All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own the rights or characters to the Eldest Trilogy or to the Lord of the Ring’s Trilogy. The eldest Trilogy is the work of Christopher Paolini and the Lord of the Ring’s Trilogy is the work of J.R.Tolkein.
The horn blasts rang out through the valley, loud, compelling, and for a second his foes hesitated, looking this way and that for more enemies. But as the echoes of the last horn blasts died away and no help came, Boromir knew that he was about to die. Willing himself to ignore his utter exhaustion, and the pain of the orc arrow in his shoulder, he lowerd the horn, He staggered backwards, his footsteps unsteady, until he felt the rough bark of a tree at his back. Comforted slightly by the knowledge he no could not be assailed from behind, he surveyed his plight.
In front of him he saw four of the Uruks close in on him, blades held high, while off to his left he glimpsed a number of orc bowmen. He watched resignedly as they nocked arrows on their bow-strings and stood ready to loose yet more darts at him. He knew that even if he succeeded in slaying the four attacking uruks, he would still die swiftly afterwards, riddled with arrows as soon as the orc archers had a clear shot.
And yet, despite the growing sense of despair, he vowed silently to himself that as a soldier of Gondor and the son of the steward, if he was to die, he would take as many of the accursed creatures with as he could. Trying to ignore his utter exhaustion, and the stabbing pain of the shaft in his shoulder, he hefted his long sword high and prepared to defend himself, watching as the Uruks broke into a charge.
The first was overconfident, leering, certain that he would have an easy victory and he paid dearly for it. Boromir’s first heavy stroke hit the orc’s sword with a loud clanging crash, broke the blade cleanly and continued on downwards to bury itself deep in the foul creatures chest. Wrenching his sword free of the dying orc Boromir swung the long blade in a fast and swift arc, black blood dripping for the tip, slicing it into the neck of the second Uruk with a meaty thump.
But the force of the desperate blow swung the man of Gondor round, leaving him open to attack, and as he realized his mistake and spun in a desperate attempt to correct it, a mighty blow struck the flat of his sword and it broke.
The strike forced him almost to his knees and threw him back against the tree trunk, slightly dazed. Now disarmed he looked up to see a great troll like Orc, bearing the white hand of Saruman on it’s gear, leering stupidly down at him from it’s mangled face. He twisted desperately to one side to avoid the second blow, and instead of burying itself in his flesh the blade struck the horn hanging from the strap round his neck, cleaving the ancient thing in two. The troll, reckoned him to be helpless, and with a stupid grin raised its orcish sword again to strike at him once more. That grin turned swiftly to a grimace of agony as with a last great effort Boromir struck, hewing desperately at the neck his foe with the sharp remnants of his sword, slicing through flesh and muscle and bone.
The great beast seem to sag at the knees and then, with a loud thud it toppled sideways and hit the ground heavily as it’s legs gave way. As Boromir drew in desperate gasps of air to fill his aching lungs, he noted absent mindedly that its head had been severed almost completely from its body.
As he staggered to his feet, leaning on the tree for support, he suddenly remembered the threat of the orc archers and twisted his head round to look for them; unconsciously tensing his body in anticipation of a pain of another arrow strike. His sudden action probably saved his life once again, as in a swift blur an arrow streaked by him to thump harmlessly into the wood of tree, so close he felt the air of it’s passing on his face.
His eyes picked out his attackers, two smaller orcs and a larger Uruk, wielding a larger bow than was normal with Orcs. Boromir instinctively was sure that this was the Uruk whose arrow had hit him earlier, he knew few Orcs would master such a bow as this, they preferred the smaller orc bows like those wielded by the Uruk’s companions. The Uruk, its face daubed in white with the white hand, snarled at him and then its foul face twisted into what Boromir could only guess to be amusement at his predicament. The Man of Gondor’s temper rose and he struggled to stand and attack, but another arrow struck him, this time in the chest and he again he felt the pain come like fire. He staggered back against the tree once more and watched and waited for his own death to come.
In the next few moments, time seemed slow down, his eyes watched as the Uruk slowly pulled another arrow of his quiver, but his mind flickered and jumped from thought to thought. The Fellowship had surely failed, Pippin and Merry had been taken, Gandalf had fallen into darkness, and now he had succumbed to the dark will of the ring. Surely dooming them all by scattering their company to the winds in the search for Frodo. An image came before his eyes of the white tower of Gondor, the tower of the stewards standing tall, white and proud. Now in his mind he saw the tower, the walls and citadel crumble, Minas Tirith taken and Gondor, his land, fallen into darkness. His fault.
That vision hurt him more than any wound and as his mind returned to him, he saw the Uruk nock and loose another dart at him. As it silently sped towards him, he rested frozen against the tree, knowing with definite certainty that this one would most certainly kill him.
As he tensed in anticipation of the strike the silence of the clearing was broken by a savage cry in a foreign tongue. In amazement Boromir watched as the orc arrow seem to slow and stop dead in the air scarce feet in front of him, before dropping harmlessly to the blood soaked ground. Looking round for the source of the harsh cry he saw standing at the far edge of the clearing from the orcs a gleaming mail glad figure.
That which happened next Boromir could not understand but he saw quite clearly, and he saw the mailed figure swiftly raise it’s right hand and then wondrous to behold bright light seemed to glow in that extended palm as the figure cried aloud in the same strange language as before. Amazed he watched the two smaller orcs seemed to stiffen before crumpling lifelessly to the ground. He watched as the Uruk, abandoning it’s harmless and grievously wounded prey, charged towards the new attacker with a great cry of rage, drawing its long and stained Orc blade as it ran.
The silvery figure seemed to blur as Boromir’s eyes darkened from the pain, but he clearly saw it draw a long white bow with elven swiftness and loose an arrow at the attacking Uruk. Once more his saviour cried aloud and with a distinct crackle and flash the arrow burst into a blinding blue flame, enveloping the charging orc in a blinding and deafening explosion. Before his mind slipped away into darkness to escape the agony his body was in Boromir also vaguely saw the silver figure sway and collapse against a tree. Then his eyes were covered and he knew nothing but darkness.