Chapter Eleven
Faramir clenched his fist, controlling himself, mastering the urge to kill the laughing Southron pointing his knife at the struggling Beregond. He knew that kind of laughter all too well, and the cunning, manipulative cruelty that went with it. This Man would kill slowly, making a game of it.
He could see the bunkers now, and wondered if he and Damrod had enough arrows between them to match their number. Certainly they wouldn't have the chance to find out. He would be lucky if he could manage to kill Garad and Beregond in the time he had. He'd have to go for Beregond first. He was surrounded by raiders, in a twisting knot of motion, fighting his captors, bobbing in and out of his aim. The best chance for a clean shot when they actually had Beregond over the trench….
A cricket questioned in the darkness and he turned, scowling at Damrod for the interruption. The Man had his orders, damn it! Fire the tar while the raiders chased the archer who had stolen their prey from them, and retreat with the freed villagers. He shouldn't be here, standing close enough for Faramir to see.
Damrod caught his gaze, raised a sliding loop he'd made from the rope they'd brought with them up the hill. Faramir's heart leapt, and he held his breath, letting it out slowly, controlling the surge of energy flooding through him at the sudden hope presented to him. Damrod was a master with a rope, his lasso would not miss. But they only had one rope, could only try to save one….
*Garad,* he signed, without hesitation. Beregond was beyond reach of the rope, but his struggles had pulled everyone but the Southron leader away from Garad.
Damrod nodded, agreeing, the skin of his face tightening with the clear-eyed grief of the moment. They would save Garad, and then they would avenge Beregond.
*Pick your time,* Faramir signed, taking two arrows from his quiver to set them in the ground before him for the quick draw. He would take the two shots he had time for. The first would take the Southron's life; draw the attention of the raiders. With the second, he would do his duty, to Beregond, and then to Gondor. And when Garad was rescued and the tar was burning, he would come back and kill every last orcfucking bastard who had taken Beregond from him.
SCENE BREAK
"Don't," Garad warned, knowing he was not bluffing, already an idea coming to him. If he could just stall long enough and if those camp fires were –
"I won't," the Southron replied; drawing Garad's wandering attention away from the tar barrels stacked in a curving semi-circle about him.
Garad gave him a 'go on' look, buying time.
"There is no need for any of this." The Southron's dagger ran red, catching the evil crimson of the pit as its owner turned the blade toward the torture fire. There was a disappointed grunt and sighing from several spectators. "No harm will come to your friend. Simply answer my questions and he is safe."
"I…." Garad paused, thinking quickly, trying to find the best lie, the best way to stall. There came a soft but piercing sharp clicking whistle, a cricket calling to the coming dawn, or so it would seem to anyone else. It came from a long way down the slope, still below the line of traps; and it took all Garad had to resist the urge to shout warning.
"I –" he stammered, wincing exaggerated pain over his leg to cover any surprise and pleasure at the "Coming" signal of a Ranger friend in the dark. "What questions?" he asked the Southron.
The chain rattled. Beregond spat, then grunted as someone tugged hard on the leather lead about his ankles, making him fall heavily to the grassy earth. While that raider kept hold of the leather, the Giant took the chain, the one secured about Beregond's chest.
Garad swallowed hard, aware they intended holding Beregond down, stretched across the fire pit. With an animal bark of laughter, the giant pulled and Beregond slipped closer to the flames. Garad could feel the shimmering awful threat of that heat on his own exposed face and he was four times further from the fire than was Beregond. Black smoke shimmered and waved above the crimson glow of the blazing tar.
"What questions?" he repeated desperately. "What do you want to know?"
Instinctively, he struggled to sit up, wanting impossibly to save his friend, knowing the enemy would not leave off their game immediately even if Garad told them everything he knew.
"Patience," the commander said, and moved his knife so its point dug into the small of Garad's back. "Be still."
"You filthy…" Garad began, but stopped short as the chain rattled.
Another raider grabbed Beregond roughly under the arms and pulled him back and up into a sitting position until his hips were level with the edge of the pit. Beregond did not resist, there was no point and it would only give his captors pleasure. And he could plainly see the Southron's dagger pressed against Garad's kidney. One more tug by the Giant on that chain and Beregond would fall across the pit, his bare back burned by the leaping flames.
"Four," Garad said quickly and truthfully, knowing he would not be believed. "There are four of us."
The Southron commander laughed. "Only four? Such heroes!"
The Southron's free hand moved in a signal to begin. The chain rattled, then drew taut. Beregond jolted backward, pulled down, his back stretched across the flames of the burning pit. He screamed; high, ragged, agonized.
"It's the fucking truth!" Garad shouted.
"Lies."
"Twenty six," Garad said, his pounding heart shattered to shards of ice by Beregond's continued screams.
"Better," Southron said mildly.
The dagger tip lifted, the chain came up, pulling Beregond back from the fire. He fell to his right side on the thick grass, his last scream dying to a wailing moan that was quickly stifled as his teeth sank into his lower lip.
Garad wanted desperately to go to him, to help him, but even had he not been bound, his broken leg prevented movement. He could only lie there, a few feet from his suffering friend, helpless to ease his pain, staring in horror at the blackened and red raw flesh, some of it peeling and hanging in strips. The chain glowed, a dull red where it still touched him. His eyes screwed shut in agony, Beregond moaned, shook and shivered and tried to curl into a tighter ball about himself.
"Twenty six," Southron continued. "Objective?"
"What do you fucking think?" Garad snapped, and realized tears were tracking down his cheeks.
His Questioner's hand lifted, one finger held up. The Giant pressed his boot to Beregond's back, quickly, lightly, pushing the hot chain into the raw flesh. Beregond screamed, but, though Garad prayed for it, he did not lose consciousness. But these were not amateur torturers; they knew a Man's limits and had buckets of cold water ready to throw over his head when he did pass out.
"Mind how you address me," Southron said. "Objective?"
Beregond's eyes came open for a moment, met Garad's gaze with a pleading not to save him, but rather to shut up. Another whistle came from the dark. 'Coming'. Closer. Garad need only buy time, and some information was self-evident.
"To locate and destroy raiders," Garad said, unable to drag his gave from Beregond's trembling body, from his pain-filled eyes.
"No!" the cry left his lips before he could prevent it as Beregond was again dragged up and back to fall over the flames. His friend's scream was weaker now, more mindless, despairing….
"I told you!" Garad snarled and wept all at once. "What more do you want?"
"The Ranger base, we know it is somewhere in Ithilien. Give me precise details of its location."
"I'll tell you," Garad said quickly. "I'll tell you! Let him up!"
Another signal and Beregond was thrown back on to the grass to lie barely conscious on his side. The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh soured Garad's mouth and nose.
"Where in Ithilien is it," the Southron prompted, letting Garad know he was not ignorant of the affairs of Rangers.
"Don't," Beregond said over a whispered low moan. The onlookers jeered, but Garad knew he was begging not to be spared, but warning Garad not to talk. There was no need. Garad would never tell them about Henneth Annûn. Never. Nor would he see his friend tortured hour after hour until finally death released him. They would die or escape, together, and they would do it now. The tar barrels were his answer.
Another whistle from the darkness, two chirps, then three. "Be ready."
"I'm new, they use blindfolds. But there's a river close…."
The Southron sighed impatiently. "There are many rivers about Ithilien," he chided, signaling to his Men.
The chain pulled tight and Beregond writhed, his back arching, trying to get away from its incandescent agony, from the threat of the flames in the pit.
"You lie."
"Give me a chance to explain!" Garad begged. "I could see from on top of the hill above the base…."
He stretched his good leg, felt his boot touch the first rank of tar barrels that followed the curved line from around him down to his feet. The campfires were close; the tar would spray over everyone, and in the chaos….
Garad tried to track the time, knowing a Be Ready signal was followed by action in precisely three minutes. He babbled nonsense about a trail going from the Anduin on the east bank above Cair Andros. There was such a trail, but it was heavily patrolled and nowhere near Henneth Annûn.
"I do not believe you," Southron said. He lifted his hand again.
"No!" Garad cried. "Wait! All right, I'll tell you the truth!"
The final call came from the dark, one long flat owl hoot: 'NOW!''
Garad lifted his good leg and lashed out, his booted foot smashing through the thin wooden staves and sending the spilling barrel back, crashing into the rank stacked behind it. Barrels fell, rolling everywhere.
Garad sidled away from one that would have pinned his legs, wincing and gasping over the pain of dragging his broken leg. Spilled tar sent the nearest campfire erupting in roaring flames and a trail of fire raced along the line back toward Garad.
The Southron had leapt to his feet, Men were scattering everywhere, struggling to stop the barrels reaching fire, but they were too late. A full, sealed barrel stuck in the middle of a fire where none could reach it and suddenly exploded with a dull thump. Globules of burning tar sprayed out over the camp, and Men ducked away, cursing, some screaming as their clothing caught fire.
In the midst of the mayhem, Garad rolled painfully closer to Beregond and pushed the water bucket over to douse the glowing chain. Beregond cried out as steam hissed from it, but then sighed as the coolness of the second bucket reached him.
"You will die for this! Gut him!" The Southron ordered, his eyes savage, frantic and white-rimmed against the dawning sky as he swiveled from the disarrayed camp back to Garad.
"You first!" Garad snarled and booted the half empty barrel that lay by the torture pit, slamming it into Southron's knees. He lost balance and toppled back, his left arm outflung and going elbow deep into the burning trench.
His scream was a joy to Garad's battered senses. There was more satisfaction as the open barrel rolled up onto the Southron's chest, spreading tar thickly over his tunic and the blaze leapt up to engulf him, as high and keen as his screaming. Someone grabbed his booted ankles and dragged him away from the fire, yet still he burned, writhed, screamed.
"Where are the fucking water buckets?" the Southron's rescuer demanded. Another Man took off at a run, calling that he'd get more water. The first bent to roll his commander over and over in the long green grass and mud. That left only the one enemy close to the captives, and it was The Giant. It snatched Garad's tunic front and hauled him up, pressing the flat of his blade to Garad's balls.
"You need gelding, pig!" it snarled, its breath foul in Garad's face.
An arrow hummed close, hissing across Garad's face to thump into the giant's throat. He let go of Garad and clapped both hands to the red froth erupting about the shaft. Even as the giant fell, Garad felt a rope lasso pull tight about his chest. He thought he heard Damrod's voice above the tumult of the camp and the fire that was rapidly spreading, roaring through the dry grass and exploding more barrels.
Men dropped, impaled by arrows as others fired blindly at their unseen attackers. The rope pulled taut and Garad snatched up the coiled chain that bound Beregond, winding it tight about his forearm. The rope jerked and pulled him back hard, Beregond's weight anchoring him for a moment.
A harried raider, seeing their prize about to be hauled away, bent down to grab Garad and got an arrow through an eye for his trouble. The rope strained, then suddenly there was more power pulling at it, taking the double weight easily.
Garad was dragged up and over the dead giant, his broken leg jolted with agonizing savagery. Graying out, he still tried feebly to wind another loop of chain. Then, he was sliding, faster and faster downhill, the noise of the camp drowned out by the swish of long grass about him, the smell of tar fading….
A faint jolt, a slowing, and Garad realized vaguely he had snagged on a clump of prickle grass. Abruptly, Beregond's weight eased, the chain loop going slack about his forearm.
"Bear!" Garad cried despairingly.
Then his friend's body slammed into his side and his awareness became Beregond's scream as momentum carried the injured Man onward and away. The chain jarred him to a halt, would dig sharp and deep into his armpits. Beregond's next scream was cut short as he passed out, a brutal, popping sound explaining why. The chain no longer burned him, but it had pulled Beregond's shoulders out of their sockets.
The rope's loops bit tightly into Garad's arm, threatening them as well. More tension came on the line, and he heard someone softly, urgently, calling his name. Freed from the clump of weeds, he slid down slope again and the movement sent him gladly falling back into unconsciousness.