Perrin was in a tunnel of pain, and could not seem to wake up. All there was was a jostling and a foul smell that he couldn't escape. When he woke up, he found the reality was not much better. He was tied hand and feet, and carried across a broad back that never seemed to slow its pace.
He looked to the left and right. Merry and Pippin were with him, also tied, and unresponsive. Had they been killed? No, he could see their chests rising and falling. Unconscious, then.
He remembered the battle now and the overwhelming odds. He supposed it had been too much even for warriors of their caliber. Two hundred monstrous orcs against ten, some of who were not used to fighting at all. He sighed, then turned grim. He had not forgotten either their elven cloaks. Perhaps they might have a chance, for he could still feel his around his shoulders.
He had no weapons, though. Neither did the two hobbits. Still, he had seen worse situations. Perhaps he could enter into the wolf dream and find a way out. Sleep was now impossible, however, for his wounds pained him.
He tried to see the direction of the sun, and found he was heading west. That meant only one thing. They were headed to Isengard and Saruman. He did not fear pain, not for himself, but he worried for the two young hobbits. Like his wife, he felt protective of the smaller members of the Fellowship, and would die to protect them.
He was thrown down with a thud, and with a stomp of nail-tipped boots, the head orc came toward him. He was big, bigger than Perrin himself, and scowled down at him.
"You cost many of the lads," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. "I have orders from the White Hand, scum, and that says you stay alive. But you are awake, and you can run. On your feet! The lads are tired of carrying you." With a quick snick of his knife, he cut the ropes on his feet, and Perrin stood up slowly. The two hobbits were also awake and got the same treatment, and then they were off again.
The orc chieftain led his followers well. There was no arguing, no complaining, just the long run through the cool and shady night. If Perrin had not been a captive, he would have enjoyed the steep hills and swelling grasslands he ran through. At least he knew that there would be no trouble as long as they were on the move.
But even orcs needed to rest, and when the hills finally ended, the chieftain had them rest. As he suspected, the trouble began then. He found the orcs, while bloodthirsty and evil, had very human complaints. No food, no water, little rest, and…
"I should have taken your ears, Snaga," the chieftain, who Perrin heard mentioned as Ugluk, snarled. "The Horselords are now on our scent."
"Their horses can see in the dark, it is said," the short scout muttered, looking at the ground. It was not much of an excuse, and Ugluk thought so too. Perrin turned away, sickened, as they fed on their own, and also thought about what he knew of Rohan. They seemed proud and valiant, and not likely to bend to Sauron, but there was some trouble with the king, or so he had heard from Galadriel.
Would they help, if horsemen caught up with them? Yes, but in battle, it would be easy to mistake friend from foe. He knew that well, and he also knew there would be questions he was not prepared to answer.
He thought about it from every angle, and could not see an easy solution. He thought about it some more as he ran again through the day. Day was the best time for battle, for then, there would be no mistake between human and orc. But through all the land he saw not even a hint of a company. He tried even to reach out to wolves, even knowing that in this Mirror, wolves were not what they were in his own world. Even that turned up empty.
The hobbits were awake now, and ran steadily. Perrin's estimation of them grew through the day, for they did not complain, even though they had to take two steps for every one of his. Still, he knew they could not go on forever. Even now their breath was beginning to sound strained.
Suddenly he started. Pippin was working at his brooch, taking it in his teeth, and then spat it out on the ground. He nearly said something before he realized what the young hobbit had done. He had left a sign to any who might follow that they were still alive.
Any who might follow…was Faile following? She said she would take up his sword. With him as a captive, she would have to. If she wasn't…no, he would not think about that. She had survived both the Aiel and the Blight. No, no, she was fine. In fact, soon he would hold her in his arms. Cheered by the thought, he ran toward the sunset and the high peaks. Even as a captive, he didn't feel beaten down, but watchful and wary, ready for any opportunity.
181818
Aragorn looked around. Somehow, Perrin's warning had worked. They had stood together and defeated the threat. All of them were wounded, but none were dead. He could feel the scratches on himself, but his skill as a healer reasserted itself. He would tend to everyone before they planned the next stage of their journey.
Except…except some of them were missing. "Where are the King and Queen?" he asked. "And the hobbits?"
"Look!" Legolas said. Blood ran down his cheek from a wound, but his eyes were clear. "Look over there."
Against the sunset he could see one of the boats reach the further shore, and three figures, two short and one tall. Aragorn then knew what had happened. "Frodo left," he said. "And Faile went with him. I think he was planning this for a while. The Queen too."
"Do we then go to them?" Gimli said. "Do we help them?"
"No," Aragorn said, feeling peace for the first time. He now knew what he had to do. "The fate of the Ring is not now in our hands. It nearly destroyed Boromir. I will not let it destroy us. But what of the King and the other hobbits? Legolas, what do your elf eyes see?"
Again the elf pointed. Heavy tracks led away to the west, and Aragorn saw in the bushes something else. Reverently, he approached it. "The King's hammer," he said, picking it up. It was warm to the touch, and heavier than he expected. "Gimli, you make light of burdens. Can you carry this? The King will need it back."
Gimli nodded. "Aye," he said, taking it in a reverent hand and putting it over his shoulder. The head of the hammer stuck up, making him look like some strange creature, but his eyes twinkled. "A rescue, Aragorn?"
'Yes. They were dragged away in the fighting, I believe." He did not say why he thought they had been kidnapped. Not yet. "As soon as we eat and I tend to your wounds, we will go after them. The tracks show something lighter also being dragged. One of the hobbits, at least, is still alive."
"Good," Legolas said. "The thought of those merry folk being driven like cattle burns my heart."
Soon all wounds were tended, including a wound in Aragorn's shoulder that was worse than what he thought. After eating a quick bite, they went on their way, running through the cool darkness. As Aragorn thought, Gimli made light of the King's hammer, treating it merely as another piece of weaponry, and soon they had faded into the vast and quiet landscape.
181818
Barid Bel stood on top of the hill, watching the three warriors pass. He felt disquieted. He liked them all, the strange companions, all from different races, all working together. That was unusual for him. He didn't like people, he used them.
"This has nothing to do with the wider war," he muttered. "Even if it is the Blacksmith who is a captive. Let them go, warriors. You are not needed in the North, but the South."
But no, they pursued on. It made no military sense. Even if they caught up, what could three do against 100? They would cease to be hunters, and be the hunted. But there was something about it that still…it seemed right. He didn't like it. Generals and kings did not sacrifice themselves for those below them.
"Go on then," he said. He mouth twisted in distaste as the air warped.
"I heard you met with the Steward," Semirhage said. "Why?"
"Sometimes part of strategy is deception. You of all people should understand that. He will think one thing, but in reality, he will receive another." The truth. Just not the whole truth.
Semirhage nodded. "What is it that you said?"
"I promised him aid," Barid Bel said. He had. Denethor had not been happy about the dwarf army, not at first, but the benefits had changed his mind. Now Azaghal and his men were marching into Gondor, and would arrive in time for the wider war. But Barid Bel had made another promise to himself. If it came to it, he would give his own aid. He might not serve the Light, but he would never let another nation fall to the Shadow.
"But it will be a trap. Well done, Demandred. But why are you here?"
"I am here because I wanted some silence and contemplation. The world has changed, Semirhage. If we win this war, it is my hope that I will find a place within what is to come." Let her take what she wanted from that.
"The Lord of the Earth has promised rewards to those who serve him well," Semirhage said. "We are the only two Chosen on this world, and together, one day…perhaps we could overthrow even Sauron."
"Power was Lanfear's game, not yours," Barid Bel said. "You always wanted pain."
"You should come back to Mordor. You might see…surprises." Her tone had turned chill at the mention of her old enemy. "Sauron's war is almost ready. Soon the lands will be covered in a second darkness." With that, a gateway opened, and she stepped through to something dead and dry. He knew where she must be, and let her go.
"No. You are the last," Barid Bel said. "And the Darkness will die with you." He knew he was on borrowed time now. If Semirhage was suspicious, and now he knew she was, she might talk to Sauron. That might make Frodo's job harder.
"Still foolishness," he muttered. Three against the whole of Mordor, two quiet and peaceful and not used to fighting. Yet he had to admit that it made sense. A diversion, a trap within a trap. Maybe the leaders of middle earth were not so foolish after all. No, maybe they were not.
Opening a gateway, he went to a place he had prepared for his rest, a small camp somewhere in the Trollshaws. Surrounded by trees and high hills, it was well defended, and he had wards only he could see. Putting his hands on his knees, he thought about what was best to do. All the pieces now seemed in motion, and how could he change anyone's course but his own?
181818
Faile rose slowly. She was tired, and she was discouraged. Frodo and Sam were the same, by their long, drawn faces.
They had taken Frodo's suggestion and made for the hills, but they had not taken Aragorn's words about them seriously. Now they were. The Emyn Muil were a trackless wasteland, with little green among the gray and tumbled rocks. For two days they had been going around in circles, and it was making Faile angry.
"There has to be a way down," she said aloud, breaking the silence. "We got up into the hills, there must be a way to get out of them." She looked up at the clouds that were coming up over the sky and grimaced. Though she could feel the changes of spring, it was still cold and rain would make it colder.
"Look," Frodo said. "There may be." They had approached a long shelf of rock, and though the way down was steep, it was cracked, with handholds and footholds for a hobbit or a human with strength. And there were trees, too, to which they could secure their ropes.
Still, Faile did not want to use the ropes, not yet. There was something in the hills with them. They could never see it, but it was there. She had an idea of what or who it might be. How Gollum could escape through a Balrog's clutch was beyond her understanding, but she suspected only he might have the drive to pursue them. She did not want to give him any help.
"I will climb down slowly," she said. She had done little climbing, but Perrin had told of his childhood adventures, and she was far lighter than he. It could not be that hard.
"Are you sure, Miss Faile?" Frodo asked. He had been withdrawn and moody, and Faile was glad to see his natural concern. It was a sign the hobbit was still there underneath the Ring.
"Better me than you," she said. "I am the heaviest." It was true, even with the stout Sam among them. "Please, let me."
Her hands and feet found holds, and slowly, she descended, feeling with her feet for holds. Soon she was down on a wide shelf, and she called for the hobbits to follow. Sam came first, with Faile calling out encouragement, and Frodo came last.
The clouds coming up finally began to shed their load of water, but it seemed too dark for just a natural storm. Faile felt a prickling in her bones, and a sense of fear and menace. But with the hobbits splayed out against the rock, she could do little against what she knew was coming.
"Hurry," she whispered, even as a scream rose up on the wind. Chill and merciless, it was the cry of some damned thing, some monster of shadow. She tried to block her ears, but the cry seemed to echo inside her soul. "The look of the Eyeless is fear," she reminded herself. She had fought Myrdraal, and this was no different. With an effort, she put fear from her and looked up toward the hobbits.
They had frozen, but Sam recovered first, and slowly kept making his way down. Frodo was not so lucky. He had clamped one hand over one of his ears, and that made him lose his grip. He slid past Sam, and Faile rushed to catch him. He had gotten lighter already in the long journey, and Faile caught him with ease. He was shivering, and his eyes were wide, and Faile fumbled for a blanket, knowing he was in some shock.
Sam followed after quickly, and they huddled under the rain, trying not to think about what the cry meant.
"We must travel by night from now on," Faile said. "The wraiths may have other senses besides sight, but we can take one of their advantages away. And we are down. I believe we can now come out of the hills." She sniffed. "The marshes next." She was not looking forward to it. Saldaea had little in he way of swamps and marshes, the closest being the Blight itself. Yet she had steeled herself for the journey as best she might.
"You did not let us use ropes," Sam said. "Why?"
"I believe Gollum follows us," Faile said. "I did not want to give him an easy way down."
Sam smiled grimly. "I don't think he needs ropes. But thank you, Miss Faile." Slowly, they walked along the ledge of stone until it came to an end. There was a sudden drop, and then the Marshes stretched out before them. There was still a little light, and Faile wanted to march a little further.
"A little more. I think we will need ropes for this." She hated it, but they had to get down. They needed only one rope for the short cliff, and they navigated it safely.
Sam looked mournfully at the rope. "A bit of rope," he said. "Given by the Lady herself." He pulled at it mournfully. "Galadriel," he said, and Faile watched as it unwound in his hand.
"To think I trusted to your knot," Frodo said with a laugh. In that barren place, it was odd, but the rocks seemed to give back the laugh. Faile did not try to stifle it. She knew Frodo needed to laugh, and was glad he still could.
181818
Sam had been offended when Frodo had laughed at his knot, protesting his skill. Inside, though, he knew it was not the knot, but the rope itself that had come at his call. Lovingly, he had stowed it in his pack, ready for dangerous days to come.
The smell that came up to his nose was unpleasant, but he knew it was the way they had to take. In the marshes, perhaps they would lose their foes. Even a Black Rider would have trouble following them, he knew. As for Gollum…his fists tightened. If ever he caught up with them, he would be ready.
Frodo had told them what Gandalf had said, but Sam did not agree. Gollum had done murder and worse, and had led Mordor to the doorstep of Bag End. There should be no mercy for him.
They made a bed as best they could on the hard stone, and rested. Faile made her bed in front, putting the hobbits behind her against a small wall of stone, the last bit of rock before the marshes began. "Be watchful," she whispered. "Gollum may come to us. And if it is not him, be especially wary. Have your blade close."
Sam looked over at Frodo, who also looked afraid and grim. He drew Sting, then put it back when it showed no sign of orcs. He smiled and curled up, soon asleep. Sam let him. He knew he was worn out by the Ring and their travels, and would wake him later. He himself could not sleep, however, and neither could the Queen. Both looked out into the rainy darkness, looking for threats, and did not talk.
Sam was just on the verge of falling asleep when he thought he saw two eyes. He rubbed his own eyes, but the image remained. Yellow like a cat's eyes, they were accompanied by a dark, scrawny shape slowly creeping down the rocks in front of them.
He nudged Faile, and the queen silently drew her blade, while Sam drew the rope. Now he could hear a hissing voice, reedy yet filled with hate.
"Baggins, Baggins, we hates them forever. Gollum, gollum!"
So it was him. Sam held the rope ready, a loop in his hand, while Faile slowly stood up. Frodo slept on peacefully, and Sam poked him. Frodo sat up suddenly, his hand going to his chest where the Ring still hung. He looked around, and Sam pointed up. Frodo nodded and drew Sting just as quietly.
Gollum stopped suddenly, as though sensing them. Perhaps he could, with his eyes used to dark places, and Sam froze in movement. After a hesitation, Gollum came on again, then suddenly dropped, straight toward Frodo, yellow eyes now filled with murder.
Faile was faster. In a moment, she had him in a hold. Gollum bit down hard, and she hissed in pain, but did not let go. Gollum tried to reach around with his long fingers to throttle her, but Sam was faster. His own blade, tested at Weathertop, flashed in the night, and Gollum froze.
"Stop, or I'll cut your throat," Sam hissed. His hand tightened, and the sword rested at that skinny throat. Gollum swallowed hard.
He tossed Frodo the rope. "Tie his hands," he said. "We need to decide what to do with him." Frdo obliged, but Gollum began to scream as though in pain. Sam shuffled nervously. Frodo was a gentle hobbit. If anything, the knots were not tight enough. Frodo took them off hurriedly, but showed Sting just in case.
"You've seen this before, haven't you!" he said.
"yes, yes," Gollum squeaked. "Yes, a long time ago."
"We need a guide. We are going to Mordor, Smeagol, and need a way through the marshes. You have been there before, haven't you?"
Slowly, the light went out of Gollum's eyes. He nodded slowly. Sam was horrified. "No!" he said. "He'll murder us in our sleep! He means to kill us."
"I agree with Sam," Faile said. "Gollum is treacherous."
Frodo looked torn. "We need a guide. Aragorn led us to Rivendell, but he is not here. How are we to pass the marshes without someone who has been here?"
Faile spoke slowly. "I know, Frodo. I know. But we...how can we trust him?"
Smeagol stood up straight, and he spoke clearly. "Smeagol will swear on the Precious. If nice hobbitses are nice to Smeagol, Smeagol will guide them to the Black Land."
Frodo was stern, and Sam was shocked and pleased at the change in him. "You just want to touch it if you can. No, swear by the Precious, for you know where it is! It is before you!"
Smeagol fell back. "Smeagol will serve the Master of the Precious!" he cried. "He promises not to hurt the Master, gollum!"
Frodo seemed to relax, and Sam suddenly knew he had seen some part of Gollum's mind. For the first time, he felt a distance between him and his master. Both Mister Frodo and Gollum had held the Ring. What did he know of such matters? Yet he felt afraid, deathly afraid. He still could see no good from the decision.
"Know that the oath will twist you to its ends," Frodo said, then put up Sting. "But I will accept your service. Serve me well, and you will be rewarded."
Faile looked worried. "Are you sure?" she asked.
"He gave his word," Frodo said. "And he loves the Precious above all else. That will keep his word."
As they waited out the day, Sam could only hope Frodo was right, and that they had not made a terrible mistake. For he did not trust Gollum, and knew he never would.