Chapter 18. A Raging River

Not long after the departure of the body of Haradrim, whose battle song continued to float eerily from higher levels of the City as they marched, stretchers and their bearers arrived at the scene of the accident, for Mithrandir had indeed sent word of the collapse to the Houses of Healing. Somehow the wizard had even managed to accurately guess the number of injured who remained after the departure of the Kings and would need to be carried to the Houses of Healing: two spear-carriers of Harad, who had not regained consciousness since being dug free of the parts of the ruin that had buried them despite their improvised props, and the greengrocer from the Second Circle market.

As two of the bearers eased Turambor onto a stretcher, his wife Eliniel stood helplessly close by, surrounded by her adopted brood. Her brother, Calendil, was also somewhat encumbered, as he was holding tightly to the wide leather collar of an enormous – albeit its obvious puppyhood – creature that strained to break free, seemingly wishing to follow the marching Haradrim. One of the brightly robed figures had emerged from the ruins, dust-covered, pulling the pup with him, and thrusting the pup at the greengrocer’s assistant, had said in heavily-accented common speech, ‘Here, take him! I cannot... Time is fleeting...’ 

The veiled warrior had paused only long enough to ensure Calendil’s secure grip on the young dog’s collar before turning away to crouch over the fallen Haradrim. After pulling one side of his veil away to reveal his face, he bent his head and spoke to each of the fallen Haradrim in turn. As Calendil watched, thinking he’d surely turn back to reclaim the animal, the robed Man spoke to one, then another, but shook his head at their lack of response. The third fallen Man had opened his eyes, had exchanged words with his crouching companion, who had veiled himself once more as if in response, for all Calendil could tell, briefly continuing their discourse in words he could not understand. Ultimately, the bending figure helped the injured Man to his feet, waited whilst another robed-and-veiled figure bestowed a wickedly curved weapon upon the injured soldier, and then raised his arm and his voice in command.

Belatedly, Calendil realized that the dog’s owner or keeper was the Captain of these troops (though the idea made little sense, for why would the Man bring a puppy, no matter how young or large the creature might be, on a march to the Citadel?), and even before the warriors of Harad once more formed ranks and resumed their march, the greengrocer’s assistant renewed his grip on the heavy collar to keep the “pup” from breaking free. He’d been gifted a dog, it seemed, by some twist of Fate. 

When he was sure of his grasp, he looked up and saw Weavers Luinion and Ehadril addressing Eliniel. ‘Go with them,’ Luinion said, nodding towards the stretcher-bearers, who having secured Turambor now prepared to lift the stretcher and carry him to the Sixth Circle where the healers awaited the injured. Luinion’s wife, Ehadril, gave Eliniel a brief hug, then extended her hands to the two littlest girls clinging to the latter’s skirts. ‘Come, children!’ she said. ‘Come back to the Market! Why, it’s past time to put away the tables and pack up the stalls. Your mother and father—’ her glance went to Calendil and his encumbrance and dismissed them immediately—‘and uncle are somewhat... er... occupied at the moment, so we’ll need your assistance to tell us how to put away all the parts of the greengrocers’ stand properly so they will be right where your father expects to find them tomorrow.’

Calendil’s heart contracted at little Ailuin’s lisping, ‘Will there be tomorrow?’

Eliniel, who had taken a step or two in the wake of her husband and his bearers, turned back and hugged the small child fiercely. ‘There will be, lovie, I promise!’ She sniffed back tears as she allowed Ehadril to reclaim little Ailuin’s hand, and added, ‘Now you go with the Weavers, lovie, and show them what they need to know, and I’ll be back—’ she hesitated for the barest second—‘just as soon as I’ve sorted everything that needs sorting.’ She kissed the top of the little girl’s head, rose and hugged each of her other children, and then turned away and hurried after the stretcher-bearers.

As Ehadril began to shepherd the greengrocers’ little ones towards the Second Circle marketplace, Luinion turned to address Calendil. ‘What’re you doing, fooling about with that dog? You need to go with your sister! She’ll need you, if...’

The greengrocer’s assistant heard the words left unsaid. ...if Turambor has taken deadly harm.

‘Of course,’ he replied, though his actual meaning was, Of course no one is going to take charge of this creature!

The only reasonable course seemed to him to be to follow his sister and the stretcher-bearers to the Sixth Circle, hauling the giant pup along with him. Perhaps he could get one of the healers’ assistants at the Houses of Healing, or a passing guardsman, to take the dog on to the Citadel to reunite it with its Haradrim owner after the ceremonies and royal feast concluded.

*** 

The Host of the Haradrim were close, Elessar thought as his long strides carried him rapidly over the marble floors to the entrance of the Houses of Healing. Hearing the battle song swell in volume and power the closer he came to the street only confirmed this impression, giving him the feeling that a great and terrible wave was about to break over the highest levels of the City. From the sound as he emerged into the golden afternoon sunshine, he calculated that the Host had reached the Fifth Circle and were continuing their advance.

A glance at the knights standing in the courtyard before the Houses of Healing revealed to him that they shared his unease. As did the horses, pawing restlessly or dancing or half-rearing in protest despite the tight hold the riders maintained on their reins.

Defying the heaviness that assailed his spirit under an increasingly oppressive feeling of impending doom, Elessar ran lightly down the steps and reclaimed his mount from Tadion with a nod of thanks. As he swung into the saddle, he was aware of his companions following suit. 

At his signal, Elessar’s warhorse spun on its haunches, then seemed to hesitate, laying back its ears and snorting despite years of training and well-honed responses. Ignoring its rider’s signals, it then began to move towards the sound, towards the impending battle, thus fighting its rider’s direction to turn away from the sound in apparent retreat. 

Elessar countered with hands, legs, seat and spurs to forcibly turn the warhorse in the direction of the Seventh Circle, hearing it squeal in protest as it danced under him. Not yet, he managed to convey to the beast. Soon. He hoped he was wrong about the latter. 

But the horse gave in suddenly, trained to obey amidst the chaos of battle, and turned its head away from the oncoming Host in response to the rider’s signals. The other horses followed, spurred and firmly guided away from the oncoming Host by the knights on their backs.

I wish Faramir were here, and not still organising the recovery in the Second Circle, Elessar thought, touching a heel to the warhorse’s flank to encourage his mount to increase its speed as they began to move upward, towards the Citadel. 

And then the grim notion came to him, all unbidden, If all my choices should go amiss this day, at least Faramir will likely be in a position to survive and take charge of the City once more.

*** 

For his part, Faramir felt as if he were in a dream, surrounded as he was, riding in the midst of the body of marching Haradrim, the fierce battle song swirling around and within him, battering his senses as it lifted and carried him onward, until he was unsure whether he rode upon a saddle or was borne upon the wings of the song. Or perhaps he rode upon a river, flowing inexorably towards a cataract as great as Rauros – or greater, somehow – caught in the current and destined to be drawn to their deaths, falling over the edge, falling as part of the flood, ever falling... until they were all of them, visiting Host and Steward alike, dashed against the rocks at the bottom.

He shook his head, trying to free himself of the spell of the battle song that held him and the surrounding Host captive. Even such a tiny movement as pushing his heels inward, touching his spurs to the horse’s flanks, urging an increase in speed that would take them the rest of the way through the body of warriors to the forest of spears at its head, and beyond, took a considerable act of will. The rising song seemed to drown all thought and emotion – yes, he was drowning in a river of sorts, his senses dulled as if he were submerged in the roaring waters in truth, tumbled by powerful, irresistible currents...

He wasn’t even aware, at first, of the tiny feeling of relief that had started as his horse responded to his signals and began to move forward once more, relative to the pace of the marching warriors, arrowing them through the ranks of warriors ahead of them, nosing its way between adjacent shoulders. In wonder, dull and muted though it might be by the spell that was upon him, Faramir saw the marchers part before them as his horse navigated the torrent. Though he could not seem to move his head to look behind them, his senses told him that the ranks closed up again after them, leaving no sign of their passage.

As a drowning man who has fought his way to the surface of the raging waters, Faramir found himself gulping deep breaths of air as they passed through the last of the spearmen in the vanguard and broke free of the Host. Though the battle song lost none of its mesmerising power at these close quarters, he could see his way clearly now, and touched his spurs once again to the horse’s flanks, lifting his mount into a slow gallop that rapidly opened the distance between Faramir and the advancing Host. As they passed around a bend, his mind clarified suddenly, and he remembered his purpose and the reason for the urgency that drove him. No longer numbed, feelings arose within him: mingled relief and determination.

Somehow, as the Host had departed the ruins and the battle cry arose, the grim purpose driving the Haradrim had grown solid and clear in his mind. In the middle of directing the stretcher-bearers and engineers and workers, Faramir had been struck dumb at the shattering realisation, so suddenly that the chief builder had grasped at his arm, as if to steady him from falling. ‘Is it well with you, my Lord?’

He did not remember shaking his arm free, stumbling away, then catching himself and running to reclaim the reins of his horse, or even if he’d answered the Man’s urgent query. Now, spoken under his breath, the answer came belatedly. As he leaned forward over his horse’s neck, urging the beast to its best speed on this stony uphill course, Faramir muttered, ‘No. It is not well. Not by any measure.’ 

***

Author's note: A small turn of phrase was drawn from "The Riders of Rohan" in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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