Ch. 32 - Despair Most Deep

He wanted to cry out; it was Indis’ moan that had awakened the Orc. He recognized her voice immediately. His every thought and every motion wanted desperately to go to her side, protect her from the beast. He waited, waited to see what the Orc did. But her moans ceased and he heard the creature lie back down. ‘How do I leave her here alone? How can I forsake her like this? I…’ He lowered his head in despair. ‘Nothing I can do here will save her or even protect for one moment past the time my head is severed by the Orc. I cannot defend her this way. Our only hope, her only hope is for me to leave, to try somehow to find help, and then – save her and Faramir and Théodred.’

His eyes grew wet; not from the pain in his calf as he began to slither forward once more, but for his friends and the grave danger he was leaving them in. Still, he pushed forward and was soon past the sleeping guard. His body was covered with sweat by now and he knew he would freeze as soon as he passed through the entrance. Blinded by the sun on the snow, he heaved a sigh of relief. It was still day, though the sun was low in the western sky. The Orcs would not leave the cave for at least an hour. He crawled out and, using the entranceway, pulled himself up. The fire that shot through him caused his leg to buckle and, with a loud grunt, he fell. He swore. Biting his lip, he tried again and this time was successful. He stood and stretched, leaning on his good leg.

‘I am only an hour’s ride from Calenhad. If I push myself, I might be able to make it there by midnight. If the leg will hold me. If I do not bleed out and faint. If I am not followed and killed on the spot.’ He dug his fingers into his palms. Hysteria threatened to envelope him again. ‘I am tired and hungry and afraid. It will pass,’ he told himself.

He limped past the dead horses and saw that the cart had been overturned and rummaged through. No use in even looking to see if there might be ought he could use. But something pushed him towards it. Easy enough to get to; at least he didn’t have to climb to get into it. It must have taken him at least twenty minutes to reach the cart. As he moved the last few steps and crawled into it, he heard a noise behind him. ‘The fourth Orc!’ He clenched his teeth, waiting for an arrow in his back.

But nothing came. Still, the sound continued and he chanced a look back. The Orcs were preparing to leave! He ducked further into the cart. ‘Why are they leaving while the sun still shines? What can I do now? They will have even a further start. I cannot leave them now, not Indis nor the boys.’ He stood to shout, to bring them to him, and saw Indis’ face, covered with blood, being carried over the shoulders of the largest. Then, Théodred carried by Sguk. And, Faramir… ‘Nay. Where is Faramir?

The beasts growled as they entered the sun-filled plain. Holding their free hands over their eyes, they trudged north, grumbling and grunting the whole time. Indis and Théodred hung like sacks of flour over their backs. Neither stirred. For that, Éomund was grateful.

His heart gave a lurch. ‘Faramir is dead!’ his heart cried. ‘They did not take him because they… oh by all the Valar, they have eaten him.’ He fell to the ground, sobbing. ‘All for naught.’

~*~

Ragnhild gave orders to Aerin to stay with the woman of Rohan and then bid Hathawyn farewell. Slowly she walked back to the inn. Her mind was awhirl. She had not wanted to put the young ones in harm’s way, at least not without her by their side, but the separation could not be helped. Targon was fourteen and well-versed in Gondor’s weal; Aerin was near sixteen and a veteran of the Houses of Healing. Both children knew to keep their tongues silent. They would be good spies, as Targon himself had well proved in Minas Tirith.

Before she reached the inn, she heard the noise – the sound of an angry crowd. She hurried forward. There before the crowd, on the steps of the inn, stood the brothers, her guards. Their hands were tied and they were being taken away. Her heart caught in her throat. The scene was so reminiscent of the battle at the Fountain in the Citadel that tears sprang to her eyes. She could not, would not lose these men! But what could she do?

Targon stood well behind. She caught his eye and he nodded and began to make his way to her side. She turned towards a man on her right. “What is happening? I am concerned,” she said at his questioning look, “for I have a room at this inn. Are they thieves?”

“Nay! I heard they were traitors. The Lord Dagnir will take care of them. Tarnost is faithful to the Stewards and none will harm them as long as Lord Dagnir rules Tarnost.”

The fervor in the man’s voice made her look at him in surprise.

“You are not from here.” It was not a question.

“Nay. I am from Rohan. But I visited Minas Tirith just a short time ago.”

“Well, you will find none more faithful to Gondor than the lord of Tarnost. He is ever vigilant for traitors.”

“Are there many in Gondor?” But her question was never answered, for at that very moment, a horse, startled by the violence of the crowd, reared up, catching Targon’s head with its hooves. The lad fell forward, knocked senseless.

Ragnhild screamed and ran forward, thoughts of Boromir’s death enveloping her. ‘Not another!’ her heart cried wildly.

“Make way. Please, make way! I am a healer. I can help the lad,” she cried as she pushed and shoved the crowd aside. At last, she reached his body. He lay twisted, but she had not the time to be concerned with his limbs; rather, her attention was drawn to the head wound. It gushed with blood, as all head wounds do. She moved his hair aside. ‘Only a small cut.’ She turned him on his back and pulled his lids up, one at a time. The pupils, in the bright sun, stayed small.

Miserably she shook her head; curses passed her lips. Rohirric curses. She knew none there would know what she said, but she clamped her mouth closed anyhow. Better not to give the angry crowd further cause for alarm – a stranger in their midst. But the crowd seemed bent on harrying their prisoners and paid no mind to her. She lifted her face and saw the man she had spoken with earlier standing at her side.

“The boy has aivotärähdys – Oh! What is it in the common tongue? A concussun. Will you help me? Will you take him to my room? In the inn. I am a healer. I think I can help.”