Arthur's blade work and quiet endurance are tested again, this time with more eyes on him than orcs.
Chapter 6 – A Knight Under Watch
The day's light was already thinning when the patrol reached the broken edge of Osgiliath.
What had once been proud towers now stood as jagged teeth along the riverbank. Arches collapsed into the Anduin, half-submerged, and black stains marked places where fire had licked the stone. Wind moved through the ruins with a low, constant hum.
"Shields up," Captain Torin called. "We don't stay long. We look, we listen, we live."
Arthur rode near the middle of the column, George picking his way carefully over loose stone. His armor drank in the dull light, cloak trailing behind in a muted line of blue-black.
From the front of the patrol, Lirael glanced back more often than the terrain strictly required. Her expression was calm, but her eyes never missed much.
Too strong, too steady, no history anyone can name, she thought. Useful. But useful is not the same as safe.
Arthur felt the weight of those looks. He didn't resent them. If he had been in her place, responsible for the lives of others, he would have watched the stranger just as closely.
They dismounted near what had once been a small square, now a field of rubble. The Anduin flowed dark behind the shattered walls, glinting faintly.
"On foot from here," Torin said. "Pairs. Ears open, mouths closed."
The patrol spread out in a rough fan. Arthur moved with Torin and Lirael, boots crunching over gravel and broken tile.
The air smelled of damp and something faintly sour—old ash, old blood.
They found signs of recent occupation quickly enough: crusted fire pits, gnawed bones, a crude symbol scratched into a fallen block.
"Scouts," Lirael murmured, running a gloved hand over the mark. "Orcs, not long gone."
Torin grunted. "We push to the eastern arch and turn back. No heroics."
They almost made it.
The first arrow whistled out of a shadowed doorway. Arthur's hand moved before thought—he caught Torin's shoulder and yanked him aside. The arrow hissed past, clattering against stone.
"Down!" Lirael snapped.
Shapes spilled from the ruins—lean, twisted forms, eyes gleaming with feral light. Orcs. At least twenty, maybe more, their crude armor catching the last of the sun.
Torin raised his shield. "Line!" he shouted.
Wardens snapped together in practiced motion. Shields overlapped, spears angled. Arthur stepped into the front without hesitating, shield on his left arm, sword in his right.
He heard Lirael's footfalls as she took position a few places down the line.
The orcs charged, howling.
The first impact shook the formation. Blades scraped against shields, snarls and shouts mingling. An orc's rusted axe came down toward Arthur's head; he raised his shield, feeling the blow shudder through the metal, then twisted and drove his sword point into the gap beneath its arm.
Warmth spilled over his gauntlet. He stepped back, letting the body fall forward into the space it had tried to claim.
Another came in low, jagged knife aimed at his thigh. Arthur kicked its wrist aside, then brought his blade down in a clean, economical arc. No flourish, no roar—just the simple decision to end the attack.
Along the line, Wardens strained. One man cried out as a spear glanced off his helm and cut his cheek. Lirael barely turned her head. "Hold the gap!" she snapped. "Bleed later!"
Arthur's world narrowed to small things: the angle of an incoming strike, the sound of boots scraping as an enemy shifted weight, the hitch in a Warden's breath that meant fatigue. His body did not share that fatigue; his arms moved as easily now as they had on the first swing.
An orc tried to break through between him and the man to his right, shoving hard against both shields. The Warden beside him stumbled. Arthur stepped in, shoulder filling the space, shield slamming into the orc's chest. Bone crunched.
"Back in line," he said without looking, and the shaken man obeyed, swallowing hard.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Lirael move with a controlled ferocity. Her sword flashed in quick, tight arcs, shield always where it needed to be. At one point, an orc nearly reached her flank; she pivoted, caught its blade on the rim of her shield, and opened its throat with a single stroke.
She risked a quick glance down the line toward Arthur. He met her eyes briefly, then turned back to the next threat.
He doesn't strain, she thought. He calculates.
The orcs, sensing the line would not break easily, shifted tactics. A few fell back, drawing short bows.
"Arrows!" someone shouted.
Arthur dropped behind his shield an instant before the first volley hit. Wood thudded, metal rang. A Warden at the far edge of the formation cried out, an arrow in his thigh.
"Arthur!" Torin called. "Take three and hold that gap!"
Arthur nodded, stepping out with two men at his back. They moved to the wounded Warden as he sagged to one knee, teeth bared. An orc saw the opening and rushed, blade raised.
Arthur closed the distance quickly, meeting the attacker before it reached them. One step, sidestep, cut at the wrist. The knife dropped. A second cut, higher, ended the matter.
"Lift him," Arthur said to the others. "Shield him. I'll keep them off you."
He advanced alone a few paces, just far enough to give the others room.
Three orcs came at him together this time, emboldened. One swung high, one low, one thrust straight for his chest.
He moved through them like water around stones. Shield caught the high strike, his boot knocked the low blade aside, and his sword turned the thrust with a sharp twist. Then he stepped into the nearest orc's reach, inside its guard, and drove his shoulder into it, sending it sprawling.
A quick stab finished it. He pivoted, cutting across the second's exposed side. The third faltered, eyes widening, and tried to backpedal. Arthur didn't chase far; one measured lunge, then he returned to his position, breathing still even.
Behind him, the injured Warden was already being dragged back toward relative safety.
The skirmish dragged on for several more minutes. The orcs' early fury gave way to ragged, panicked strikes as their numbers thinned. Finally, with a few sharp whistles in their own harsh tongue, the survivors broke and ran, disappearing into the deeper ruins.
"Hold!" Torin shouted. "Do not pursue! We're not here to chase ghosts."
Silence settled, aside from the groans of the wounded and the soft clatter of swords being sheathed.
Arthur lowered his shield, scanning the field. Three Wardens nursed cuts and bruises. One bled more heavily from the arrow wound in his thigh. The dead orcs lay scattered, their blood already darkening the stone.
Lirael walked the line, checking each man with a quick, practiced eye. When she reached Arthur, she paused.
"Any hits?" she asked.
"Nothing worth mentioning," he said. There were a few scuffs on his armor, a nick on his gauntlet where an axe had glanced off, but no pain, no slowing.
Her gaze lingered on his face for a moment. There was no flush, no shake in his hands, no sign of strain.
"Convenient," she said, tone neutral.
"Helpful," he corrected quietly.
She said nothing to that, but her eyes stayed on him a heartbeat longer than necessary before she moved on.
Arthur knelt by the Warden with the arrow in his leg. The man's breathing was fast, edged with panic.
"Look at me," Arthur said.
The Warden forced his gaze up.
"It missed the main vessels," Arthur told him. "You'll walk again. But if you thrash, I'll make mistakes. Hold still."
He snapped the shaft clean, then pushed the remaining length through in one decisive motion. The man swore, teeth clenched, but didn't scream. Arthur bound the wound quickly, using what cloth and bandage he had in his satchel.
"It'll need better care back in the city," he said. "But you won't bleed out on the road."
Torin came up beside him. "Can he ride?"
"With help," Arthur replied.
Torin nodded. His eyes moved to Arthur's sword arm, then to the corpses around them. "You held the weak point," he said. It wasn't quite praise, but it wasn't nothing.
"That's what I'm here for," Arthur answered.
Later, as they rode back toward Minas Tirith, the sun dipping low behind them, conversations stayed muted. Men spoke in low voices, checking on each other, counting bruises and near misses.
Arthur rode slightly apart, close enough to respond if needed, far enough to give them space. George's steady gait felt almost soothing beneath him.
He could feel Lirael's gaze from the front of the column now and then. At one point, she dropped back to ride beside him.
"You fought well," she said simply.
"So did your line," he replied.
She studied him for a moment. "Torin trusts your sword," she went on. "The healers trust your hands. The men are starting to trust your presence. I'm still deciding."
"That's fair," Arthur said. "You know where I came from?"
"No," she said. "And that's the problem."
He nodded once. "When you decide you need to know, ask," he said. "Until then, I'll do the work in front of me."
She gave a small, humorless huff. "You sound like half the veterans in this city."
"Maybe we've all seen the same things," he said.
She didn't answer, but after a while she nudged her horse forward again, retaking her place near Torin.
The White City grew larger ahead, its walls catching the last light of day. Behind them lay fresh blood on old stones. Ahead lay beds, bandages, and more questions.
Arthur's body felt as steady as it had that morning. No shaking hands, no heaviness in his limbs. Only his thoughts carried any weight at all.