Chapter 372: The Courage of Men
"Legolas, Gimli, give me a hand. We have to hide the boats quickly and leave at once."
After bringing down the Nazgûl that passed overhead, Aragorn and Boromir immediately realised how serious it was.
Until the One Ring is destroyed and Sauron with it, the Nazgûl will never truly die. They can only be defeated. Before long, they will return, bound to new armour, and ride again.
Killing that Nazgûl removed the immediate danger, but it also created a new one.
A Nazgûl does not forget. It will remember where it fell. If they stayed here, sooner or later, the Enemy would come searching.
So they hurried to conceal the boats. There was no time to rest. They set off at once.
They marched until dawn. Only when the Hobbits, the weakest among them, could barely hold on any longer did they stop to catch their breath, at Boromir's suggestion.
By then, they had reached the fringe of Rohan's northern highlands. For the moment, it was still relatively safe; the fires of war had not yet spread so far.
But it was nowhere near safe enough to let their guard down. Danger still prowled close by.
Uruk-hai were moving along the borders of Fangorn.
And to the north lay the war-zone of the Vale.
Near a patch of woodland, Aragorn spoke first. "We should make a fire. We need warmth and a little rest, or we will not have the strength for the road ahead."
Gandalf was gone. The air felt emptier for it, and Aragorn wore command like a mailed shirt.
Gimli glanced south and swore under his breath.
"Tell me you're not taking us through that."
Aragorn said nothing.
Gimli pushed on anyway, voice rough.
"Rock and bog. Rot-water and ghosts. You've seen it, haven't you? That's where we're headed."
Aragorn finally answered, flat as iron.
"Yes."
Gimli's jaw worked.
"Wonderful."
"Save it," Aragorn said. "We move, we rest, we move again. Complaints won't carry you an inch."
Gimli opened his mouth, then shut it with a grunt.
Pippin came back with wood—and stopped dead.
"Where's Frodo?"
Legolas rose so fast his cloak barely settled.
"Aragorn."
One word, and Aragorn was already turning.
"I feel it," Legolas said. "Something foul is coming."
Aragorn's eyes narrowed.
"Find Frodo. Now."
…
"Come… come…"
Deep within the trees, Frodo wandered alone through the ruins of some abandoned building, looking forlorn and terribly solitary.
But the Ring at his breast was anything but quiet.
It throbbed with power, pressing outward, seeking to corrupt the Company.
Nor did it tempt at random. The One Ring had a will of its own.
First it passed over the other three Hobbits.
Then the Dwarf. No—not him. Too stubborn. Too hard to bend.
The Elf, likewise. His resistance was second only to the Hobbits', and difficult to break.
Then Aragorn, heir of Isildur. But Aragorn was far stronger than his forebear. He had already faced one trial: Frodo had once offered him the Ring, and Aragorn had refused, bidding him guard it well.
That left only one.
Boromir.
Among them, he alone might be called an ordinary Man.
Not innocent and unassuming as a Hobbit. Not stubborn as a Dwarf. Not set apart from the world, as an Elf might be. Not blessed with the blood of the Dúnedain—the kings among Men—like Aragorn, nor tempered by long years in Rivendell, with that quiet touch of the Unseen.
Boromir was simply a Man.
And more than that, a man carrying heavy duty, troubled thoughts, and unrelenting pressure.
From the beginning, the Ring had marked this most ordinary captain as its likeliest prey. Even so, it could not take him easily while the others were near.
But now, at last, the chance had come.
"We should not go alone, Frodo."
Boromir walked in, gathering fallen wood that could serve as fuel. "I know what you are thinking. I know why you wanted to be by yourself."
"But is any of this truly necessary?"
Under Frodo's fearful gaze, Boromir's eyes grew more and more feverish, and his voice lost its gentleness.
At last he made the mistake of turning on a companion. He reached for the One Ring, desperate to seize it and use it to crush Mordor.
"Lend it to me. Just for a little while."
Boromir's voice was strained, too careful, and his eyes never left the Ring.
"Lend it. I can use it. I can save our people. Give it to me, Frodo—"
He stepped in, hand snatching.
The next instant was chaos. Frodo twisted away, the Ring flashed, and Boromir's fingers closed on nothing.
"No—Frodo, wait. I didn't—"
Frodo was gone.
Boromir froze, staring at the empty air as if he could drag him back by sheer will. Then his knees gave out and he dropped hard to the ground.
"What have I done?"
He covered his face. A broken sound tore out of him, half sob, half choke. Shame burned like a brand.
"Frodo… I'm sorry. Frodo!"
Frodo did not look back. He only ran.
Yes, the Ring had not fallen into Boromir's hands. Its attempt to claim him had failed.
But its purpose had already been served.
It had not won, yet it had not truly lost.
Far to the south, along the river, on the western side of the North Bridge that linked the North Vale to the northern highlands, a band of Uruk-hai had just come around from the waterfall hills. They meant to cross and join the assault on the North Vale fortress-city.
Suddenly, their captain raised a hand, signalling his troops to halt.
"I can feel it," he muttered, then barked, "Turn. Move, move, move. Follow me, full speed!"
"Frodo!"
The view snapped back to the forest.
Aragorn found Frodo first and called out to him, but the look Frodo gave him was full of fear.
Aragorn understood at once.
"Frodo, I swore to protect you."
In this company, he was the only one who had made an oath, even though no one had asked it of him.
Frodo took off the Ring again and held it out on his open palm, showing it fully to Aragorn.
And so Aragorn faced his second trial.
A noisy, evil whispering rose inside his mind. Aragorn's eyes went distant, and something in his expression turned frightening.
He stared at the One Ring, stepped closer, and reached out.
In that moment, if he wanted it, the Ring would truly be his.
Frodo shut his eyes.
But that hand did not close over the Ring.
It closed over Frodo's hand, guiding him to put the Ring away safely.
Aragorn passed the test again.
Warmth rose in Frodo's chest. He was just about to speak when Aragorn suddenly drew his sword.
"Run, Frodo!"
Frodo froze, then yanked out Sting.
It was glowing.
"The Halfling is there. Take him!"
A troop of Uruk-hai, drawn by the Ring's call, charged straight at them.
Their captain shouted, "Kill everyone except the Halfling."
"The Halfling is there. After him!"
Following his command, a dozen Uruk-hai elites rushed Aragorn to tie him down, while nearly a hundred Uruk-hai surged towards Frodo.
Clang!
Aragorn fought hard, cutting down several well-armed Uruk-hai, then spun back to defend.
Over a hundred Uruk-hai veterans…
He looked at Frodo fleeing in panic. Something ruthless settled in his heart. He raised his blade high and bellowed a war-cry that sent fear straight into the Uruk-hai's bones.
"LEVI!"
Then he leapt down from above and swept the King's blade in a single wide arc, cutting down a swathe of Uruk-hai who had stumbled into panic, jerking their heads around as if expecting something to appear.
The effect was immediate.
"Worthless filth. It is only a name. That man is not here!"
The captain who recovered first roared in fury, carefully not mentioning that he, too, had blanked for a heartbeat and looked aside.
At that moment, Legolas and Gimli arrived. They joined Aragorn, carving a path through blood and steel.
"Where's the Hobbit run off to?" Gimli shouted, hacking with his axe.
Aragorn wanted to know the same.
No matter how well the three of them fought, they were still only three. Holding off a hundred Uruk-hai was already a miracle.
And another group of Uruk-hai elites had gone after the Hobbits' trail.
Meanwhile, over there…
Hearing the clash of battle nearby, Boromir could not afford grief any longer. He sprang up, crashed into a Uruk-hai that was trying to seize Pippin and Merry, and drew his iron sword in the same motion, cutting the Orc down where it stood.
But the Uruk-hai behind him were not only those.
"Run!"
Boromir shoved the two Hobbits forward and took the rear.
Uruk-hai closed in around him, blades dropping, ugly smiles spreading across their faces.
"Back!"
Boromir fought like a man possessed, driving his plain iron sword against one strike after another, knocking enemies down again and again.
Alone.
An army of one.
His clothes were soaked red with his own blood. His sword ran with the thick black blood of the Enemy. Still fighting, still surrounded, he tore the horn from his belt and blew it.
The silver horn, carved with ancient letters, answered with a sound vast and clear. When it rang out, even though they were near the North Vale, its echo seemed to reach the very land of Gondor.
They said that in any corner of Gondor, if the horn was sounded, reinforcements would answer, unless all were dead.
And even sounded beyond Gondor, even this far in the northern highlands, the people of Gondor still felt it.
Including Faramir, leading a raiding force in Ithilien.
Including Boromir's father.
In Minas Tirith, Denethor rose abruptly, eyes wide as he stared north.
"That horn… Boromir!"
"I hear it in the north. Boromir is in danger…"
"Who can go? What force can be sent to his aid?"
None.
Mordor's power was greater than ever. Even while sending armies against the Free Cities elsewhere, it still had enough strength here, tens of thousands of Orcs, more than ten thousand Haradrim Men, and a great fleet of Corsairs, striking from two directions.
The front lines were stretched to breaking. Not a single company could be spared, not even from Ithilien itself.
Denethor's heart trembled.
"No. No matter what, there must be aid. Someone must go…"
But the distance from Gondor to the north of Rohan was vast beyond measure.
Whether Boromir could survive until help arrived would depend on his own luck.
Would it?
"What was that sound?"
Inside the North Vale fortress-city, the commander who had been planning a counterattack lifted his head.
He did not recognise the horn. But among the Free Cities, there were always those who travelled far and learned much.
"I know it," said a Ranger who had returned from the Crossroads outpost. "That is Gondor's horn. The captain of the White City sounds it when he rides to war, to hearten his men."
"The sound came from the riverside in the northern highlands."
"And that horn call seems connected to the Uruk-hai troop that suddenly changed direction earlier."
"How so?"
"It will not be easy. We do not have many men stationed here… hmm?"
Still hesitating, the commander suddenly looked east, towards the great road stretching out of Rhovanion.
"They have come."
An elite host, gathered from Rhovanion, Esgaroth, and Dale.
The city-states had finally answered the call.
And with that, the Enemy's doom had arrived.
"We march," the commander said. "Begin the great counterattack."
He turned to his officers.
"Split off five companies. Send them across the North Bridge, towards the horn. Move now."
A horn-call rose from the Free Cities, answering the distant plea—a clarion cry proclaiming the counterstrike.
"Charge!"
The garrison poured from the city gates. The reinforcements crashed in from without. Steel met darkness with savage force.
No.
It was a purge.
Boom!
Across the open brown lands, more than ten thousand armoured cavalry slammed into Dol Guldur's host and drove straight through it like a spear through flesh.
The formations the Orcs tried to raise could not resist in the slightest. Even the great spiders were nothing before that flood of steel, only to be torn apart.
Those with any power to hold, Trolls and Olog-hai, were too few. They were pinned at once by detached units and could not strike back effectively.
In an instant, the tide turned.
The siege of the North Vale fortress-city would end today.
The city gates opened. The defenders poured out to join the fight, and at the same time a thousand-strong legion, formed from five companies, raced over the North Bridge and sped towards the horn.
In the forest thick with dead leaves, the Uruk-hai were running wild.
"Stay behind me, little ones…"
Boromir's breathing was harsh and ragged.
He was in terrible shape.
His body was carved with wounds, and an arrow had struck his left shoulder, leaving him unable to move properly.
Yet even half-dead, with only one arm still able to fight, he forced himself onward with sheer will, cutting down more than a dozen Uruk-hai.
Until their captain arrived.
He was an elite among elites, massive even by Uruk-hai standards, nearly as tall as a Man. His strength was great, his archery true. With over a hundred Uruk-hai at his back, he quickly battered Boromir into grievous, dying injury.
Boromir was strong. Perhaps he was among the strongest of Men.
But he was still a Man. He could not step beyond the bounds of mankind.
Any other champion in the same gear might have fared no better. For ease of movement, Boromir wore only light armour, and his shield had been left behind at the river when they landed.
The captain's arrow was not fast.
With a shield, Boromir could have blocked it.
Even without a shield, he might have tried to dodge.
But he did not.
Because two Hobbits stood behind him.
He could not move aside.
Fear was instinct, unavoidable. But courage was a choice, drawn from the strength of the heart.
Boromir chose to stand before his companions and shield them from everything.
Every arrow wound he took was from the front.
The Orc-arrows were coated in deadly poison.
Whizz.
A second arrow flew, piercing Boromir through the waist.
Fighting poison and agony, Boromir squeezed out one last surge of strength with the one arm he could still move, and cut down several more Uruk-hai.
But that was the end of it.
Boromir sank to his knees. His mind blurred. His body would no longer answer.
"Pippin… Merry…"
His voice shook as he called their names, watching them be dragged away, powerless to stop it.
Looking up at the cleaver raised over his head, he had one clear thought.
So this is death…?
In the moment his life was about to end, he felt no fear of dying.
Only panic and regret.
Panic that he had ruined everything.
Regret that he had failed his companions and betrayed their hopes.
"Boromir!"
Whizz.
An arrow shot for the Uruk-hai captain who was about to execute him, but the captain spun as if mad and knocked it aside with a blade. Legolas frowned.
Then Legolas drew the twin knives at his waist and ran in after Aragorn and Gimli.
Legolas and Gimli bought a breath of time. Aragorn seized it and hauled Boromir up.
"Aragorn…"
"I have an apple," Boromir rasped. "A Golden Apple. You know what it does."
"Good. Then eat it, now!" Aragorn's urgency was plain to see.
"No." Boromir's voice was weak, but stubborn. "I ruined everything. I have no right to live, and no right to use something that represents the Free Cities' highest honour and Lord Levi's trust. Take it. You will use it better than I ever could…"
"Get up, Boromir!"
Hearing him sink into self-pity at a moment like this, Aragorn finally snapped. He did not bother looking for Boromir's Golden Apple. He pulled out his own and stuffed it straight into Boromir's mouth.
At the same time, he yanked the two arrows from Boromir's body so they would not hinder the healing.
And that was not all. Once he had forced Boromir to bite down on the Golden Apple, Aragorn produced a Healing Potion he had received at Roadside Keep and poured it down Boromir's throat.
The whole sequence nearly choked him.
"Stop, stop. I am fine. I am fine!"
Boromir, suddenly full of strength again, scrambled to his feet.
"Then stand!" Aragorn shouted and shoved an iron sword into his hands, the one that had fallen to the ground.
Boromir drew a sharp breath and gripped it.
"Then… we move!"
Yes. Men are fated never to be perfect. But they will always choose to struggle on, right to the end of their lives.
It was time to act and to make amends for his own mistakes.
A horn-call rose behind them at that moment, an answer to Boromir's plea for aid.
Thunder rolled.
Hooves struck the earth like a storm.
Reinforcements from the North Vale had arrived.