Part 17: Next morning, at dawn

“Can you see him?” asked Eowyn.

She and Legolas were standing in the stern, facing south; the elf was looking for any sign that Faramir might be following.

“Mm,” he said. “I was not sure before but—now that the sun has risen, melmenya—there is a definitely a cloud of dust, moving swiftly along the eastern bank.”

“Riders,” said Eowyn.

“I hope so.” He was still afraid that, even if they did succeed in landing in the Dead Marshes, the foetid air and the insects would poison Eowyn and the Men.

“How far behind?”

“At the moment, five or six hours, perhaps. But we are already pulling away from them.”

Eowyn nodded, gravely. “The horses will tire,” she said. “And the route—this part, to Henneth Annûn, is familiar to them, but once they pass Cair Andros, the going will be much harder.”

…

Arador dumped a pile of metal objects—barrel hoops, door hinges, locker hasps and mooring spikes—onto the deck.

The boy had volunteered to solve the anchor problem.

“We must bend them into shape, and bind them together,” he said to his two assistants, Legolas and Eowyn. “And then we will need to decide—we have thirty yards of elven rope left: do we cut it in two, and make two very strong but short anchor ropes; or do we keep it whole, and make a second rope by twisting two lengths of hemp together...”

…

Eowyn snipped off the end of the cord, and leaned back to admire her handiwork—a reasonably neat piece of splicing.

“Very good, melmenya,” said Legolas. He smiled. “Take a rest now, my darling, whilst Arador and I finish the anchors.”

“Well—if you do not mind, I would like to stretch my legs.” She rose and, sucking her bloodied fingers, walked over to the port gunwale. Down below, the trees were thinning out and, in places, she could see the ground.

She stared for a moment at the patches of burnt earth, the scatter of bones and the smears of excrement, and at the tracks of trampled undergrowth.

And then her heart lurched.

It was as though she were looking at a vast copy of her own Orc map! The spoor were the very symbols she inscribed upon it. All that was missing was her annotations! “Legolas!” she cried. “Legolas! There are Orcs below! A huge band of Orcs! Look! Look at the filthy camp site, and the blood stains, and—and look at the half-eaten pig. Those are the typical signs, Lassui. And I think they are heading north, towards the marshes.”

Legolas jumped up onto the bowsprit, and scanned the terrain ahead.

“Can you see them?”

“No… But I can see some travellers.” Legolas watched the little group trekking across the rugged moorland—two men, a woman, and a horse-drawn cart carrying some housewares, a few sticks of furniture, and—“Oh Valar,” he muttered—three small children.

“If you are right about the Orcs, melmenya, they are sitting ducks.”