After the company left the shelter of the woods, the road proved harsher than any of them had guessed.
The Nazgûl no longer struck in great, open assaults, yet the red-eyed Orcs that skulked in every shadow clung to them like maggots to a bone, forever harrying their steps. By day the foe hid beneath rocks and root and crumbling banks; by night they came on beneath the cloak of darkness, swift raids flaring up on every side, so that none among the Fellowship of the Seed could ever wholly set his guard aside.
Crossing a jagged ridge the locals called Broken Tooth, they paid dearly again. Two Sindarin champions fell there. They had stepped into the teeth of the storm to cover the others at a raging ford, setting their bodies between the company and the poison arrows of the Orcs. The river claimed them in the end, dragging them down, and not even their body could be found.
"We are five days from our goal," Corthalion said at last, unrolling the map with weary hands and pointing ahead along the creased parchment. "We have not strayed from the Gwathló River. Once we cross this barren waste, we shall reach the Swanfleet. There the warriors of Eowenría are posted. When we come beneath their banners, we will at last be truly safe. The dark does not draw near to lands guarded by King Kaen Eowenríel."
By now the company were worn to the edge.
Gimli's beard was stiff with old black blood, and notches had been bitten into the once flawless edge of his iron axe. Denethor's mail and plates were cracked and scored in many places, his body marked with wounds; the cut in his left arm, though Gandalf's craft kept the worst of the poison at bay, throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
Aragorn's cloak was torn in several long slashes by Orcish scimitars. A fresh scar now ran from his brow to the line of his jaw, a mark left by one of those fierce struggles in the dark. Gandalf's grey cloak was stained near black with smoke and filth; his pipe had been lost along the road and only the light at the head of his staff still burned with stubborn defiance.
Elves of Middle-earth could go sleepless when need was great. Night after night they had taken turns upon the watch, so that Aragorn and the others might keep somewhat of their strength for the long march by day.
"How many arrows are left?" Aragorn asked quietly.
Corthalion checked the quivers one by one. "Less than ten shafts per bow," he answered. "Yet it will suffice. We have slain many on the road. The enemy's numbers are not endless."
"Spare each shot as if it were your last," Gandalf said. "Around the Swanfleet there should be patrols of Eowenría. When we see their standards, we are under a stronger shield than ours alone."
For the next three days they went almost in silence.
The wind over the waste carried sand and small stones that stung the face like a host of knives. Their food was gone. They lived now on what little fare they could scratch from the wild: knotted roots that Gimli dug from the parched soil, bitter but filling, and such wild greens as the Elves taught them to tell from poison.
On the fourth evening heavy clouds swallowed the last red of the sinking sun and drew night down early.
The nine who remained of the company had no time to seek hidden shelter. From behind them rose a chorus of howls and harsh cries.
"Run!" Gandalf cried. "Over the next rise lies the Swanhold. The Nazgûl will not willingly draw near to that place."
At his word they all broke into a northern run. Even Gimli's short legs churned over the ground with startling speed.
Warg howls split the coming dark.
Behind them five shadowy forms raced like storm-blown clouds. Gandalf whirled and flung a burst of light to slow the pursuit, yet for all his haste the enemy were the swifter. Before they could crest the hill, their hunters had already closed the gap.
More than thirty red-eyed Orcs on warg-back fanned out around them, herding them into a ring, and among them rode five Nazgûl, cloaked in black.
Back to back the company formed their last line, each man and Elf and Dwarf setting himself as if already resigned to die upon that spot.
Denethor edged closer to Aragorn. "Brother," he said softly, "it may be that I fall here today, but I will spend my life to tear a breach in their lines for you.
"I may never live to see the day you are crowned, yet I will fulfill now the duty of the Stewards: to guard the heir of Elendil's blood."
"We stand or fall together," Aragorn answered, looking him in the eye. "I will not abandon my comrades. We will protect our people together."
At that Denethor smiled, and he said no more. He knew that Aragorn had made his choice.
"Yield up the seed," came the Nazgûl's rasping command. All their hooded faces turned toward the bundle at Aragorn's breast, unseen eyes burning with covetous hunger.
"Heh!," Gimli snorted.
He did not waste another word. Axe lifting, he charged straight at the black line, roaring, "You stink worse than the smoke-hole of any forge."
His rush broke the standoff and battle leapt upon them like a wolf.
Steel rang, wargs snarled, Orcs screamed.