Chapter 39

Into the Maze

June 24

Somewhere in the gorges, Southern Gondor

The sky was pale gray with morning mist. The air was clear, smelling strongly of soil and plants. In the stillness the birds could be heard calling back and forth from their numerous nestings in the gully's walls. Damp shadows still clung to the undersides of large stones and hovered murkily in the rifts and caves that Legolas and his men carefully searched and then passed by. The elf knew, in a canyon this deep, that even once the sun rose it would be a while before it reached these last pockets of night. Such places could hide a great many Haradrim if the Gondorians were not careful.

Walking lightly, barely bending the short grass, Legolas kept a keen eye ahead for any sign of ambush and also a sharp lookout on his own men. They were a fine company, or at least they had that potential. Most of them had been training under Eression and he had taught them well, but he had been away on his mission to bring the queen's brothers to Minas Tirith and their training had fallen behind. The rest of the recruits were fresh from a wide assortment of garrisons and unused to fighting together. Aragorn's new plan had allowed them one day of training together and Legolas had done his level best to draw them together under his authority.

He could only pray Ilúvatar it would be enough.

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A few paces behind Legolas, Lieutenant Anto crept along, unable to mimic the silence of the Mirkwood warrior, but doing his best. They had been walking for hours now, and the lieutenant's mind wandered a little as he walked. Most of all, Anto wasn't quite sure what to make of his new elven captain…

Captain Erynbenn, who had been Anto's captain since he first joined the army, had pulled him aside to assure him that Prince Legolas was a fine warrior and would be a good leader. Anto had tried to believe Erynbenn, but he had still been nervous at the idea — he had never really seen an elf up close before and had heard they were lofty, incomprehensible beings of light and beauty who sang in the trees and then became terrifying wielders of death when they attacked.

A branch snapped and Legolas turned more swiftly than the eye could follow. Before the unwitting Gondorian responsible had time to move, there was an arrow notched and aimed for his heart. Both the soldier and Anto froze, but a moment later Anto scolded himself for his fear. Reflexes that fast were quite up to the task of recognizing a friend from a foe before shooting. With a reassuring nod, Legolas gestured everyone to keep walking. False alarm…

Of Prince Legolas, best friend of King Elessar Telcontar himself, there was many a legend whispered among the men. In his land he slew spiders, at the side of the king when Elessar had been but a ranger they had battled loathsome fiends of darkness, and on the battlefields of Gondor the elf had single-handedly killed hundreds of the hideous invaders. There were even stories of an Oliphaunt, killed by his bow alone, and it was said he had dismounted from its fallen carcass as if it had been little more than a trifle. Strange, untouchable warrior-being of the darkened Greenwood. Not exactly a picture that could build confidence in a young second-in-command like himself. When Prince— no, Captain Legolas had first approached them, alone, his stride the easy grace of a hunter, Anto had felt himself taking a great inhale as he readied his mind for anything. Well, almost anything.

Anto came to a halt as Legolas made a slashing gesture, silently ordering everyone to stop for a moment. Sliding a map from his pouch, the elf studied it carefully for several minutes, his quicksilver eyes leaping from the page to the surrounding terrain and back again, searching for similarities to tell him how far they had come and when they would reach the first of Mavranor's traps.

"Do you need a scout sent ahead, sir?" Anto asked, knowing that was sometimes Erynbenn's choice when he needed to establish a location.

The elf smiled in acknowledgement of the helpful offer, but shook his head, "Without disparaging them, I must say I'd worry for anyone I sent. For now our strength lies in our numbers. Later…" he trailed off, still studying the map, clearly thinking hard. "Yes, if we can lure them, then… But what I wouldn't give for Estel or Raniean or Trelan…" The last words were said softly, but Anto caught them and was puzzled. What sort of names were 'Estel', 'Raniean' and 'Trelan'?

Nodding to himself, Legolas made another gesture and started everyone walking again, silently taking the point position at their head, Anto following with his thoughts…

"Form up," Captain Legolas had said evenly, his voice carrying without him seeming to raise it. The men obediently fell evenly into ranks, Anto forward of the square and center. Their new captain had looked them over for a long moment. Hearing the faint sounds of nervousness behind him, Anto found himself wondering if the elf had managed to meet every other man's eyes in the way that he had met his.

"Watch carefully." Taking a piece of leather cording from his belt, he had carefully drawn his long, gold hair away from his face, tying it back behind his head. With a deliberate gesture, not taking his eyes off the men, he reached a slender finger up and traced it along first one pointed ear, and then the other. "There," he said, "you have seen them. They are pointed, but they are just ears, and I trust the mystery has been sufficiently removed now." He was not actually smiling, but Anto could see a glimmer of humor in his eyes. It surprised and reassured him somehow. "I swore my loyalty to your king as a brother and friend a good many years before some of you were born, and as you have also given your oaths to him, to serve him and to fight for him, then we all stand under a common banner. Regardless of differences, I am now your captain and I expect from you the same obedience you would give to Captain Eression, your garrison commanders, or Captain Erynbenn," and here his eyes had briefly rested on Anto. "Beyond obedience I cannot command, I can only earn."

Anto smiled a little, even now, as he crept through the mists at Captain Legolas' heels and remembered the loud agreement the men had voiced. He had not distained them, and in return they could no longer hold their superstitions. It was only after the men had all been dismissed and Anto and Captain Legolas were alone that the elf had suddenly shown what was perhaps the more surprising side of himself…

"I am glad to have you, Lieutenant," he had said, his face suddenly breaking into a smile. "Erynbenn speaks highly of you."

"Thank you, sir. I shall try to live up to his opinion."

"You already have. I have led many elves, but not many men, and your immediate support has helped a great deal. Now all we have to do is get them to stop staring at me as though I were about to burst into song or blast them with fire or turn them to stone, or whatever else they've been told elves do. Every time I catch them at it, I'm tempted to try one of the tavern songs Strider knows on them — just to see their expressions."

"Strider?"

"Eh, never mind." And he had chuckled—

"Down!" Legolas hissed quietly, making three quick slashing motions and dropping immediately to the earth.

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Aragorn had taken the centermost of the gullies, knowing the greater number of traps had been laid there, and thus it was likely a greater number of Southrons were encamped there. It was habit for him — to go first and always aim for the thickest point in the fight. Arwen had lovingly scolded him for it at times, her fears for him warring with her love for that part of him which demanded such actions. But from the first day he had taken the leadership of the Dúnedain and startled the much older Halbarad with his insistence that he would enter a wood first and only call them when he was assured it was safe, he had always insisted on this, and no amount of protests from his advisors concerning the protection needed for a monarch could dissuade him from it.

He half smiled, comfortable with the terrain and the stealth of their travel. He couldn't remember if he'd ever told Legolas, but he had always appreciated that the elf had never been among the protestors. His friend had understood him, in that way of theirs that ran deeper than words or even thoughts, to the very core of who they were; perhaps because as a prince he had already heard the arguments himself and rejected them, or perhaps that was just Legolas and no explaining it.

The map listed the first of the snares laid here as raised tangle of ropes laced across several miles of ground at a point where the walls were too narrow to allow anyone to sneak around it. They had considered hacking through the ropes, but decided the time that would take would be too costly. Here, more than anywhere in this battle, surprise was paramount. They could not afford to be discovered before they had passed the trap by.

In the dappled shadows from the trees leaning over the edges of the canyon, far above their heads, it was difficult to make out the mesh of ropes. But not impossible. Aragorn's mouth twisted grimly. He'd wondered, looking at the plans Eomer had sent, why there was so much emphasis on these ropes; where was the danger in mere ropes? Now he knew. There was a method to the chaotic tangle, a close-woven maze of noose-like slipknots, taut cross-ropes, sharpened branches, and woven grasses for camouflage. And he could see all too well the consequences of stepping into the web; a broken leg easily, and if one fell… Unconsciously he rubbed at his neck and shook his head.

"Sire?"

Fighting a smile, Aragorn continued to look straight ahead.

"My lord?"

Silence. Come, now, Duurben, it's just the two of us…

A sigh. "Aragorn?"

"Yes, Duurben?"

"Should the men go to ground while you examine the trap?"

"Yes, and no. I've finished examining. We will continue as planned, but pass the word to be extremely cautious about being snared; every man must keep their knife ready."

Obediently Duurben passed the word. With a last smile and nod, Strider, chieftain of the northern Dúnedain, crawled beneath the edge of the raised web and disappeared quickly from sight.

Duurben waited a minute, then with another sigh he got to his hands and knees and followed his liege-lord under the trap. The clearance was very small, and the underbrush had not been cleared before the ropes were stretched. The first two miles blurred together in the dimness, fading into a vague rustling of the men crawling their way along. Stabbing his elbow on a sharp rock, Duurben swallowed down a curse and instead settled for a moan under his breath. "I'm too old for this."

"Here now," Aragorn remonstrated from ahead of him, not even sounding winded yet, "remember: I am older than you."

"My thanks for reminding me."

"It could be worse."

"And how—?" Duurben started, and then stilled as he just glimpsed Aragorn's gesture for silence. For a moment Duurben strained to hear whatever had disturbed his king, and then their came a faint whistling sound and a scream of agony from off to their left.

Aragorn's voice was icy. "It's worse."

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Like the other companies, Bartho had lead his men along the first stretch of the march in silence. They were like shadows as they followed him, each taking his grimly pleased mood as their own. Within the slowly advancing troop the camaraderie ran strong. They had fought together for years. They had shared old battles, every kind of terrain, all weathers, injuries, defeats, triumphs, and fond jests about their general. Some were Dúnedain, of the North and of the South. Most were Gondorians, a few foreign enlistees had found a home there, and in the end none of it mattered against the backdrop of shared history.

Bartho's segment of the ravine had little in the way of delicate, complicated traps. Briefly described in the plans had been an unstable section of the west wall which could be levered outward to crush anyone trying to pass below. Faramir and Aragorn had almost determined to leave it alone, but Bartho had shaken his head.

"It is the most level ravine with some of the easiest passage," he had said.

"Excepting the hundred tons of stone Mavranor is planning to drop into it," Aragorn had reminded him dryly. "Even you, Bartho, can be knocked over if the load is heavy enough. And the load will be loosed, I have no doubts of it. She's too canny an engineer not to arrange it."

"Not canny enough, though," Legolas had mused aloud, and when questioned, he had pointed to a fault line along the edge of the ravine, finishing his explanation: "If she makes her leverage points here, she'll drop more than just the stones in. The basic laws of earth shifting —"

"Legolas, how do you know all that?" Aragorn had demanded.

"Sometimes I actually pay attention when Gimli starts rhapsodizing about the intricacies of dwarven craftsmanship."

"Good." Bartho had nodded once. "That should work well, then."

It did not take long to learn where Bartho was at his best: a few inches away from the doom he so often foretold. "Fighting I can do, whenever, however, and against whomever necessary — aye, and I'll die readily too, as will likely enough happen," he had once told Aragorn, years ago in the north. "But don't make me wait." You could almost suppose that he smiled a little as he continued his silent march forward.

It was a strangely comforting trait in a leader, and the men found themselves breathing a little easier with him, knowing that whatever they would face would be faced from the front, on their terms, with Bartho yelling the loudest of all. They could not have guessed that, for once, the smile had a slightly different origin.

Reaching into his side pouch, Bartho just barely touched the diaphanous blue scarf coiled there. Why he'd brought it, he still hadn't admitted, even to himself.

Using silent hand motions he gestured for the entire company to shift to the left side of the gorge. There were some snares on the right that he didn't want to trigger. There'd be time enough for that in an hour or so.

Why had he written her letters and cherished the ones she sent in return…? He wasn't typically the sort who wrote letters. His penmanship was a lot like his looks — craggy, firm to the point of stubbornness, and dark.

They walked on and the morning sky gained warmth, even if none of the sunlight yet shone directly down at them in the bottom of their trench. A faint birdcall echoed back amongst Bartho's troops and he gestured for everyone to hold. A second later a different birdcall sounded and they began to walk again. False alarm.

Why had his dreams seen no more of Lindamar, that golden-headed mirage who had once held him captive, and seemed now consumed by a laughing dark-haired maiden, urging him to come and dance with her? And why couldn't he say her name, even within the safety of his own head??

A while later the general brought the company to a halt and the front line rippled silently, like the tide, as the men behind them whispered into place. With a satisfied nod, Bartho faced forward. A mile ahead even he could tell that the gorge walls were fragmented and likely to fall, but a short ways before the fragmenting began two abutments of granite had formed into columns that curved into the gorge.

The best way to take the traps ahead would require no more slipping along in anonymity. It would require brute strength and courage. And in the few faces he searched, he found what he was looking for. With a nod, to himself more than to them, he pulled his sword, keeping it beneath his cloak still so that it wouldn't catch the light.

He wondered what she was doing at that very moment…

"Laakaure!" he shouted, and the battle cry boomed and echoed along the length of the ravine. They charged.

A shout of warning came from the Haradrim. A loud *CRACK* echoed down the length of the valley. The walls began to shift! With a terrible roaring, crashing, cacophony of sound, the walls crumbled down towards the Gondorians' heads.

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A few hours after the point where he had first realized his injuries were paining him, Faramir no longer had to admit it. He was limping and too irritated with himself to care if his men saw or not. Unbidden came a recollection of one of his many training runs with his brother.

"For heaven's sake, little brother, never mind your own pain, it was a foolhardy lack of concern for the others in this company to insist on coming when you knew you were unwell! You will not slow us down overmuch, but think if you had. Or what of Mardil? How is he to explain you becoming injured while in his charge?"

Faramir was defensive almost to the point of tears at this unexpected rebuke, "I twisted my knee before we left, it had nothing to do with Mardil; you know that!"

Boromir's young face was a mixture of deep concern and aggravation as he pushed his wayward hair from his eyes, "Aye, I do, but does Father know? That is the important question."

"I've a better one: does Father care?"

The steward could not help but wince at the memory. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the answer to that question could still sting him. But more than that, as time went on, he felt regret for Boromir. Forever in the middle, torn between the father and the brother he loved, always trying to build bridges doomed from their construction to collapse. How many times had he, Faramir, turned to his strong older brother for comfort? How many neglected sorrows had Boromir taken up and comforted away? And for all his pride in his eldest son's accomplishments, and for all his cold, unpracticed love, it could not be said that Denethor had ever behaved with true affection towards Boromir either.

"Oh, Valar," Faramir whispered under his breath, "please tell me I was more to him than a burden..."

Equally unbidden, yet more welcome, came another memory, more recent than the last.

"Faramir?" It was Boromir, more tired and worn looking than Faramir remembered.

"Brother! You are home! Father said not to expect you for a week at least, but I am glad he miscalculated. I have missed you."

"You have?"

Faramir blinked; how could Boromir be in doubt? Yet there was loneliness in his face. "What manner of question is that? Of course I have. Do I ever lie to you, Boromir?"

His brother's face cleared. "No, you never lie. I'm grateful, Faramir."

Faramir laughed, thinking he must surely be jesting with him; it was unlike Boromir to be so solemn. "Grateful that I never lie or that I missed you?"

"Neither. And both. For you, Faramir. For proving I was right in fighting so hard to come home."

"Boromir, what...?"

"It... it doesn't matter... now, anyway. But next time I'm taking you along with me, and to Mandos with Father. You're wasting away amidst all your dusty books and I need someone who knows what I'm thinking without the bother of asking."

A sharp stab of pain from his thigh pulled Faramir back to present with a gasp.

"Sir?" one of the Dúnedain asked with immediate concern.

"Twisted my leg a little. I'm fine," he lied. It was only half a lie, really. Well… three quarters of a lie. In any event, not a whole lie.

"Yes, sir."

Faramir couldn't believe the young man had actually taken his word for it. When was the last time he'd gotten away with lying about injuries? Not since Eowyn had become his wife and Beregond his bodyguard, that was certain. And before Eowyn and Beregond had been Boromir. So, never? No, he'd lied to his father well enough after Boromir departed. He didn't like to think about those dark days.

Distracting thoughts of past and present suddenly gave way. To his right, from Aragorn's path, there came a death scream of someone mortally wounded — too soon. To his left came Bartho's favorite battle cry and a crashing burst of sound as if the entire mass of winding gorges were collapsing. And beyond Aragorn's path, in Legolas' ravine, where there should have come the sounds of the enemies' cries, there was only silence.

Ilúvatar…he breathed a silent prayer — and then there was no time to finish the plea appropriately. He was needed, and in at least two places at once. …help!

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The garrison and camp were quiet, leaving Erynbenn to realize that he hurt all over. It seemed all the recovery he had managed since his company's defeat and his nearly fatal wounding over a month ago had been lost — every bit of strength drained, and (he winced) every stitch torn. Bartho had given him a good scolding for taking the request for help to Minas Tirith himself. He was supposed to have delegated the task to someone else. It was fortunate that he'd been in so much pain when he returned to camp, or his friend probably would have seen fit to forcefully bludgeon some sense into him.

Worse, if possible, than all this was the feeling that something was wrong. He knew it wasn't an attack — Mavranor wouldn't try an attack on a fort which had the high ground. Aragorn's talk of 'protecting' the camp was nothing more than conciliatory busywork. Still, even busywork could go wrong, and the uneasy feeling persisted.

Were the sentries in place? Yes. Had the morning meal been distributed? Yes. Were the supplies in order? Yes. The horses, the barracks, the infirmary tents? Yes, yes, and he'd checked twice, so yes. What was left…?

He rubbed his aching forehead hoping the pounding sensation would go away. What was left? What was—? Beregond. He was supposed to have checked on Beregond to make sure his drug-induced sleep was keeping him properly immobilized.

The guardsman wasn't being kept in the infirmary tents but rather in his own tent, and Erynbenn made his way across the camp with painful slowness. Pushing aside the tent door, he looked in and noted with satisfaction that Beregond was still asleep. There was no movement from beneath the rumpled blankets.

He blinked, squinting. In fact, the only way for there to be so little movement as that would have been if Beregond were dead! Two steps took him inside the tent and he yanked the blanket back— to reveal a man-shaped mound of Beregond's dress uniform and spare helmet. The injured guardsman himself was nowhere to be seen. His armor was gone, and so was his sword. He'd changed his bandages himself before departing.

"Faramir is going to kill me," Erynbenn said mournfully aloud to himself. He tossed the blanket back onto the cot. "What was that stubborn fool thinking of? As if he can do any good to Faramir when he's more dead than alive. Then again, who am I to throw stones at my fellow infirmary escapee?"