Arthur began to understand that in this city, news traveled faster than any rider.
Chapter 8 – What People Say
Two days after the fight in the ruins of Osgiliath, Arthur noticed the way sounds in the barracks quieted when he stepped through the door.
It wasn't obvious. Conversations didn't stop, they just shifted—a laugh cut a little shorter, a story softened when he came within earshot. Men glanced up from polishing cuirasses or mending straps, eyes flicking over his black mithril armor and the dark blue cloak before dropping back to their work.
He put it down to caution at first. A stranger in armor that looked like it belonged in a story would have unsettled him too. But as time went on, patterns emerged.
Eoric sought him out more often, asking small things about grip and stance. The young warden was a little too tall for his current strength, arms and legs still growing into the mail he wore. His brown hair refused to stay flat, and his open face showed worry and determination in equal measure.
Arvel, the older Warden he'd bested in sparring, started greeting him with a nod and a muttered, "Morning, healer," whenever they passed near the central hearth. The sting from that first defeat had faded into a wary sort of respect.
Others still watched from a distance.
"Have you heard where he's from?" one man asked in the corner one evening, not quite quietly enough.
"No," another replied. "But I've seen him take a hit that would drop a mule and keep walking. Maybe that's all we need to know."
"Until it isn't," a third voice said. "Men like that draw trouble."
Arthur pretended not to listen as he unbuckled his greaves. He'd heard worse, in different words and different rooms. Admiration mixed with unease in much the same way.
The next patrol came sooner than he'd have liked. The road east needed watching; rumor said bands of orcs were testing Gondor's borders more often, pressing here and there against the Rammas like a thumb on a bruise. This time, Lirael had the command. Torin rode ahead to coordinate with another company.
Arthur checked George's tack in the grey light before dawn, in the outer stables where the air smelled of hay and horses and damp stone. As he tightened the girth, Lirael came down the stable aisle, her cloak already fastened, helm under one arm. Her dark hair was tied back close to the neck, the pale line of an old scar catching what little light there was along her cheek.
"You'll ride second rank," she said without preamble. "Eoric beside you. If we run into trouble, you keep him alive. If we don't, you make sure he doesn't relax so much he falls off his horse."
"Understood," Arthur replied.
She studied his face briefly, as if searching for something she hadn't found yet. "You'll also keep your eyes open," she added. "Men listen to things from you they wouldn't repeat to me. If you hear talk that concerns the line, I expect to know."
"That cuts both ways," Arthur said. "If you hear something about me that might affect the line, I'd rather hear it from you."
Her mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Fair enough."
They rode out as the sky brightened from slate to pale blue. Fields rolled away on either side of the road, scattered with farmhouses and low stone walls. The soil was dark and recently turned in places, the scent of earth and the distant tang of woodsmoke carried by the wind.
For a while, the only sounds were hooves and the creak of leather. Eoric rode stiffly, trying too hard not to look nervous. His shield bumped now and then against his leg, out of rhythm with the horse beneath him.
"You're gripping the reins as if they offended you," Arthur said quietly.
Eoric startled, then loosened his hands a fraction. "Sorry, ser. Just… thinking about yesterday's stories, I suppose."
"What stories?"
The young man glanced forward, where Lirael rode at the head of the column, her posture straight and unbending in the saddle. "They say orc scouts got closer to the Rammas than anyone likes," he said. "And that a whole patrol from the south road didn't come back. Captain says it's not confirmed, but…"
"But men talk," Arthur finished.
"Yes."
Arthur thought of the faces in the Houses of Healing, the way Ioreth's hands moved a little faster on days when bad news arrived. "If we meet them," he said, "we'll deal with them. Worrying now won't change whether they're out there."
Eoric let out a breath he probably hadn't realized he was holding. "Right."
Around midday they reached a low rise that gave them a view of the land ahead. Lirael raised a hand, and the patrol slowed. The road dipped and curved between shallow humps of ground; beyond that, a darker line of trees broke the gentle roll of the fields.
"Rest here," she called. "Water the horses. Keep your armor on."
Arthur slid from the saddle and checked George's legs, running practiced fingers along tendons and joints. The horse snorted, leaning into his touch, ears flicking nervously at the distant caw of crows.
Downslope, a pair of Wardens shared a wineskin, their voices a low murmur.
"…took four of them alone," one was saying. "Didn't even look winded."
"Or maybe he just hides it well," the other replied. "Captain still doesn't trust him."
"She trusts his sword."
"Trusting a sword isn't the same as trusting the man holding it."
Arthur straightened, dusting his hands on his greaves. He felt no anger, just a kind of distant familiarity. Doubt was safer than blind faith. He'd rather they were cautious now than surprised later.
Lirael walked up to stand beside him, following his gaze. "You hear them?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "You?"
"I'd worry more if they weren't talking about you," she said. "Silence spreads faster than rumor."
"Do you want me to do something about it?"
"Do your job," she replied. "If that changes their words, good. If it doesn't, we adjust."
They remounted and moved on.
The first sign of trouble came in the form of crows.
A dark knot of them wheeled above a small stand of trees off the road, their cries harsh and insistent. The trees stood in a shallow dip, branches close-knit enough to cast a tangle of shade despite the open country around them. Lirael lifted a hand, narrowing her eyes.
"Something's dead," she said. "Or more than one something."
They angled toward the trees, weapons ready. The air grew still as they approached, sounds muffled by the close branches and the tall grass that brushed against their boots and the horses' legs.
They found the bodies in a shallow depression in the ground, half-hidden by the grass. Three men in leather and mail, cloaks torn, faces slack. Their shields bore no clear crest, but their gear spoke of semi-trained fighters, the kind used to riding the less important roads.
"Southern patrol," one Warden murmured, kneeling to turn a shield. "They were meant to be two days behind us."
Lirael dismounted, jaw tight. "Check them," she ordered. "See if any breathe."
Arthur was already moving. He knelt by the nearest body, fingers searching for the pulse at the throat. Nothing. The skin was cooling, and the blood around the man's chest wound was dark and stiffening.
He moved to the next. An arrow had taken this one in the back, low and deep, the broken shaft still jutting from the leather. No breath touched Arthur's fingers when he held them near the man's mouth.
The third man lay on his side, face turned away into the grass. Arthur rolled him gently. A long gash ran from hip to ribs, the cloth soaked through, but the rise and fall of his chest, though shallow, was there.
"This one's alive," Arthur said. "Barely."
Lirael was beside him in an instant. "Can you move him?"
"Not far without making it worse," Arthur said. "But if we stay, whatever did this might come back."
As if summoned by the thought, a harsh horn sounded in the distance, somewhere beyond the trees. An answering call came a moment later from another direction, rough and eager.
"Too late," Lirael muttered. "Form up around them! We hold here."
Wardens scrambled into a rough circle, shields outward, the wounded man and two corpses at the center. Boots slid slightly in the churned, damp earth as men found their footing. Arthur rose, drawing his sword. He could feel his heartbeat, steady as ever. The old, bone-deep part of him that had once braced for hours of surgery recognized the familiar tightening of focus.
Shapes emerged from the tree line—orc scouts, a dozen at least, maybe more behind. Their armor was a mess of cracked leather, mismatched plates, and stolen mail. Blades and spears were jagged, more like torn metal than forged steel. Their eyes gleamed as they saw the human patrol standing over their work.
"Eoric," Arthur said quietly without looking back. "Stay close. Don't break from the line unless someone's dying or the captain gives the order."
"Yes, ser." The young man's voice shook, but his shield arm came up, the wooden rim lined neatly with the ones on either side.
The orcs charged.
The clash was different from Osgiliath's cramped stone corridors. Here, on open, uneven ground, there was room to move—and room to be flanked. Arthur stepped to where the line thinned, filling the gap without thinking about it.
An orc with a notched sword swung at his head. Arthur ducked, feeling the wind of the blade pass over his helm, then cut low at the creature's knee. It collapsed with a yell; he ended it with a sharp thrust before it could rise.
Another came in from the side, teeth bared, spear jabbing for his ribs. Arthur turned, letting its momentum carry it past him, then slammed his shield into its back and drove it to the ground. The breath left the creature in a harsh grunt. Arthur's sword came down, clean and final.
All the while, he kept half an eye on the center, where the wounded man lay motionless. If the line broke there, all of this would be meaningless.
"Left!" Lirael shouted somewhere behind him.
An orc tried to circle wide, boots slipping in the grass as it sought an angle past the shield wall. Arthur stepped out, intercepting it. Their blades met with a shower of sparks. The orc's strength was real, a heavy, jerking force that wanted to batter through rather than cut. Its balance, though, was clumsy. Arthur felt the way its weight leaned too far forward and used that, twisting his wrist and sliding his blade aside to open a line. One quick cut to the neck, and it was done.
The fight dragged on. Sweat stung eyes, breath grew ragged—everyone's but his. Arthur's arms moved with the same calm as when he trained in the yard. He could feel the strain in the men to either side, the way their shields dipped a little lower between blows, the way their boots dug in harder. The familiar unease flickered in the back of his mind, the thought that his body did not follow the same rules as theirs, but there was no room for it now.
At one point, Eoric slipped on blood-slick grass, shield dipping. An orc lunged for the opening, blade already rising.
Arthur's sword was there before the creature's could descend, knocking the strike aside. He stepped in, putting his shoulder into the orc's chest and sending it staggering back. A short thrust ended it.
"Up," he said sharply.
Eoric scrambled back to his feet, cheeks pale, eyes wide. "Sorry, ser."
"Stay behind your shield," Arthur said. "You can't help anyone from the ground."
The young man swallowed and nodded, grip tightening on the leather straps.
Slowly, the orcs began to falter. A few pulled back, snarling, glancing to the trees as if measuring the odds of retreat. They had expected an easy finish to an earlier slaughter, not a prepared line.
Lirael saw it. "Hold the line," she called. "Don't chase. Make them decide to leave."
The wardens held their ground, shields firm. It worked. Another minute, and the orcs broke, turning and plunging back into the shadows between the trees, their harsh calls fading as quickly as they had come.
Silence settled, broken only by the groans of the injured and the cawing of distant crows that had waited for their chance. The smell of iron and trampled grass hung heavy in the shallow dip.
Lirael lowered her sword, breathing hard. She scanned the circle, counting heads. "Report."
"Cuts and bruises," one Warden called. "Nothing deep."
"Eoric?" she asked.
"Still standing, captain," he said, voice uneven but steady.
Arthur went back to the wounded man in the center. The bleeding had slowed, but not enough. The makeshift pressure some of the men had applied had bought minutes, not more.
"We need to close this now," he said. "Or he won't survive the ride back."
Lirael knelt opposite him, armor scraping the ground. "Can you do it here?"
"I've done worse in worse places," Arthur said. In his mind, he saw tiled floors and bright lights, metal tables and white sheets. Here, he had grass, cloth, and what tools he carried at his belt.
He worked quickly, hands sure. He cleaned what he could, cut away the worst of the ruined cloth, and began to stitch. The others formed a wide ring, eyes outward, steel ready. Eoric hovered just behind his shoulder, shield still up, casting a small patch of shade over the wound that made it easier to see.
"Hold the edges," Arthur told him, indicating the torn cloth around the wound. "Steady. You're part of this now."
Eoric nodded, fingers trembling only a little as he pinched the fabric aside, keeping it clear. His shield stayed angled over them, catching stray light and, if needed, steel.
Arthur's needle moved in small, careful motions, drawing the torn flesh together in a line that followed the natural pull of the skin instead of fighting it. He tied each knot firmly, leaving no slack to catch and tear. The man groaned once or twice but did not wake fully.
By the time Arthur tied the last knot and bound the bandage tight, the man's breathing had eased. It was still shallow, still fragile, but steadier than before.
Lirael watched, saying nothing until he finished. Then: "You're certain he'll make it?"
"No one can be certain," Arthur said quietly. "But he has a chance now. That's more than he had an hour ago."
She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once. "We move," she said, raising her voice. "Careful with him. We're not losing what we just bought."
They fashioned a rough support from spare cloaks and spear shafts, settling the wounded man between two of the sturdier wardens. He sagged in their grip but did not slip away. The dead were laid out with what dignity the place allowed, eyes closed, cloaks pulled over still faces.
The ride back to Minas Tirith was slower. The sun had started its descent, turning the fields a warmer shade of gold. Arthur checked the wounded man as often as the pace allowed, feeling for the pulse at his wrist, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
Behind and around him, the others spoke in low tones when they thought he couldn't hear.
"Did you see the way he moved?"
"Did you see the way he didn't slow?"
"Captain still watches him, though."
Arthur caught Lirael looking back more than once. Their eyes met briefly once, and in that glance he saw less blunt suspicion and more weighing, as if she were adjusting an answer rather than questioning the whole equation.
By the time they reached the city, the sun was low, turning the white walls gold and casting long shadows across the Pelennor. The wounded man was still alive. His breath rasped, but it was there.
At the gate, as the patrol filed in under the high archway, hooves ringing on stone, one of the younger Wardens leaned toward another.
"Maybe he is a blessing," he murmured.
"Blessings don't bleed for you," the other replied. "He does. That's enough for me."
Arthur heard that too.
He said nothing, but as he turned George toward the stables, some of the tightness in his chest eased. Suspicion hadn't vanished. It probably never would. But beside it, something else was growing—slow and cautious, like a plant pushing through stone.
Men walked a little closer to him than they had a week before. Eoric, leading his horse by the reins, glanced over and offered a tired, genuine smile.
"Good work today, ser," he said. "For him, and for the rest of us."
Arthur gave a small nod. "You held your ground," he replied. "Keep doing that, and I'll have less to worry about."
Eoric straightened a little at that, shoulders squaring despite his fatigue.
As night settled over Minas Tirith and the patrol dispersed toward barracks and Houses of Healing, the stories of the day began to twist into words and whispers. Some would grow in the telling, others fade. Arthur could not shape them all.
But he could choose where he stood when the next horn sounded, and who he pulled back from the edge when steel met flesh again. For now, that was enough.