and he hoped at least some of the men had made it back to the garrison.

Everywhere he turned it seemed Mavranor's troops were creeping from hidden cracks and forging down upon them. He killed three more with his bow, trying to keep the retreat from turning into a rout, and at the same time fearing it had already become one. In the back of his mind he worried if this ravine might not already be held against them farther on — with the messenger dead, doubtless Beregond had already left the gap open to the enemy and gone to help Bartho.

Reaching back for a fourth arrow, Faramir discovered his quiver was empty. Taking out his knife instead he caught an advancing Southron between the eyes. His sword moved too quickly to truly be seen, the lightness of his steel weaving delicate attacks around the heavier scimitars. Locked into a world in which he and his men were the only important things, he moved with years of instinct. His blocks and attacks had a rhythm matched by his footwork, his dodges, and his steady retreat backwards. Upper cut, lower cut, sidestep to the right, slash across the back, dead. Slip under the blade, stab to the shoulder, block at the waist, stab to the heart, dead. Later he would regret, afresh, the necessity of this. Later he would wipe his blade clean and would curse Mavranor for her greed. Later.

Feeling a touch on his back, Faramir whirled, his blade already aimed for the heart of whoever was behind him. Only just in time he stopped himself, recognizing underneath the smears of blood and dirt the face of Erynbenn.

"I sent a scout over the ridge — Bartho's fallen back almost to the garrison," Erynbenn said briefly, not waiting for the question.

"What of our way back?"

"Clear. For now. I don't know what's become of Beregond and his group, or the rest of my men."

Faramir nodded, refusing to feel premature grief and hoping it was premature. "We must fall back. Everyone. There's nothing we can do here except die."

And in his mind Faramir knew that the long wait was over. This was the beginning of a war — one he was not sure they could win.

After waiting with dread and baited breath, the long exhale had begun.