“Just whose brilliant idea was it to go this way?” moans Belegor, and Boromir has the almost-overpowering urge to shove his younger brother face down into the stinking mere of this swamp.

Faron was no prince with golden harp or braided hair, and his fingers could not strum a sweet melody even if he wished, and the girl in his arms was no princess either, so he knew better than to ask for Eagles to come rescue them.

The old farmer, who may or may not
have been the owner of the cow but at least knew whom that cow belonged to and
if nothing else had an obligation to stop the disobedient bovine from devouring
the official symbol of the lord who governed and protected said farmer and any
livestock he owned, scratched at the wisps of white hair on his chin. Urwin
twitched. He could see the cow sniffing at that flag. The young priest had
little experience with animals, but he doubted something as expensive as a
healthy-looking cow would be allowed to wander free and threaten the integrity
of banners. He counted it a small blessing that the gate into the castle
complex was closed, or he imagined all manner of barnyard creatures would be
free to roam inside its halls and into the chapels, grazing at their leisure.