Chapter 132
Distractions
Thráin did not know anything of what was going on in various other parts of the world. Even as his brother was buried he was asleep in the most hostile place imaginable, because even his dwarvish resistance to exhaustion was wearing thin. Legolas was right to say that their strength was failing them swiftly. Speed was of the essence.
Unbeknownst to them, forces were at work in the outside world that aimed to help them in whatever way they could. Faramir's actions had ensured that Sauron could no longer afford to ignore what was happening in Gondor. To this day I am not entirely sure what exactly went on during that particular showdown, but I did know that Faramir had been exceedingly convincing. He had convinced the Nazgûl and now he had fooled Sauron himself into believing that not only had he obtained the Ring, he had also bent it to his will.
Sauron truly knew fear at last and this, to him, was something of an unwelcome novelty. He'd already known that the war was not going his way, but never in his wildest dreams had he ever contemplated the possibility that he could be defeated entirely and with his own weapon at that. And now he faced the unpleasant realisation that he had far too few orcs within reach to answer the threat Faramir posed.
And a threat he was, because our side did not waste any time whatsoever. As soon as the meeting was concluded we set the wheels in motion that were needed to get an army on the road as soon as we possibly could. Many of those who had fought in the battle were hurt in some way, but Aragorn's reinforcements were not and anyone who could still stand and hold a blade was coming anyway. We agreed that we were not going to waste any time – we had very little time anyway – so we should be on the move first thing the next morning at the latest.
Sauron, observing all these goings-on, had very little choice but to act on this new information. He sent out a message that all the orcs that remained in Mordor – not that many, all things told – should make for the Black Gates to defend them. Most of the orcs were hanging around that area anyway, so that when they were all assembled, there were still about three thousand of them.
For the first time in living memory, orcs were outnumbered in a fight.
Sauron did not like this one bit of course. And here he had to make a choice. He could still recall his two remaining generals. This was unlikely to do his cause in the north any good, but the situation at home had now become so desperate that he had no other choice but to call them back as fast as their beasts could fly.
This was where of course the northern part of the war came into play. The Free Folk Alliance had no idea what was going on in the south or what anyone there was up to, but they knew that it was up to them to make sure that no Nazgûl could ever return south to stand in the Fellowship's way. So it was at this point that Sauron's plans hit another snag…
Elvaethor
Quick and quiet, Elvaethor told his troops. Quick and quiet. Those two things were paramount. The land beyond the walls of Erebor was hostile. There was no safety to be had. Their only hope of success lay in secrecy.
This was not easy to achieve, for the orcs had stripped the land bare. The Mountainside, not so long ago covered in trees and bushes, was now as bleak and empty as it had been when Smaug ruled these lands as though they were his by rights. Everything that moved could be seen. There was nowhere to hide.
Quick and quiet.
He turned his attention to Aerandir and Thormod, who stood at the side door, still inside the Mountain, awaiting his instruction. 'Tell them that we are well away and that they should begin the diversion as soon as they may.'
Aerandir inclined his head. His verbosity had at times rubbed Elvaethor the wrong way, but he could be relied upon to perform his duties swiftly and perform them well. The young mannish lad beside him was all but unknown to him, but he looked solemn and determined at the same time.
'I shall guard this door, my lord,' he vowed, hand over his heart. 'None shall cross here that have no right to.'
It was not an invasion of orcs that he feared. Yesterday he had examined this area at length and found no evidence of their continued presence. They had come up to the door, found it firmly closed and had decided against posting a guard there to keep an eye on any potential folk intending to break out. 'Make sure that the door is open for our return,' he said. 'That is all I ask.' This was not, after all, a mission on which he intended to die.
Jack had not intended his death either, he thought, casting his mind back to the last time he had spoken to him. Had he known then what lay ahead, would he have acted any different? Would he have passed Thoren to Tauriel, only to turn around himself and protect his brother in whatever way he could?
He liked to think so.
But he hadn't known and no force in the world could reverse time and allow him to go back and make another choice. This was done. Jack was gone. Now all that was left was to see to it that his home did not fall to Sauron's forces. He knew what he fought for. So, in truth, did Elvaethor. It was a noble cause. It was the noblest cause.
'We must away,' Tauriel said as she appeared at his shoulder. 'Most of our people have reached the bottom.'
As eighty years before a rope ladder had been made and let down to make for easier movement. It was better than having to climb down via detours through narrow paths. It was not unthinkable that they would need to make a quick getaway.
'We must away indeed,' Elvaethor agreed. 'After you.'
He let her climb down first and took the opportunity to look out over the land. Nothing moved that should not move. They were out of sight of the orcs here and although he scoured the skies for signs of their generals, he did not see them either. All for the better.
He waited just long enough to ensure that he did not step on his sister's fingers when he himself went down until he too departed. The last thing he saw before he lowered himself below the ledge was Thormod, standing pale, yet determined in the door opening, clutching a blade that looked too big for him.
It has come to this. Now the young and the untrained must step up to defend their people. They should be the ones who were defended, but their numbers were ever dwindling. Yet they stood and did their duty.
He could do no less.
It was only a small group that awaited him at the bottom of the ladder and most of those were elves. Not so long ago he would have called them his own people, but no more. A divide had fallen between them. He saw it in all their interactions since that they no longer knew how to address him or how to treat him. They stumbled over words and hesitated over courtesies. He told him to treat him as they treated the dwarves, for that was what he had by law become, but this appeared too much to ask.
Fortunately this was not the place for words or courtesies. 'There is nothing to be seen,' Lancaeron reported briskly. 'The orcs have retreated to their camp.'
Elvaethor accepted this with a nod of the head. His own observations had led him to a similar conclusion. They were confident and careless because of it. Their recent victories had made them bold in a way that they had not been before. Yes, they'd taken beatings, but now at last they had the Free Folk exactly where they wanted them.
If they knew what Elvaethor did, they might not be so arrogant.
'Their generals?' he asked. 'Have they taken to the skies?'
'Their beasts are on the ground,' Tegalad reported. 'I have watched the camp since sunset. They have gone into their tent and have not emerged. The orcs, I believe in fear of them, do not venture near.'
Even orcs were not protected from the unnatural terror that the wraiths cast wherever they went. They did not of their own volition go near. Elvaethor had seen it before and he had felt the hand of despair reach for him. It would do so again before the night was out.
He inclined his head and surveyed the folk gathered before him. Tegalad, Lancaeron and Tauriel he knew well. He had lived and served alongside them for many a century. No men had joined their venture. Many had volunteered, but they were too heavily affected by the wraiths' despair. They'd become a liability.
If any could stand against that sorcery, they would be dwarves. Elvaethor would not undertake this without them. More than before he longed for Thoren to be at his side and he was sure the wish was mutual. Yet he was not recovered and the funeral had sapped his strength even further. He had Alfur and Kíli instead. They knew the area around the Mountain like the back of their hands.
Alfur took the lead. 'This way,' he announced confidently, selecting a small path that led south. He did not need to watch where he placed his feet. 'It'll be about fifteen minutes.'
Just long enough. It gave Aerandir enough time to convey his message and allow their allies to stage a diversion convincing enough to be mistaken for a true threat. Bearing in mind how the last siege was broken, they were probably expecting something at any rate.
Darkness was no obstacle to an elf and dwarves were accustomed to moving in the deep and dark places of the earth. Then again, so were orcs, so it served to be cautious, but it appeared that caution had forsaken their foes. Though they drew ever nearer to their camp, they encountered no scouts, no guards, no watchmen. Noise that among them passed for music emerged from between their tents at ear-splitting volume. Every now and again a scream indicated that a fight had broken out and that one unfortunate participant would not see another day.
'Only orcs could be so careless with their own,' Kíli observed with the utmost contempt. He had shown no signs of nerves, but he showed every sign of revulsion. Elvaethor had known him since he was a babe and though he was not hewn from the right rock to make a leader, he was a fair archer and a very capable smith. It was this first skill that he had been chosen for tonight. 'There's no compassion in them, is there?'
'None, Master Kíli,' Tauriel said. 'It was all taken from them long ago.'
Elvaethor left them speaking quietly, but did not partake. He had his eyes fixed on the camp itself, searching out that one dark corner from which no sound came. As he expected, it was cloaked in darkness that was more than simply the absence of light. It was the absence of all hope and fellowship as well. Only in that could his servants ever feel at home. Nothing moved there. The orcs gave the place a wide berth. The beasts they rode were tethered nearby, but not too close. Did the presence of these creatures unnerve their mounts as well?
One moment all was noise and celebration – in orcish style – the next it had all turned to screaming and chaos. Elvaethor only barely saw it happen. An arrow flew, then another. They were of orcish make, pilfered off a battlefield and now reused to create as much chaos as they could. Let the orcs think that they had been shot at by their comrades. There was nothing so very unusual in that. They so often did it without any help along the way.
Clearly this was the consensus among the orcs that fell victim to this ploy as well. They did not need more to turn on their own. No doubt as far as they were concerned they'd had a party which for whatever reason had been rudely interrupted by some of their own and there was only one acceptable way to respond to this: with more violence.
It was as Kíli had said: he'd never seen a race more eager to turn on their own and deal out death to their fellows.
They set to it with a will. Elvaethor kept only half an eye on the proceedings. These were not his chief concern. He trusted his allies within the Mountain itself to see to it that the camp descended into chaos and to keep it that way until the Nazgûl came to sort out this mess. By his estimation it could not last long. The Nazgûl had dealt harshly with this behaviour before. If they did not, then in no time they'd have no army left.
So it was on the tent that his eyes remained. Nothing moved. Some spell shielded them while they were within, he was sure of it. He could discern no movement from that tent and hear no sound. As far as his senses could tell, there was nothing there.
But there was.
This was Sauron's doing and he had seen Sauron's work before, an age ago in a time that he'd prefer not to remember. Yet though he did not speak of it, his recall was perfect. He had forgotten nothing. They had been his servants of fear, commanders of his army and bringers of dread. Now they were so again.
I know you of old. Your tricks are known to me.
So he did not allow himself to be tricked. He kept his watch for at least fifteen minutes. Nothing happened during that time. Nothing stirred in that tent. All the movement was taking place elsewhere. The orcs, needing no further incentive than the first two arrows – Elvaethor had calculated that it would take at least five, a mistake that would see quite a number of his coins transferred to Nori's pockets – had turned their camp into an impromptu battleground. The noise was indescribable, the carnage unbelievable.
Still nothing stirred.
The first doubts began to present themselves to him. Could Tegalad have been mistaken? Were they here at all? Surely at least one of them must be, even if only to keep the army in line. Did they suspect the trap? Did they know?
'They are there,' Tegalad said before Elvaethor could pose the question. 'I saw them enter the tent with my own eyes. Nothing has moved there since. I would swear to that if you required it of me.'
'Save your oaths,' muttered Alfur. 'Even elvish eyes can be misled by their sorcery.'
It was this very thing he feared.
'Could they be gone?' Kíli asked, directing his query at Elvaethor. 'Could they have departed without attracting our attention?'
Yes. Yes, it was possible. The Nazgûl had been men in life, but those wretched rings Sauron gifted them had bestowed powers on them that they ought not to have had. Those powers had not abandoned them even in death. Who knew truly knew what they could and could not do? Once he had seen them do terrible things, drunk on darkness and power. And yet I do not know the half.
Barely had he finished the thought before their suspicions were proven wrong. The darkness stirred. Their wait was over.
For seemingly endless hours they had waited, hands on their weapons, eyes on their goal. Now the time was at last upon them. They knew what to do and so they took up their bows without any further need for a command, arrows at the ready.
'Wait until they are well away from that tent,' Elvaethor warned. Some spell rested upon it. Of this he was sure. Whether it offered protection from arrows he did not know, but this was not the time to discover that it did. If they failed now, all was lost. This move would show their hand. If the Nazgûl knew that the Free Folk had made it their priority to eliminate them from the equation, they would retreat from reach and never come close enough for another attempt.
'For Thráin,' he said.
Kíli inclined his head, but did not look at him. 'Aye,' he said.
The Nazgûl looked around them for the source of the disturbance, but the Free Folk on the battlements had long since ceased their actions. Folk assembled to watch these orcish goings-on and shouted helpful advice to the monsters slaughtering each other before the gates. Other than that, they kept out of it. All weapons had been concealed.
Evidently the Nazgûl found nothing there to warrant their attention, so they turned their minds to reining in their unruly troops.
'Get on your beasts,' Alfur hissed. 'Go on, take to the skies.'
It would make their task indeed easier. And perhaps the Nazgûl were of the same mind. They conferred with each other and then made for their beasts. It appeared that the beasts did not care for either their masters or the chaos, because to Elvaethor they appeared skittish and ill at ease. They had been hurt before. Five beasts were chained up and all of them showed signs of previous injury.
'Kill the mounts as well.' Lancaeron had seen the same thing and reached the correct conclusion. 'They will move slower without their wings, even if they themselves prove to be beyond our reach.'
No one responded in words, but they all nodded.
The wraiths selected the two beasts that appeared the least injured. One of those had trouble taking to the air regardless of the fact that it was better off than the others of its kind. If these two could be taken down, even if their riders could not, he could count this mission a success.
We keep them from your path, Thráin, he silently promised his newfound brother.
Then he took a deep breath and let his arrow fly.
Thráin
'Time to go.'
The Fellowship had rested for what Legolas told him was most of the day and part of the night – the elf's sense of time was infinitely better in these lands than Thráin's was – yet for all that rest, Thráin felt as tired as he had before he lay down. It was more worrying still that he had slept for so many hours before waking and even then it was because Legolas gently shook his shoulder to rouse him.
Our strength is failing.
The hobbits were in worse shape and so, to his worry, was Gimli, who now favoured one arm visibly above the other. Legolas looked as he always did, albeit more covered in ash and dust, as they all were. Yet he fancied that he saw the fatigue in him too, evident in the slight dropping of the shoulders, the lack of care for his appearance and the effort it took him to hoist Gimli to his feet.
Three days, Thráin told himself. We must persevere.
He looked in the direction of Mount Doom to determine if those three days were indeed doable, but distance, as everything else in this dreadful land, was deceptive. His eyes were not reliable. And if I cannot rely on my own senses, what then can I rely on? Legolas's were as easily tricked here as his were.
'I shall bear the Ring today,' Frodo announced after one look at Sam.
Thráin cast one on Sam himself and instantly agreed. Sam seemed better than he was before, but he was not well by any stretch of the imagination. Neither was Frodo, but he seemed to be in a better state than his gardener. Given that this now counted as glowing endorsement of his health, that went a long way in showing how bruised and battered they all were.
'I shall carry you,' he said. 'Then Legolas will carry the barrel and so we shall complete another march.'
He hoped.
Was it the ash that made his kinsman look pale or was it the wound that did not heal? Gimli refused to let him have a proper look at it. There was nothing he could do here that would be of any true help, he pointed out, so what purpose did it serve. Better to get on with their mission and see to the wound when all was said and done.
He had little enough to say about that.
So they ate a few bites of lembas, sipped some water – he was beginning to forget what good, clean water tasted like – and were on their way. Legolas led the way, with Gimli at his side. Sam walked next to Thráin. He was back on his feet again, although his fever had not yet abated; there was no one left who still had the strength left to carry him.
Today was harder than previous marches. This much became apparent within moments of setting off. Perhaps the Ring sensed that its chances of breaking free were running out. It was heavier by far. If he felt it this keenly, he wondered how hard it was on Frodo, who wore it on a chain around his neck.
'It is very angry,' Frodo said unbidden. 'It knows.'
'Knows what?'
'That we are near,' Frodo replied. 'What we intend to do to it.'
This was no surprise. From the Ring at least they had never tried to hide their intent. It had known what awaited it from the day of Elrond's Council. It had worked against them for just as long. He told Frodo as much. 'All it can know now is that its days are numbered.'
'It does.'
Silence fell between them for a while. He concentrated on placing one foot before the other. Then do it again. And again. And again. He felt every step jolting his aching muscles. The hobbit on his back was heavier than he ought to be. The Ring undoubtedly made him even more so. Yet if the Ring was so heavy, Frodo would never be able to stand and walk, so carrying him was Thráin's duty.
He would not forsake it now.
And he felt it, the presence of the Ring, in more than the added load on his back. It started as whispers, whispers of longing, whispers that closely resembled his own thoughts and wishes. He longed for home and peace, he longed to see the faces of his kin. After such a long absence he would welcome even Uncle Dori's lectures and Jack's dark moods. He would submit to Duria's endless fussing with good cheer and bear Cathy's delighted hugs with a smile. More than anything he longed to see Thoren's face again, to see him well and on his feet.
Are any of them alive yet? Had Thoren's gamble taken their lives instead? He was so bereft of news in this empty wasteland that speculation and fear was all he had to go on. And yet he had the means to achieve what he wished within his reach. All he needed was to take the Ring and put it on.
This was the first thought Thráin recognised as not belonging to him and this brought him up short. How long had it been meddling in his mind before he noticed? Was the longing he felt his own or was that too induced by the cursed jewellery? He searched his mind and found it very disturbing indeed that the lines between his own thoughts and the ones originating with the Ring were blurred to such an extent that he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
Maker help me.
'It tries you, does it not?' Frodo asked quietly.
'So it does.' He had no reason to deny it. 'So it tries us all.'
Some weeks ago, long before they entered Mordor, he had feared for Frodo. He no longer did in the same way. The battle for their minds was fought and won. These were skirmishes, the last dying spasms of a Ring that by now surely must know that it could never win their minds. He'd not yet met creatures more resilient than hobbits. Elves were usually too busy sticking their heads in the trees to have much of an interest in world domination and no dwarf worth his beard would prefer to take the easy road over the hard one. It was not in their nature to give a foe what he wanted at any rate.
'What does it offer?'
'An end to the war, the salvation of my family.'
Oh, it whispered of Khazad-dûm as well, but it had done that before. Perhaps it remembered Thráin's reaction to that, because it had not truly tried to do so again since. Besides, Khazad-dûm was not uppermost on his mind these days. As much as he longed for those halls, they were halls made of stone, not nearly as important as the living folk he called his kin.
'I understand, Mr Thráin,' Sam said, who had followed the conversation in silence. 'Of course, I don't know what that is like, but I understand that you fret.'
Fretting had always been more Duria's prerogative than his, but yes, these days he fretted over everything, his homeland and the people who dwelled there not least of all. 'We all do,' he said, because that was true as well. 'All living Free Folk are afraid.' This was what Sauron had wrought. 'It is for us to put an end to that and restore the days of peace.' None of which could be achieved by giving the Ring what it wanted.
Yet it was hard to resist. The whispers were no longer the worst of it. The Ring was so heavy and his body so tired. He did not think that he had ever felt the like. Before they entered Mordor he could have walked for two days with a hobbit on his back before he needed the rest he now craved after less than an hour. Before him Gimli swayed on his feet.
Maker be good.
He put one foot before the other yet again. If he stopped now, he might not get back up again, so it was better to never put that to the test. He adjusted the hobbit on his back to spread the weight a little, but the minor jostling this involved made the Ring once again slip from Frodo's clothing. He felt cool metal on the bare skin of his neck. It was too cool for the heat of this land, unnaturally cool.
It was pure evil.
This too he felt. Just by letting it touch his bare skin he felt tainted and unclean. Perhaps the Ring, having tried to persuade them to take it and not having succeeded, now wasted no more time on niceties. It just wanted to shed its present company in order that it may find a bearer who would be more inclined to take it where it wanted to go.
It was heavy.
It was not on a chain around his neck, but now that he so unwillingly touched it, he felt the weight increase so suddenly that he almost lost his balance. Who could have guessed that such a small and little thing could ever be so heavy?
'It is heavy,' Frodo said. He sounded strained and out of breath. 'Can you feel it?'
He could feel it only too well. Frodo reached for it and held it in his hand, but he did not seem able to lift it from where it pressed down on Thráin's neck. If anything, it seemed heavier than it had a minute before.
'It is not real,' he bit out. 'This is sorcery.'
Sorcery though it may be, it was convincing trickery all the same. He was swaying on his feet and even, to his own horror, a little out of breath. Legolas appeared next to him, extending an arm that Thráin was shocked to find he needed. His grip might be too strong for those fragile elvish bones, but if he hurt Legolas, the elf never said a word about it. He needed the support to keep moving.
No one suggested that they should stop now.
If they did, they might not ever get going again.
'Sorcery it may be, my friend, but it seems to me that it is quite real,' Legolas said. 'Lean on me. We agreed to share one another's burdens and so we shall.'
Thráin saved his breath and so only nodded.
'Once, on the banks of the Anduin, we sat down and told each other stories when the Ring tried one of our number hard,' Legolas recalled. Thráin had never spoken of that day or the reason why they sat down and told tales, but the elf was observant. 'It seems to me that this lessened the effects of the Ring.'
Sam nodded vigorously. 'Yes,' he said emphatically. 'I reckon, Mr Thráin, that it wants us to pay attention to it.'
'It loathes all that is friendship and companionship,' Frodo remarked. Thráin did not look back, but he sounded exhausted. The Ring wore them all down. 'And telling stories is a true mark of companionship.'
'Let's not give it what it wants then,' Gimli said, a true dwarf, because any decent dwarf would sooner die than give a foe what he wanted. 'Let's do it, I say.'
Sam took these words to heart. 'Did I ever tell you about the time when Pippin came into Mr Frodo's garden to steal some carrots?'
'You did not,' Thráin said. He made an odd sort of wheezing sound as he spoke, so he firmly resolved to listen from now on and not open his mouth again. He did not particularly care for the concerned looks on the faces of his friends. They reminded him too much of Duria and Uncle Dori.
Best not.
Sam, bless him, carried on regardless. 'It was three years ago,' he narrated. 'I was weeding behind the hedgerow, so of course he didn't see me.'
'Was that other young rascal not with him?' Gimli asked.
Sam shook his head. 'No, Mr Gimli, not this time.' His voice grew in confidence as he spoke. He did not sound so ill and when Thráin looked on him, he moved surer too. His eyes were clear and his back was straight. It took quite a lot to keep this hobbit down. In many ways they were truly the most resilient of creatures. 'He crept up on the other side of the hedgerow. Mr Frodo had gone out, you see, so he thought there was none to stand in the way of obtaining a tasty treat.'
'I imagine that you proved him wrong in this, Master Gamgee,' Legolas said, smiling slightly. 'I have learned many a thing about hobbits on our journey. It seems to me that they are often underestimated.'
'We are not a fighting people, Mr Legolas,' Sam pointed out.
'Your people have had but little need of it,' Legolas countered, not one to let another have the last word. 'But when they had a need, they have risen to the challenge in a way that has left many a doubter in amazement.' He made a gesture with his free arm. 'Will you continue this tale?'
The distraction did not work, but he did not say a word. The Ring increased in weight so much that he was no longer sure that it indeed was all an illusion. It felt far too real and who truly knew what Sauron was capable of? He had crafted this object, this cursed Ring of Power. What powers did it possess? Did anyone truly know?
Sam continued to narrate Pippin's exploits with ever more enthusiasm, as though retelling the experience rid him of all the hurts he had sustained since that day. He described in some detail how Pippin had creeped in crouched posture past the hedgerow, almost unheard by Sam at first, who mistook the noises, when he did hear them, for a few mice scurrying past.
Thráin forced himself to listen attentively, but the effort was becoming harder. The Ring did not speak. Instead it made it its priority to wear its bearers down as much as it could and as quickly as it could. He did not think that the weight on his back could increase any further, but it did. Now every step became a struggle and every breath a battle. His vision blurred at the edges in a worrying way.
'Thráin?' Legolas asked. The elf grimaced. Thráin's grip on his arm was possibly cutting off his circulation. Yet be that as it may, he was nor sure he could remain standing if he let go now.
'Keep moving,' he wheezed out.
'I'll carry Master Baggins,' Gimli announced in a tone that brooked no argument.
Thráin made his by refusing to halt. Odd, he believed that rocks ought to be stationary and those around him were decidedly not.
He reached out with his free hand to find something to stabilise him on that side.
There was nothing.
So he fell.
Next time: the Nazgûl shooting isn't going quite according to plan.
Thank you very much for reading. As always, reviews would be very welcome.
Until next week!
