Nine For Mortal Men part three

There had not been any inns in Minas Tirith during the War. Pippin remembered looking for one, and asking after one and being told the city was in a state of austerity to prepare for a siege. And there had in fact been a siege after that, so it was a good thing the people of the city had been provisioned. But there was an inn now. It was called the Scarlet Bull, and was in the lowest level of the city.

The building was of crumbling stone, the tables and benches well-worn wood, and it looked like it had never been closed. At least, Pippin thought, it was hard to believe that level of grime could accumulate in just a couple of months. The benches, naturally, were too high, leaving Merry and Pippin to swing their legs like children, the pottery mugs were browner than the ale, and the table top, level with Pippin's nose, had some pretty rude things carved into it, and of course nobody was singing any Shire drinking songs, but it was an inn, and that was enough. At least, he tried to tell himself that was enough.

Actually, it didn't seem like a very friendly place. Everybody was staring at them. "Merry," Pippin whispered, "I distinctly did not see a No Hobbits sign on the door, did you?"

"Relax, Pippin," Merry said. Then he called to the barkeep, who was staring just as hard as everyone else, "Pints of ale for us, and a round for the house!" Merry winked. "There, that ought to win us some friends, ay Pip?"

Conversations began under the patrons' breaths, not unlike the murmuring in the throne room. The bartender brought over their ales. "Are you really the Prince of the Halflings, here in my humble establishment?"

Pippin relaxed. He hadn't been unwelcome, or mistaken for a child again, after all. He gestured to the skin tight uniform he wore, its silver and sable proclaiming him a member of the Tower Guard. "Considering that people who wear these without permission get executed in this city, I had better be."

The barkeep nodded, "It's an honor, sir. Anything you like, just ask for." The room went back to sounding more like a proper alehouse as the barman started serving the others their various beers.

Merry asked, "They don't really kill people for wearing the wrong thing, do they?"

"Oh yes. It's called 'impersonating an officer', a very serious offence. There are all kinds of things against the law here. It was hard to keep track of all the rules and passwords and so on when I first came here. Things have eased up a lot since the war ended, or maybe it's just that nobody bothers asking me for a password since everybody knows who I am—and who is my patron. Were things simpler among the Rohirrim?"

"Looks like." Merry held up his mug. "To Theoden, who never cared what anybody wore as long as it didn't frighten the horses!"

They drank. Pippin proposed the next toast. "To Aragorn, who never cared what anybody smelled like as long as it wasn't worse than he looked!"

"That's really bad, Pippin," Merry laughed, and drank. "To Frodo, who, um, what?" Merry stopped because Pippin had put down his mug.

"I'm not drinking to Frodo. Or to you either, after you held me for him."

"Sorry, Pippin."

"You're not sorry. You're glad you didn't have to take it yourself. That's why you helped him force me."

"Whoa, Pippin, do you know what that sounds like?"

"Probably about what it felt like."

"Sorry."

"You're not sorry."

"Alright, alright! I'm not sorry, I'm a mean cruel hobbit who enjoys tormenting younger cousins, I'm plotting to get even more sport out of your right now, call me Ugluk why don't you?"

Pippin's mouth quirked. "Yes, Ugluk." Pippin glanced down. "You're right, Durbatu. He doesn't look like an Ugluk. The Uruk-hai are big muscley fellows. Merry looks more like a Snaga, or even a Khorom."

Merry's eyes widened. "Are you talking to—one of THEM?"

"Sure. Why not? They talk to me."

"What are they saying? Besides coming up with appropriate orc names for me."

"Well, if you really want to know. Shann thinks I ought to get very drunk. And I agree with him. To Shann!" Pippin finished off the rest of his mug and motioned for another.

The bartender brought another round for both of them. Pippin said, "Oh, no, now I've done it. I can't pay more attention to one than another. Now I'll have to toast them all."

"Pippin, let's have some caution. We shouldn't ought to get too drunk, it would be a serious problem if we got rolled and robbed."

Pippin snorted. "Not a problem for me." Then his face turned serious. "Unless I started stalking the streets hunting for them like Gollum, that is. I think I need some ale to fortify me against such a horrid thought." He lifted his mug. "First, to Chin. No, I don't think that fits, somehow." Pippin's eyes unfocused as he listened to the rings. "No, you were never Chin's, really, were you? Chin belonged to you. You were a prince and a warlock long ago, your magic was dire and terrifying before you ever put on a ring. That's the personality I sense in you, not Chin's. You're long dead, King of Angmar, but your spirit echoes still within the circle of your ring. You left your impression on it, even more strongly than the maker's mark of Sauron." Pippin looked back at Merry. "To Angmar, then!"

"You're getting scary, Pippin. You toast Angmar, if you like. I'm lifting a mug to Frodo." The two of them drank.

"Next, to Durbatu. Half-orc captain of Barad-dur, dear home of Pipshag the Honorary Orc, from my vision in the Palantir. For the pride of the battalion, then."

"What?" asked Merry.

Pippin drank, then set down his mug and said, "Didn't I tell you I lived a whole lifetime in my vision? The Eye did much more than question me, Merry. He showed me exactly what he was going to do to me when he got me to the Dark Tower. In full sensory detail. Sight, sound, touch. Smell and taste, too. Phleh. Reminds me of orc liquor. And other things. Need to wash the taste away." Pippin drank again. "He showed me how he made orcs out of elves, back in the Elder Days, and how he thought the process would work on a hobbit." Pippin touched his eyebrow. "I never thought I might actually miss my piercings. But I do now. Looked rather rakish, through Durbatu's eyes."

"You never told me that," Merry said.

"I didn't get much of a chance to talk to you, right after. And it just didn't seem the sort of thing I could really tell old Gandalf. Not without him getting all wizardly and demanding more of an accounting than I really wanted to give, anyway, right then. And then things just sort of happened and crowded it out." Pippin looked down. "Next I drink to Yamotaq, great lord from an island so far away it's in the other sea. I can see him clearly in my mind's eye. Rich robes of silk embroidered with birds, an elegant sword the like of which even elves can't make. And yet behind him I can sense another. A shadow form, looming over him like great dark wings." Pippin lifted his mug. "You pick someone to drink to, too, Merry, I don't want to get drunk alone while you sit there being sober and looking frightened. You've made a terrible start as a protector, won't you at least keep me company?"

Merry nodded. "I'll drink to Sam." They drained their mugs, and the barkeep brought another round.

"Skuryokhav," Pippin said. "Skuryokhav's being overwhelmed. I can almost hear the name of the great king of men of long ago that formed the wraith of that ring. Lu something. Ludentay, Ludenmay, Lutenai, Lubenway? I'll think I'll compromise and call you Lusku. How's that?" Pippin paused as if listening. "To Lusku then!" He looked pointedly at Merry as he brought his mug to his lips.

"Um, alright, to, uh, to Boromir! If you're going to toast all the Nine rings, then I'm going to toast all nine members of the Fellowship." They drank.

"To Mumude! He could almost have been a hobbit in his enthusiasm for good food and good cheer. He likes this game we're playing very well. I can see lines of fire down my arms where his tattoos would have been. Oliphaunts and geometric designs and strange letters of the Haradric language, I can hear the drums and see the bright skirts of the women as they danced at his farewell feast. He had three wives. Their hair was done up in pink and red scarves. The real Mumude, the man, he's going back to them, you know. Back home. Maybe to find a new baby or two born while he was off campaigning. But he left such an imprint on this ring, it'll still be singing his tune long after he turns to dust. Unless I destroy it, of course. How could I do such a thing?"

"You better hope you can, Pippin."

"None of that, now. Make a toast."

"To Gandalf." The level of ale in their tankards was dropping fast.

"The Rhovanian lord, Hodur. He didn't really cast much of a shadow at all. The wraith is much stronger. He was a powerful king in his time. You know, as I get drunker I think I can see them better. And hear. His name was—Arzim something. Arzim ra.. torn? Thorn? Thon! That was it. Arzimrathon. Good heavens, Merry, I think he was one of Aragorn's ancestors. Or at least a cousin of some kind, like you and me."

Pippin gestured at Merry, and Merry picked someone to toast. "To Legolas!" They finished their ales and called for more.

"And finally Tarondor. The pirate. He and Arzimrathon have a lot in common. Both of Numenorean stock. Both loved sailing. Both got too big for their britches and ended up enslaved when they thought they were making themselves more powerful. Foolish men, to take a ring willingly into their hands! A! Poor Tarondor! Banished from Umbar for murdering a member of the royal house, when all he thought he was doing was having a nice little happy barfight. Over a whore, as it happened. And an unpaid bill of two half silvers and a piece of eight."

"To Gimli!" Merry said, and guzzled a good half of his pint.

But Pippin was lost in the ring's memory. "Her necklace broke. The lady of uncertain virtue. She had a pearl necklace. The drunk who was tug-of-warring over her with Tarondor pulled her necklace and the pearls spilled all over the floor. He slipped and cracked his head on the table edge, and he didn't get up again. Tarondor thought nothing of it. He was with the woman—she had red hair, but it wasn't natural—when the stranger's thugs caught up with him. Didn't know the man was dead, and didn't know whom he'd killed. All his life overturned in one moment of bad luck. Started over as a highwayman based in Rhovanian. Raided small settledments in the wastes at first, then grew bolder, raiding Rohan and Gondor, even Mordor after the War ended. Which brought him the attention of Lord Chin, and Angmar." Pippin stared at the table for a few moments, then downed the rest of his ale.

Merry looked at the remaining half pint in his fourth ale, and said, "I haven't raised a toast to you yet, Pippin. To your health! And may you come out of this unshaved. Uh, unshkathed." Merry blinked and tried again, enunciating carefully. "Unscathed." Merry finished off his pint.

Pippin gestured the barman over again, but Merry said, "No more, Pip, we've had four pints each, in less than an hour. We'll never make it back to our rooms in the third level if we keep this up."

"We can't go back to our rooms," Pippin said. "Frodo will be there."

The barkeep offered, "We've rooms here, if you two don't mind sharing one. The other three are full."

"That would be most ekshe, ekshke, excellent," slurred Merry. "Is it upshtairs or down?"

"Upstairs, good perian, but never fear. Getting patrons to their rooms when they can't walk is all part of the service. More ale?"

Pippin hiccupped. "Indeed yes. Let us drown our shorrows, and all tomorrowsh, how did that go?" Pippin started singing, trying to recall the lines of a favorite Tuckburrough drinking song. It came out rather less than perfect.

"And food," added Merry.

"And a pitcher," said Pippin.

Uncounted ales later, Merry and Pippin somehow made it to their room and collapsed in a heap on the man-high bed. Merry started snoring immediately, but Pippin found he was suddenly wide awake. The room was spinning, and he could have sworn he felt the waves of the Bay of Belfalas rocking the floorboards of his corsair dromond, but he could also see nine shadowy forms looming over him.

"What are you doing here?" Pippin whispered. "You're dead. Gone. You can't be here. You're all in my head. Or in my pocket."

The forms advanced. They were no longer cloaked in darkness, but glowed with a sickly blue phosphorescence, like corrupted moonlight. Their faces wavered, as if reflected in water. Their swords were pointed at his heart. Pippin tried to scream, to wake up Merry, but it came out a pitiful little squeak. The points of the swords pierced his flesh. It didn't hurt. The swords dissolved into mist, passing through him. The ghostly hands passed through him too, insubstantial. The wraiths fell into him with a hissing sound, crumpling up on themselves and coming to rest just under his skin, like armor.

"I'm dreaming," he told himself. "It's just a nightmare."

Then he saw Mumude. The Haradrim warrior was wearing ivory and gold and rich red cloth. "They'll try to take me away from you," Mumude said. He was speaking a foreign language. Haradric? The Black Speech of Mordor? But Pippin understood him. "They'll take all the rings away from you, but you only need one. You only need me. You know what you have to do. You know how to keep me away from them. They can't take me away if I'm inside you. Yes, your own idea. You came up with it all by yourself. You remember my memories, but I recall yours too. I know what you told Sauron when he asked you, Where is the Ring?"

"I was a fool of a Took. That's what Gandalf always says and he was right."

"No, you were brilliant! Look how well it turned out."

"Not so well for you. Your Master is dead, the Dark Tower is fallen. You are dead too, wraith. You speak to me in the form of a man, but I know it's only an echo."

Mumude smiled. "Even so. How glorious, how incandescent you were in that moment when you said to Sauron, 'I swallowed it'."

"If you have my memories, then you know what came after. How he looked for it. How he could have gotten it out of me, if I had really been there in the Tower, and if I had really had the Ring. Without killing me, without spoiling his fun by letting me die too soon."

"A! But that was Sauron. And the One Ring. Nobody will take me from you with such effort if you only eat me, and leave the others in your pocket. If they can have the other eight so easily, why bother with such techniques?"

"Somebody might. Or they might just kill me to open my gut."

"Then I'll be with you forever. No one will ever be able to take me from you, once your wraith rises."

"No!!!" Pippin came awake screaming. He sat up on the bed, panting in fear. "So it was just a dream after all."

Merry bolted upright in the bed at the sound of the scream, rubbing his eyes. Then he helpfully bent over the side and was sick on the floor.

Pippin saw his hand creep toward his pocket of its own accord. He stared in horror as his hand withdrew the ring of Mumude and started toward his mouth.

"Merry! Merry, help me!"

Blearily, Merry crawled over to Pippin. "What?"

"Hold my hand, Merry! I can't stop it!"

Merry grabbed Pippin's arms. "What'sh going on?" Merry asked.

"I have the most awful urge, and I can't stop," Pippin whispered.

"To put the ring on?" Merry asked.

"To eat it."

Merry blinked. "I mushht be drunker than I thought. I thought I heard you shay you're going to eat the ring. Now, eating ish a very goodly hobbitlike purshooot. But let's shtick to mushroomsh."

Merry's eyes closed, and his hands went slack against Pippin's arms. The hand with Mumude's ring started moving again.

"Merry! Wake up! Help me!" Pippin shrieked in panic.

Merry woke up again, grabbed for Pippin's hand, missed, and mumbled, "Love you Pip. You're my favorite coush—choush—coushin. Well, after your shishter."

Pippin couldn't control his right hand. The ring moved closer to his face. But he found his left hand still worked fine, and he slapped Merry hard across the face. "Wake up!"

Merry's eyes opened. He seized Pippin's wrists. "Thish ish no good, Pippin. Can't keep awake. Got to proteck you shomehow." Merry looked about the room. "I know! Shushpendersh!" Merry transferred both Pippin's wrists to one of his hands, then started fumbling with his suspenders.

"Merry," whispered Pippin. "What in Middle Earth are you doing?"

"I think pretty quick even when I'm shtinkin drunk," Merry congratulated himself. He got his suspenders off. "Flip, Pip," Merry ordered. Then he giggled. "I'm a poet, don't I know it!"

"Merry!" Pippin protested. "Are you daft as well as drunk? I'm your cousin!"

"Never fear, coushin Merry is here! Hic!" Merry let go of Pippin's hands and the ring shot toward Pippin's face. Then a loop of suspender went over Pippin's wrist. Merry snapped in a knot, hard. Pippin twigged to what Merry intended. Merry pulled the hand with the ring in it behind Pippin. "Gimme your other hand, now, that'sh a good Pippin." Merry bound Pippin's hands behind him.

"Ow! Not to so tight, Merry!"

"All right and tight, shafe and shound," Merry singsonged.

"Damn, Merry, the Uruk-hai's knots were looser than this!"

"You got out of the Uru- Urukeye, Uruk-hai'sh knotsh, Pip." Merry sighed and closed his eyes. "Nighty-night, coushin." He was asleep before his head hit the sheet.

End of Part Three