The fell beast hissed as its claws dug into my shoulders, its full weight pressing me into the hardened earth.

It had my arms pinned by my sides, immobilized under its crushing weight, and the temporary strength spell I cast previously had drained my body of its soundness and stamina, so I dared not risk it again.

It seemed I would have to resort to a summoning spell of a simpler order. "Help!"

"Gandalf!" Nob cried, causing the creature to turn its elongated head slightly. "Someone help him!"

And then, "Where is your boom stick?"

My boom stick? I thought. From whence did this Hobbit gain such a quaint vocabulary? Was it merely a product of a mind which had lain idle for far too long?

One thing was for certain. If this midget were foolhardy enough to tinker with the device in question, it seemed likely he would succeed in accidentally blasting that idle mind to pieces.

"Never mind that, Hobbit!" I snapped. "Don't meddle in sorcery you don't understand! Just go get help!"

The beast returned its attention to me.

"Yes sir!" said Nob.

The Hobbit broke into a run, bursting through a snowy thicket.

My attacker appeared to give him a sidelong glance, then opened its jaws, revealing a glistening fanged inner mouth, its saliva scalding my flesh as it splattered my cheeks. The pain was excruciating, but I had borne magical items and chemicals which produced equal amounts of pain, possibly more, not to mention the pain of my wartime injuries, so I did not scream, but only renewed my efforts to dislodge this beast from my person.

I closed my eyes and turned my head just seconds before a caustic droplet could cause my vision irreparable damage.

"Hobbit!" I called. "Some help!"

As if in answer to my plea, I observed a massive ax slicing off the front end of the creature's skull like it were a loaf of soft bread.

The beast, of course, collapsed upon me, and I found myself reliving childhood horse riding traumas until a pair of gnarled hands shoved the thing away.

"Puny weakling," I heard the Orc laughing. And then he raised a leathern skin, dumping a clumpy cream colored liquid all over my face. "Here."

I sputtered in disgust. "What-"

"It is milk. To counteract the effects of the acid."

I am not unaccustomed to the taste of milk, or its thick texture, even when it spoils. This was not of a type I familiarized myself with. I almost gagged.

I spat out the wretched substance and sat up. "What manner of milk is this? Goat's milk?"

"No," Skalg chuckled. "It is from my wife."

I spat more heavily, wiping my face with handfuls of snow and the sleeves of my robe.

He only grinned. "Orc custom. It makes us grow strong."

I felt truly convinced that I would vomit soon.

He must have noticed my nausea, for he then added, "If you have truly been with a woman, the thought will not be foreign to you."

"It has never appealed to me to (ahem) relive my childhood in this fashion." I shot him a sour look. "Or yours, for that matter."

This only made Skalg laugh.

I stared at him, at a loss as to what to say.

As indebted to this "Skalg" as I was, the Orc insulted me, and inflicted me with the fruit of his wife's mammaries, the revolting experience I can compare only to the laborious process of canning troll mucus.

If the rumors about Orc wives were true, they were the most loathsome creatures on Middle Earth, warty, covered in weeping sores, with hideously deformed shapeless bodies.

However, as I had felt the burning sensation subsiding from my face the moment he had doused me, I supposed that some gratefulness was in order.

Rising to my feet, I cleared my throat, looked the Orc straight in the eye, and said, "Well. It seems that your king has chosen his bodyguards wisely."

The Orc gave me a nod, responding with a bear-like "Hmm."

And then another puzzling thought occurred to me. "How did you know what would counteract the burning of this beast's saliva? Are you also an alchemist?"

Before he could answer, Aragorn pushed the foliage aside with a noisy rustle, the Hobbit following close behind.

"Only three of the Face Graspers remain," the king said as he entered our grisly vignette of death.

He swore softly as he discovered the corpses of his guards.

I watched as he knelt before the man, shaking his head. "May you feast with the Great Lords in the Timeless Halls for this sacrifice."

He moved on to the female, gently touching her cheek. "Sayaka..."

He kissed her hands and folded them across her chest.

To the best of my knowledge, the man was married. To a half elven queen. His gesture seemed to hint at the deceased being a concubine of sorts.

I broached the subject as tactfully as I could manage. "You two were close, I take it."

"I am close to all my guards," Aragorn said, sounding indignant. "These are not mere mercenaries. They are my friends."

"How is Arwen these days?" I asked.

He sighed a weary sigh. "Not well. She fell deathly ill from a disease for which we had no known cure. Twice I have sought the elves' assistance, but they were, alas, unable to affect a cure.

"Knowing you to be a mysterious and busy man, I did not presume upon your assistance. Instead, I called my subjects, offering money for the cure, and to my surprise, my friend and ally Sayaka, already among the royal guard, proved to be a wealth of medical knowledge. The herbs and potions she supplied Arwen alleviated her pain and restored her vitality. For a time, at least."

His expression darkened. "When her health again was on the decline, I sent summons for you, but you were not to be found."

I swallowed, but it was not the first time a friend had made claims of abandonment. "I was otherwise occupied."

"You're a wizard, Gandalf," Nob said. "Isn't there some way you can, I don't know, create a little box that can turn letters into air, and transmit them across the country? You know, so king Aragorn will always be able to contact you?"

I looked at him like he were crazy. "From whence do you get these absurd notions?"

He just shrugged.

"Even if this preposterous idea could actually be executed, I'd have to carry a blasted box around with me everywhere! What would be the point of that? What if I don't..."

A glance at Aragorn told me it would be better not to imply that I hadn't wanted to talk to him in his time of need.

Instead I covered with, "It's ridiculous."

"What if there's a fire?" he asked.

"Are you suggesting the entire bucket brigade would also need one of these devices?"

He gave me a look that said "Why not."

I shook my head. Before he could delve into further ridiculous fancies, such as possibly sending instant messages to taverns about food delivery, I deflected the conversation by focusing on Aragorn. "You were telling me of Arwen."

He nodded. "When her condition worsened, I sent out another messenger, but then these accursed `demons' descended from the sky."

"So she is still alive?" I ventured.

"Yes. But only just. That was part of the reason why I came this way. As soon as we eliminate your Face Graspers here, we must return to Minas Tirith with haste. We do not have much time. Already I fear we have lost her."

He stood over the bodies, turning his back to me as he wept.

"Your highness," I heard Skalg saying. "Should I place these bodies on the pyre with the bald priest?"

Aragorn gave him a dismissive wave. "Do what you see fit."

My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Wait! What bald priest?"

I was answered by a deafening explosion, and a storm of deadly flying arrowheads.