I own no rights to the Lord of the Rings. This story is not for profit.
Dedicated, again, to my late friend Matthew.
Where Is Thy Horn: Chapter One
Rohan
Three Days Past
Jolting across the miles of rock and field on the armored back of an orc, Merry languished between a nightmare and a waking horror. Every sort of terror swarmed about him, from the cat-eyed goblins of Moria to the massive creatures that bore the emblem of a grasping white hand. They had had them surrounded all the way from Perth Galen, where Boromir-
He thought he heard Pippin call his name. He couldn't tell. It was lost amidst the noise and the memories. In his reeling mind, he still heard the younger hobbit screaming as Boromir fell again against the tree at their back. The horn of Gondor had swung back on its long strap. It was no use to call for aid if one would be dead before it came, and so he had dropped the horn and fought. Fought with arrows in his chest. Fought like he was born to it. The hobbits moved behind him as into the lee of a great rock in a high wind.
And then, with a crack like a shattering stone, his sword broke. He recalled clearly the shards of steel gleaming as they flew through the sunlight, and the realization that their hope of shelter had ended.
Merry gasped as he bounced against his captor's back. The cries of the goblins rose all around him. Was Pippin calling his name still? His head ached.
Of course it aches. His memory replayed the sudden grip of claws, a lift, a swing, the tree trunk looming swiftly closer. And even then, Pippin had still been screaming, although, for Boromir at least, it was already too late. As soon as the man's sword snapped, Pip had started crying out, over and over, to any of the Fellowship who might have heard them. Until the big soldier fell at last, his body sprouting a forest of black arrows. Then the cry was only, "Boromir! Boromir! Boromir!" Like a frightened lamb bleating, "Boromir!"
"Merry!" The lamb called to him above the tramp of many iron shoes.
But there was no use calling. In the forest, the orcs had piled on their champion like dogs, tearing and stabbing and thieving. There was no hope, no salvation. The same orcs ran all about them now.
"Merry!"
Pippin was calling. He opened his eyes, and saw again that sea of hateful faces. His head hurt and the whole world seem to shake and jostle. But among the crowd, Merry saw a familiar horn, bound with silver and stained with blood, clutched in the filthy claws of one of the orcs.
There was no hope, no salvation.
And finally, consciousness slid away from him.
.
Pippin lay on the ground where he'd been thrown and wept as the sky grew dark. In so few hours, he'd seen so many miles and so many horrors. Even all the long leagues from the Shire seemed short by comparison, and, while he'd been afraid before, at least he'd had the Fellowship. Now Merry alone was with him, laying unconscious and out of reach, and all the others uncounted miles behind them. And maybe they never found Frodo at all, and Boromir – Oh, poor Boromir.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but he still saw the jagged blade that tore across the big man's throat, the great hand that tried feebly, at the very last, to throw off his attackers. Pippin's throat closed on itself, and he wasn't sure whether he was trying to wail or vomit. He rolled miserably onto his side, wishing his hands were free to wipe his tears away, and, overcome, fell into sleep like stone dropped into water.
When he awoke, he bore the noises of the host with greater courage. Merry still lay some yards away, and Pippin watched his sides rise and fall gently. The air was cool; the moss beneath then was damp. Pippin breathed deeply and listened.
The speech of the orcs came rough and harsh, as if he lay beneath a tree full of squawking birds in the fall, but gradually he could discern the accents of their tongues, and some words in Westron. The sounds of an argument became apparent, voices rising and falling in anger, though he caught only snatches of it.
"Why not kill them quick, kill them now?" a voice said. "Nobody came all this way to cart about a pair of dirty little rats," said another. "Eat! Give us to eat 'em," a shrill voce cried. "Eat 'em and drink the blood!" But those at the crux of the argument took no heed of any of them.
"They go straight to Mordor, says I." This voice was harsh and grating and cold like steel, and it sounded over the rest. "What business has Saruman got taking first bite at the Great Eye's little morsels? We should go east under the shadow, not romp through horse country for an upstart wizard!"
Answering the sly, steely voice, he heard another, deep and hoarse and powerful, like the bark of a great deep-chested dog. "They go to Isengard, and they go unspoiled!"
Is Isengard or Mordor the worse place? Pippin wondered. All we are is waiting to see if we fall into the frying pan or the fire.
"I am Ugluk. I command," the dog-voice roared. "I return to Isengard by the shortest road!"* Around it, a clamor rose even louder, but still it boomed on: "We are the Fighting Uruk-Hai! We slew the great warior. We are the servants of Saruman the Wise, the White Hand: the Hand that gives us man's-flesh to eat."
Pip felt a twang in his stomach, either of sorrow or sickness. Poor Boromir. The image flashed again of that great body thrown at the foot of the tree, and of the rest of the Fellowship either dead, too, or far away, following Frodo into Mordor. But sorrow has its limits, and Pippin lay well past them.
The sounds of conflict grew louder, and he heard distinctly the grating of weapons being drawn. Turning, he craned to see past Merry's still form. The goblins, armed, hopped about like so many angry fleas, screaming in rage at what could only be Ugluk. A pillar of black stone, he stood with sword held aloft and stared down a smaller orc, long-armed and bow-legged and as wicked-looking as anything Pippin had ever seen.
The whole rabble shuffled into action around the two. Even the Halflings' guards ran to the fray. Pippin squirmed, trying to inch across the stone toward Merry like a great wooly-footed caterpillar. His heart raced. The sound of clashing blades encouraged him. Wake up, Merry! If we could run right now…
Suddenly, the sound of combat rang above and behind him, and clawed feet stomped about his head. Pippin quickly set to making himself as small and still as possible. An orc fell bellowing over Merry, and Pippin flinched as a wave of orc-smell washed over him. He half-looked up.
A dark blade swung over him, and another orc fell, landing hard flat on top of the Hobbit. Pippin cried out, but the thing twitched and then moved no more. He could feel its blood seeping through his elvish cloak.
The fight and its storm of stamping feet swept past them. Pippin tried to push the carcass off of him, but he couldn't shift it. With his hands bound he was helpless, and the weight and smell of the orcs smothered him. He settled for straining to turn his face away from it into fresher air.
Boromir was dead, and Strider and the others were far away. Pippin knew that he and Merry stood alone now, that they had no recourse but to shift for themselves. And as terrible as the thought was, the Took's son determined to do what he must.
The orc still lay on top of him, but it had drawn its knife, and blade lay on the mossy rock, perhaps a hand span or two from the Hobbit's side. It was stained, and the moonlight on its blade highlighted the cutting edge.
Listening carefully, Pippin guessed the orcs, still caught up in their battle, to have moved off, he reached out for the blade and slid the ropes around his wrists carefully along the jagged edge.
.
The raiders moved on again well before the moon reached its peak, and the eyes of the northern goblins shone like cats' eyes in the dark. Still the factions snarled at each other, but their course, for the present, was decided. The Uruk-Hai prevailed. They would bring their captives straight to Saruman.
Although Pippin supposed he was likely being dragged to his doom, he found some small blessings. The bonds around his ankles had been cut, and he was allowed to run. He went on numbed feet, and then through the tingling pains of reawakening limbs, and ran under the urging of the lash, but at least for a while it seemed fine to stand on his own feet. And with the cut ropes retied loosely about his wrists, he could be free at any moment. At the right moment. Though they ran him till his lungs burned and his legs ached, he felt a thrill of triumph.
Merry, too, had revived, to the Took's relief, and ran groggily along as well.
They jogged along as best they could, and Pippin prayed that an opportunity would appear, and that when it did, he would have the strength to seize it.
It was nearly dawn when that opportunity finally arrived, and the Halfling's breath tore at his throat. His legs moved solely on the power of fear of the lash. He had no more strength in him.
But the weaker orcs seemed little better. Still discontent, they were unaccustomed to the long run, and finally Ugluk called a halt. Some ran ahead to scout the path, while the Moria folk fretted in their goblin tongue. Pippin's legs collapsed beneath him.
Air in, air out, more air in… He knelt, parched, with his eyes shut. Just breathe. Nothing else registered, even the reek of the orcs, until the rushing of blood faded from his ears, and at last he opened his eyes.
The sky, he saw, grew lighter, a pale silver spreading from the east, and he heard a breeze whispering in the grass beside their trampled path. He listened as he sat and gathered strength.
Then, further off, above the orcs' panting and grumbling, he heard new sounds – shouting and the beat of hooves. Orcs don't ride horses! Pippin craned his neck, hoping for a glimpse of the riders through the crowd of orcs, but saw or heard nothing but the cry, "Scouts are back."
He couldn't hear the report, but hope remained. Someone, somewhere, could save them. If only they knew we were here.
But already the Uruks began to beat their cohorts into motion, the forerunners starting on. No shout from his ragged throat could be heard over the din. He drew a long breath, but his guard snatched his wrists, dragging him up again.
The swarm of orcs closed around him as he ran. And suddenly, he saw hope bouncing at the side of an ill-favored eastern orc: Boromir's bloodstained horn.
The Halfling's captor found himself holding an empty rope before he knew what had happened. The horn's thief felt only a sudden tug at its leather strap as Pippin lunged at it, pressed it to his lips, and blew with all the force of desperation.
The result was disappointing. A miserable toot. As the orcs turned on him in outrage, the sun rose.
.
The sun rose on the rocky path of the orcs, and the three hunters who followed it. Along the bed of a stream, the three climbed, and Aragorn relished the cooling mists that hovered over the water. They had run hard for so long, and had so much further still to follow.
He paused for a moment to feel the breeze, carrying the scent of meadows, and, looking back, he saw the sunrise spill red across the mountaintops in the east – spill over Gondor.
Gondor, the homeland of one who would never see the sunrise again. Aragorn knew well death in battle, but he allowed himself a pang of regret. He wished he had known sooner the course to take. He wished he had come sooner to Boromir's aid, or that he knew what had passed between him and Frodo, that he could at least have spoken comfort to the younger man after rebuking him at the camp.
Behind him, Legolas and Gimli stopped as well, and the three faced east in silence for a moment, while the stream murmured at their feet and somewhere close, a nesting bird gave its first tentative cry.
"We must go," Legolas said at last. And Aragorn knew they must. He turned to go. But suddenly, a deadly chill burst over them from behind, carrying the smell of blood and river weeds. The cold overtook them and was gone, like a burst of wind.
Another moment passed. Gimli shook himself, and the rings of his corselet clanked. "An ill wind was that."
"It was no earthly wind." Legolas stared after it, thoughtfully. "It pursues our foe with great urgency."
So it does, Aragorn thought, but he felt strange, as rangers sometimes felt among the Barrow Downs, among the dead who would not sleep. He shivered. "Come. We must make haste." And, turning again to the trail, they bounded up the rocky sides of the stream and after their quarry.
.
The sun blinked red over the horizon as a snarling Uruk-Hai slung Pippin once again onto its back. His captors' wrath had been brief, but terrifying, and his back still stung where the lash had bit through his cloak and shirts. And, as he rode bouncing away again on the orc's broad, armored back, what hope had he gained? What answer came to his call?
And then, running just barely inside the range of his sight, he thought he saw a familiar form: a man's shape, sodden, bloodstained and torn, clutching a broken sword. Or perhaps it was a trick of his tear-filed eyes, for it vanished into the red light of dawn.
.
*Line taken directly from The Two Towers.
Thanks for sticking past the prologue. This story will draw mostly on the books, but I expect there will be some movie influences as well. As is it goes on, I think it will center increasingly on one character – yes, one character who is dead. Why let that get in his way?
I'm not (consciously?) drawing inspiration from any particular fics, but there are several with several here with a similar idea, and I'd like to mention them, since I've read them, and they say your head can work at things without your even knowing it. Also, because they are great. They are majorbee's "Soul Full," fleurdl's "I Will Turn my Head Until My Darkness Goes," and casapazzo's "From the Grey Twilight."
Reviews appreciated.