Ch. 31 - Hope Beyond Hope

‘If I can reach the cave’s entrance,’ Éomund thought frantically, ‘I might be able to pass the guard. I know he sleeps. But time is my enemy. It must be near midday, mayhap even past it. I know not how long I was unconscious.’ He took a steadying breath. ‘I can do naught for my friends like this, nor in this place. I do not even know where my sword is. With this wound, I can barely stand. But I can crawl. If I can make my way out of here and to the road itself, undiscovered, I may flag down a passing caravan, or errand-riders, mayhap even an éored.’

His chin trembled as hysteria tried to overtake him. ‘An éored! You are a fool.’ Again, he clenched his teeth to keep the laughter from exploding from his lips. ‘It is a fool’s hope, but one I must take. I will be killed if I am found and will be of no use to anyone.’ He grit his teeth. ‘I will crawl as far as I may and hope beyond hope that I am found. No one will find us here and my staying will do naught for Indis and Théodred.’ He was close to despair again. He paused for a moment. ‘Faramir will not feel it when their claws…  when they kill him. My people will find Indis and Théodred long before…’ His mind would not go there, could not look at the horror of the torture that the Lady of Gondor would face if he did not succeed. And his Prince. His teeth chattered at the thought of the ‘tender’ meat that the Orcs had spoken of.

‘I must flee now. Once the Orcs leave the cave, my people will be able to track them, knowing the starting point. Our only hope is for me to find help. Somewhere on the plains of my land, someone must be near.’

He looked towards the sleeping Orcs. Neither stirred. ‘But where is the other. I know I heard four. Where is the other? I will hope he was sent ahead, immediately after the battle, to meet with this… Grodash, that was the one they were to meet. Mayhap the other one was sent to Grodash.’ He took a small breath and steeled himself for the pain he knew he would now feel.

Moving imperceptibly, with all the stealth that he had ever learned, he felt the sword’s cut on his calf open. Swearing to himself, he continued on. ‘If the Orcs smell the fresh blood, all hope will vanish.’ He crawled over the body of the dead Orc and breathed a small sigh of relief. Tacky black Orc blood covered his hand. He wiped it on his wound. It would probably become infected but he didn’t care. He needed the coppery scent of human blood to be erased. And foul-smelling Orc blood was best.  He moved again, covering more ground than he had hoped. His body ached and his calf was on fire while sweat poured down his face and into his eyes. He could not take the time to wipe it away. Another few feet and what seemed to be at least an hour and he found himself with a sleeping Orc directly in front of him. And in front of the Orc, the cave entrance!

He stopped for one moment to catch his breath and froze. Behind him, he heard the definite rustle of an Orc moving. Clenching his teeth, fear clutching his heart, he waited.

~*~

“Will they have reached the Mering by now?” Listöwel asked the captain.

“I think not. We should see them soon. They cannot have gone further than Calenhad.”

“Indis is driven. She will make them go as fast as possible, even with a cart.”

Durahil looked at her in amaze. “But the Lord Faramir is sick. She would not push…”

“She is afraid he is near death, that time is running out for him, and she ‘will’ push them.”

“Would not Marshal Éomund counsel slowness?”

“If she would listen to him, but she will not. I know her heart. Even as the wolves attacked us, I knew she was looking beyond the battle to when she could again head west.”

“I have heard of her resolve. I have also heard of her wisdom. Prince Imrahil would not have let her leave Minas Tirith if he did not…’ He stopped for a moment. “The prince believed Faramir dead already?”

“As close as the very gates of Mandos.” Siriondil interjected. “Aye, Captain, he thought it was only hours before Faramir passed. What else could he do if it would save Indis’ reason?”

Durahil lowered his head in sorrow. “I did not know,” he whispered. “If we lose, Indis, who will lead Gondor? Surely the prince wishes to return to Dol Amroth and his own kingdom?”

“I believe Prince Imrahil thought Faramir would be dead before we even left the Pelennor, but the child has an inner strength. Mayhap it is the Elven blood of his mother.”

Durahil’s brow lifted. “I had heard, but did not believe.”

“Prince Imrahil’s family is said to descend from the Elves of Edhellond,” Listöwel said quietly. “There is a grace and peace in Faramir…” She put her hands to her face and sobbed loudly.

“It is time to stop. We have pushed ourselves beyond endurance. And our horses.” He pointed. “The garrison at Calenhad is before us. We will stop there. Hopefully, we will have word of Éomund. I believe Indis is sending him for the supplies. To protect Faramir.” They rode faster and within the hour stood before the garrison’s gates.

After Durahil gave the password, they were admitted. Riding through the gate and into the compound, the captain tried to ask for the captain of the garrison. Soldiers of Gondor, however, quickly swarmed around them, helping Listöwel dismount, and shouting words of greeting to the captain many of them knew. After a few moments, the din of noise settled and Durahil was able to speak. “I am Durahil, captain of the garrison of Amon Din. Is your captain here?”

“Aye,” a few voices shouted. One man stepped from amongst the crowd. “He is in his quarters. Let me take you.” He motioned them forward. “I am Belecthor, esquire to Captain Thoron.”

“Thoron?” Durahil asked. “Is he of Lossarnach?”

“Aye, he is Captain Durahil.”

“I served as esquire under him in Minas Tirith, my first year in the service of Gondor. I have not seen him since.” A smile crossed the man’s face. “I am forever in his debt. He taught me well.”