Chapter 6

Imaén reached her hideout among the rocks shortly before Gríma entered Orthanc. She had left soon after him, but had been forced to make a detour in order to get to her den unseen, sneaking her way through the cliffs. After she'd taken care of her horse, Imaén pulled her cloak tight around her and climbed down toward the gates of Isengard. She would have to wait and watch, now, to look out for an opening. The shadows behind a large rock made for an excellent hiding; a place from which she could watch without being seen.

She saw the little ones, who had arrived with the Ents. They seemed to have found supplies that had survived the ravage, and Imaén contemplated them and their doings. She felt that she was hungry now, and thirsty as well, and she cursed the damned pity that had made her give up her waterskin. She had quenched her thirst earlier in the Isen, but that was small consolation to her now, as she watched the little ones eat. However, her hunger was somewhat replaced by surprise as she saw one of the creatures down at the gates pull out a small object, stuff something in it and then produce smoke from his mouth! She had never seen anything quite like it, but the little ones seemed to appreciate it. Imaén had to stifle a chuckle when she saw their faces; it was obvious that they considered this smoking a great pleasure.

Having assured herself that everything seemed to be at peace around Isengard, Imaén decided that it was time to find out whether Gríma really had made it into Orthanc. She wanted to ferret about a bit, to get an idea of what she might achieve. Perhaps there were things in Orthanc that could be made unserviceable? Some sorcerers, Imaén had learned, had got a certain predilection for transferring their powers to various number of objects. Such objects could indeed increase the wizard's powers, but Imaén considered this kind of magic perilous. With his magic thus divided, a sorcerer would sustain severe damage, should the magical object fail him or be destroyed. Imaén preferred not to rely on such aid, but to keep her powers intact within herself. The magic of mind, that is, the very thing that would allow her to peek into the sealed tower of Orthanc… pleased with herself, Imaén settled down and closed her eyes.

This is Orthanc. Mighty halls carved from black stone and gray, magnificent vaults and pillars…

Imaén could sense Gríma's mind, and searched her way towards it. Her impression of the tower was not a clear vision, but more that of a blind person's, whose fingertips are gently touching a face; an estimation of the room. She could feel traces of those who had inhabited the space, both presently and of old. Imaén felt an ancient wisdom, almost pompous, and oddly contradicting more recent traces of small-minded greed. Then, there were glowing specks of pain, the impressions clearer to her mind, if yet smaller. Humans had suffered in here not long ago. Perhaps not only humans. Imaén could feel some strange elements as well, but she payed them no attention now, reaching instead for the fresh pain that had led her in.

Gríma sat shrunken by a pillar in one of Orthanc's many halls. He was faint and discouraged after Saruman's interrogation, the white wizard had treated him roughly and had refused to hear his excuses. Late, but bitterly, had Gríma learned that Saruman's nature was but little forgiving. He had not bothered to bring up any of the half-shaped plans he'd nourished on his way here, the sight of Isengard defeated had chased away any hope of victory. Shivering in his still wet clothes, he had eventually been allowed to retire from the furious wizard. He searched shelter among the shadows, and they welcomed him in like so many a time before. Heavy drops of water fell from his hair down on his face, glistening on his cheeks. They could easily have been mistaken for tears. He swept them away impatiently.

So, this was all that had become of those years and years of work. He was bitter now, thinking he should have known better. But then, he thought, how could I have chosen differently? Who could have resisted such a prize? As so often, his mind went to the fair, but cold maiden, for whom he would have done anything, had she only looked at him. Saruman had not been late to take advantage of those feelings. But, thought Gríma, at least the prize for which he had finally sold himself was high. He sighed, uneasy. Though this idea had deafened his conscience before, it didn't seem much of a consolation now. He felt something poking at his hip, and realized he wasn't sitting very comfortably. He grasped for that bothersome thing, but annoyance changed to contemplation as he pulled out the watersack. It was of course wet and dirty now, as was he, but he knew that it had been made of a light kind of leather, smooth and soft. He had moved it from his saddle and tied it onto his belt because that had been more convenient, that was right... but where had he gotten it? He hadn't carried water, or anything else for the matter, when he left Edoras. And furthermore, this was not Rohirrim craft. The water-sack invoked a sense of relief, but it worried him all the same. He could find no reasonable explanation for any of those feelings. For one who likes to consider things logically, sudden emotions about strange objects seem quite disturbing. Overall, Gríma considered himself above such impulses, regarding them as more fit for hot-headed people who simply would not stop to think. This annoyed him thoroughly, and by Gríma's standards, it applied to most people. He turned the watersack in his hands, but it held no answers for him. With a sigh, he tied it back onto his belt. After all, he might as well keep it. Finding oneself without water is seldom wise.

Imaén let her mind touch gently with Gríma's. She could feel his pain, and his worries over the watersack. But mostly, she felt the fear and despair surrounding him like a cloud. She hesitated. To put more pressure on this man might be devastating. Was it really her right? But she pushed her doubts away. Having made all these efforts for nothing? Well, perhaps not everything could be considered an effort, precisely, but now was not the time to think of that. Now was a time for concentration. She carefully extended her mind, allowing it to spread out and surround Gríma, thus allowing her to see through his eyes. She could now more distinctly feel, since it affected him so badly, the Istar's frustration and fury pulsating through Orthanc. Gríma must be located on one of the nether floors, she thought, for very little light had found its way into this hall. The wizard seemed to be upstairs. She would have to be careful not to come close to him, for fear that he would become aware of such an intrusion immediately. Imaén intended to explore the tower well hidden behind Gríma's mind. But before she could put her plan into action, she sensed a sudden presence: someone was approaching Isengard from outside.

With a start, Imaén returned to herself. Once she had opened her eyes, she could feel the ground quaking, and shortly after she heard the confirming hoof beats; riders were approaching the gates. A whole troop came out of the mist, twenty or more. Imaén moved deeper into shadow, waiting. They were Rohirrim, most of them, and she saw the other Istari, Gandalf, next to an old man with a majestic look. There was also in the crowd an Elf, Imaén noticed with a certain interest, and a creature who must be a Dwarf. Imaén had never before met with any Dwarf, nor had she heard the Elves speak well of them. The bigger the surprise then, seeing these two, the Elf and the Dwarf, together; sharing the same horse. Curious, Imaén watched the company as they moved towards the gates.

She realized with sudden clarity that surely the presence of Gandalf and his comrades must mean that they, with the help of the Hourns, had defeated Curunír's giant army! Her respect for the strangers increased. But what could it mean that they were all here now, by the bidding of this new white Istari? She was still suspicious, although she knew by now that the wizard was a friend of Fangorn. The fact that he was traveling in the company of an Elf surely spoke in his favour, as far as Imaén was concerned.

She listened up as the little ones at the gate introduced themselves as Hobbits and hailed the elderly man as King. This confirmed what she had already guessed; Théoden, King of Rohan, had surely defeated the Orcs at his stronghold. The party at the gates split up as Gandalf and Théoden King went to speak with the Ents, while the Elf, Dwarf and one of the men remained at the gates with the Hobbits. The man was apparently not one of the Rohirrim, Imaén deducted, as she heard them talking about food. She smiled at the little ones. They seemed to her a fun and cheerful people. But once they all left the gates, heading for one of the remaining buildings – one which contained food, she assumed – she returned her mind to matters of her own. Was it likely that Gandalf would try to fight Curunír? Imaén doubted this. But surely they would try to reach some kind of agreement, probably outside Orthanc, she thought. She glanced around, cautiously, and hurried to a new hiding from where she could be sure to see the tower of Orthanc. Once she'd assured her hideout safe enough, she planned to enter Gríma's mind once more. However, she was interrupted as the Hobbits and their fellows came out from the building and took seats not far from her. This was somewhat bothersome. Silence was not necessary for her skill, but it helped. Especially in precarious situations. The conversation was disturbing her. They seemed to be exchanging stories, speaking of the Ents and of Saruman.

Imaén was curious by nature, but right now, she wished for naught but silence. Could they not have kept their stories for another time? Were there no matters of greater importance than comrades' doings since last seen? But apparently not so. They smoked now, while the Hobbits entertained the others with a comprehensive account of the assault of Isengard. Imaén had been there, and did not find the recount as interesting as did the Hobbits' audience. She wondered if they ever planned to take a leave. But then, her attention was caught as the conversation took a new start. She thought she had heard... she listened sharply as one of the Hobbits spoke:

"...From the mist came a man on an exhausted horse, he seemed to be tired and distorted himself, too. All alone. When he came out of the mist and suddenly saw all the devastation he just sat there, mouth wide open, and didn't seem to notice us at all. And then, when he finally did, he screamed and tried to ride of again. But Treebeard lifted him right out of the saddle, and the horse ran off, terrified."

Imaén bit her lip thoughtfully. For some reason, the story did not amuse her. She had scared him in the forest, surely she should find it funny that an Ent had literally lifted him from his horse? And yet...

"He said that his name was Gríma, and he claimed to be friend and counsellor to Théoden," the Hobbit continued. "But he gave Treebeard such a sidelong glance, and me, I thought he was lying. And Treebeard must have thought the same, he called the man Wormtongue. He wasn't too happy about that, the man."

Shouldn't think he was, Imaén thought. She felt strangely conflicted.

"Well,", the Hobbit continued, "he crawled like a worm on the ground and whimpered, and Treebeard said that Gandalf had said, that the man should be allowed to enter Orthanc. And the man seemed to be glad about that, until he saw what it looked like behind the walls. But Treebeard didn't give in, the man had to wade through the water, and in he got at last, like a wet rat!"

Imaén sniffed. I suppouse you would speak differently about it, were you to wade there yourself, midget, she thought. The Hobbit, however, continued;

"I'd like to know, though, whether it was true what he said, if he really did serve the King?"

"He did," the dark-haired man replied. "But he was also a spy for Saruman. The mere sight of this, that he considered so mighty, torn to pieces... it must almost have been enough of a punishment. I fear, though, that far worse awaits him."

At those words, Imaén felt a chill run down her spine, cold enough to make her gasp. For a moment she lay still, heart beating hard, convinced that they must have heard her. But they just kept on talking. That man though, there sure was something about him. Imaén watched him closely, and the more she saw of him, the taller and brighter he seemed to her. Much to her own surprise, Imaén could feel her hands trembling. Tentatively, she sent her mind floating towards this man in an attempt to find out whom he might be, only to find that she could not. There was no way through. She should have been able to sense his mind, he was close enough, but a powerful aura surrounded him like a shield, almost blinding to Imaén's inner sight. Hastily, she pulled back. He was no common soldier, that one. What she had sensed resembled magic, but was yet different. Suddenly, she felt hesitant and uncertain. What the man had said scared her. Somehow, in her trained mind, she knew that it was no mere words, but more like a prediction.