Hi all. We here in America are fucked, so if one of my lovely international readers would supply some funds for a one-way ticket to Canada, that would be greatly appreciated. Not really though. Still dead. Here is your chapter!
Pippin woke, only to find that he would have done better to sleep on. His wrists were bound before him, and his legs were bound above his knees and at the ankle. Beside him lay Merry, pale and bleeding but awake. Tirnel, bound as they were but gagged as well, lay to his other side. The orcs don't care much for Elvish speak, I guess, Pippin thought. And orcs there were: There seemed to be no end to them, spread out around the three captives.
Pippin's head throbbed as he remembered the moments before his capture in bits and pieces. He and Merry had run off, shouting for Frodo, and had come straight upon a company of orcs. The orcs had not seen them until the hobbits had nearly stumbled into their arms, and then shrieked with delight. They had almost reached Merry and Pippin when Tirnel appeared out of the forest, Boromir behind her, blowing on his horn.
Even then, it had been no good. Boromir had fought beside the hobbits, driving off the orcs that got past Tirnel, but the orcs were too clever. One of them had drawn a bow and shot Boromir with its foul arrows. The other orcs had closed in around Tirnel and the hobbits, overpowering them in a matter of moments. Their weapons had been taken, Tirnel fighting the process and screaming in Elvish the entire time. Their last sight of Boromir was him slumped against a tree, the archer drawing back a final arrow, aimed at the man's head.
Pippin remembered no more after that, and now wondered why the orcs had not killed him and the others. He felt cold, and his head pained him as the dark fell around him. Why did I leave Rivendell? He wondered miserably. I have only been a burden to the quest, and now I am a burden for the orcs. How I wish that Strider and the others would come and help us. But that would foul up everything. I wish I could get free!
He struggled, though it was nearly impossible to loosen the cords that were twisted cruelly tight. An orc noticed him and laughed, calling to another in their hideous language. "Rest while you can, little fool!" it snarled in the Common Tongue, mangling it to make it sound almost like its own filthy language. "Rest while you can! We'll find a use for your legs before long. You'll wish you had got none before we can get home."
"If I had my way, you'd wish you were dead now," the other growled. "I'd make you squeal, you miserable rat." It crouched over Pippin's face, fangs bared, drawing a jagged black knife from its side and laying the cold metal against the hobbit's cheek. "Lie quiet, or I'll tickle you with this," it hissed. "Don't draw attention to yourself, or I might forget my orders. Your Elf-scum friend may be the first to go. Curse the Isengarders!" The orc split off ranting in its own language, leaving Pippin in terrified silence. Staying as still as he could, he realized that he could understand the argument that the orcs seemed to be having.
They were debating over two topics: Which way they were to take, and what they were to do with the prisoners. "There's no time to kill them properly," one snapped. "No time for play on this trip."
"That can't be helped," another replied. "But why not kill them quick, kill them now? They're a cursed nuisance, and we're in a hurry. Evening's coming on, and we ought to get a move on."
"Orders," a third growled in a deep voice. "'Kill all but NOT the Halflings; they are to be brought back ALIVE as quickly as possible.' That's my orders."
"Then why do we need her?" one voice yelled, and Pippin saw Tirnel have a foot slammed into her ribs. She winced, a small noise of pain escaping past the gag.
"She's for sport, after we get these two to the wizard," the deep-voiced one snarled, and the one who had kicked Tirnel stumbled, as if shoved away. "The other two are supposed to have information on some elvish plot. They're both to be questioned."
Pippin realized that the orcs believed them to know of the Ring, and guessing from Tirnel's and Merry's expressions they had realized this as well and had come to a conclusion: As soon as the orcs found out that they did not have the Ring, all three of them were dead, Tirnel perhaps sooner than the other two.
"Is that all you know? Why don't we search them ourselves and find out? We might find something we can use ourselves."
"That is a very interesting remark," sneered a voice, softer but more evil than the others. "I may have to report that. The prisoners are NOT to be searched or plundered: those are MY orders."
"Not our orders!" one of the first voices called. "We have come all the way from the Mines to kill, and avenge our folk. I wish to kill, then go back north."
"Then you can wish again," said the deep voice. "I am Uglúk. I command. I return to Isengard by the shortest road."
"Is Saruman the master or the Great Eye?" said the evil voice. "We should go back at once to Lugbúrz."
If we could cross the Great River, we might," said another. "But there are not enough of us to venture down to the bridges."
"I came across," the evil voice said. "A winged Nazgúl awaits us northward on the eastern bank."
"Maybe, maybe! Then you'll fly off, and get all the pay and praise in Lugbúrz, and leave us to hoof it in the Horse-country. No, we must stick together. These lands are dangerous: full of foul rebels and brigands."
"Aye, we must stick together," growled Uglúk. "I don't trust you little swine. You've no guts outside your own sties. But for us you'd all have run away. We are the fighting Uruk-hai! We slew the great warrior, we took the prisoners. We are the servants of Saruman the Wise, the White Hand: the Hand that gives us man's-flesh to eat. We came out of Isengard and led you here, and we shall lead you back by the way we choose. I am Uglúk. I have spoken."
"You have spoken more than enough, Uglúk," the evil voice snarled. "I wonder how they would like it in Lugbúrz. They might think that Uglúk's shoulders needed relieving of a swollen head. They might ask where his strange ideas came from. Did they come from Saruman, perhaps? Who does think he is, setting up on his own with his filthy white badges? They might agree with me, with Grishnákh their trusted messenger; and I Grishnákh say this: Saruman is a fool, and a dirty treacherous fool. But the Great Eye is on him.
"Swine, is it? How do you folk like being called swine by the muckrakers of a dirty little wizard? It's orc-flesh they eat, I'll warrant."
Many loud yells in orc-speech answered him, and the ringing clash of weapons being drawn. Pippin rolled over cautiously, hoping to catch sight of what was happening. The guards of the prisoners had gone to join in the fight. In the twilight, he saw a large black orc, probably Uglúk, facing a crooked-legged creature with long arms, probably Grishnákh, who was surrounded creatures like those that the Fellowship had seen in Moria. They all had weapons drawn and seemed about to attack Uglúk.
Uglúk yelled and several others advanced. A second later, they had leaped upon Grishnákh and the northerners. Grishnákh melted into the crowd as the others gave way. One tripped over Merry, cursing. That saved its life, though, as Uglúk's followers passed over it and slew another which fell on top of Tirnel, who struggled vainly to throw it off. Pippin realized that the orc was still clutching the jagged blade. He shuffled over to Tirnel's side and began to saw at the ropes on his own wrists with the blade that the orc still held fast. He could do nothing for the others, but he managed to cut his own bonds and knot them loosely around his wrists to fool his captors.
"Get the prisoners up!" Uglúk yelled. "Don't play tricks with them! The girl will be sport later, and if any of them don't make it back, someone else will die too."
An orc seized Pippin like a sack and pushed his head through Pippin's barely bound arms. The orc pulled down on the hobbit's wrists until his face was crushed against the orc's neck, then began to run with him. Pippin caught a glimpse of Tirnel and Merry being carried the same way before he let his mind slip back into darkness.
Merry and Tirnel, however, were not as easy to subdue. Tirnel managed to communicate to Merry to drop the brooch of leaves and silver at his throat. Unnoticed by any of the orcs, the little brooch fell to the mud and was crushed in by the heavy metal boots over it.
The thundering of orc feet resonated through the earth and into the ear of a man, laying flat on the ground. "Their pace has quickened," he muttered. An elf appeared from behind the rocks, blue eyes sweeping the landscapes. "They must have caught our scent. Hurry!" The man ran down the other side as the elf stood atop a spike of stone.
"Come on, Gimli!" the elf cried over his shoulder. He followed the man, and soon a dwarf appeared. Rather than walking, the dwarf tumbled down an incline and landed on his front with a grunt. "OOF! Three days and nights' pursuit. No food. No rest." He hauled himself to his feet and used his axe as a crutch. "And no sign of our quarry but what bare rock can tell." He broke into a grudging trot.
Some time later, the man stopped again, crouching beside a muddy depression. Something silver shone through the mud. The man picked up the silvery brooch, leaf-shaped and beautiful. "Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall," he muttered.
The elf stopped beside him, a grin breaking over the normally calm face. "They may yet be alive."
"Less than a day ahead. Come!" The man sprang to his feet, tucking the brooch in a pocket as the elf called again.
"Come, Gimli! We are gaining on them!" He sprinted off as the dwarf staggered up from behind.
"I'm wasted on cross-country!" Gimli wheezed. "We dwarves are natural sprinters. Very dangerous over short distances!" He ran on, though, barely keeping the gold hair of the elf in sight.
Presently, they stopped again. The man was gazing out over the land, filled with rolling hills and grassy valleys. "Rohan. Home of the horse-lords," he said. Gimli puffed up behind him as the elf perched on an outcropping of stone. "There is something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures. Sets its will against us." The elf nodded and leapt down from where he stood, running ahead. The man reached out to Gimli, who grumbled about insufferable men and long-legged elves before letting his friend pull him ahead.
They ran for a few more hours, until the elf could just see the dust kicked up from the feet of their targets.
"Legolas!" The man's voice echoed among the rocks as he and Gimli approached. "What do your elf-eyes see?"
Legolas shaded his eyes with a slim hand against the sun before calling back. "The yrch turn north-east! They make with all haste for Isengard!"
The man appeared at Legolas's shoulder. "Saruman."
Many long and weary hours later, Gimli collapsed on the grass.
"Aragorn!" he called, trying and failing to sit up. Aragorn stopped and walked back to where the dwarf lay. "I cannot go any further," the dwarf wheezed. "We cannot run through the night."
Aragorn looked over the plains, clearly wishing to go on. Legolas, several hundred feet away, stopped and looked back. "They've run as if the very whips of their masters were behind them!" he called back. "If we stop now, their lead will be extended beyond hope!" He scaled a rock and looked over the grass to where the other two were. "We cannot delay!"
The man put one hand to his head, groaning quietly. "We cannot run through the night!" he yelled. "Gimli is spent, and we would be slower if we forced him to continue!"
Legolas returned to where they sat, eyes flashing in the growing darkness. "I do not wish to remain," he hissed. "Every moment we delay is one less for the captives."
"I know, mellon," Aragorn said, placing a hand on the elf's shoulder. "Nor do I. But we are left with no choice. Take some rest, and we will continue at dawn." Legolas shook off the man's hand and climbed the rock again, a tall dark figure against the stars. Aragorn sighed, and sat with his back against a stone to wait for morning.
Whoo! I've decided to glom these POVs together, so enjoy!
Sindarin translations
yrch: orcs
