Author's Note: I am truly sorry for the delay. True to winter tradition I have been smitten with a few illnesses, and being of feeble heath I have been entirely unproductive during these times. Not to mention being laid off from work… Many a day I have abandoned my keyboard for wont of inspiration, and turned instead to the inevitable and encompassing self-pity.
However, I shall hope and try to continue a reputable updating trend, as I am already writing the next chapter as you read this.
This chapter, as a warning, is violent and active. Do enjoy.
Spike out.
Chapter Six: Hunted
Several days passed, blotting out Grima's sense of reality like clouds passing over a weak winter sun. Whither they wandered the smoke was evident; a haze had wandered over the sky, and blotted out the sun of the one bright day that had thusly passed, and all was dark and troubled in the mind of Grima, as though a squall had broken within. Cold was the week he passed this way, in some dark state, and often the ground beneath his feet was slick with frost. Colder still was the hand of Saruman, which drove him on relentlessly with stinging blows, and at a horrid pace they traveled this way, miserable unto themselves. But Wormtongue no longer attempted to shelter himself from the sleet and his master's punishments, and he did not flinch from his hand, for Grima's eyes only saw the shades of the three sisters who stared down upon him terribly.
On the fifth day following their departure heavy dark storm clouds began to steal over the horizon. Thunder voiced its displeasure in the far distance, and a cruel cold wind was blowing, cutting through the rags in which the two travelers were clad. Hastily they drew their meager protection tighter about themselves, teeth chattering, and set on resolutely, for Saruman was intent to find a village that would have him. Perhaps, he reasoned, the word of Gandalf did not travel as swiftly as feared, and some innocents might behold the form of Saruman and welcome him with the trust of old, before he had gazed too deeply into the Palantir. No one on his side would have him, for they too lacked a sound dwelling, and instead roamed the lands at his command, ultimately worthless in this bitter end; made savage and crude-- not worth the prolonged company of an Istari.
Nor, thought Saruman, was Wormtongue, and yet the wretched man continued to dwell beneath his shadow, following at his heels and casting frightened looks behind him as though chased by the vengeful shades of those he slaughtered, and Saruman did not drive him away. Yet despite Grima's cowering a cruel madness shadowed his clouded eyes and made him dangerous and violent, though he could not bring himself to look his master in the eyes, instead flinching from his hand like a beaten dog.
However, like a beaten dog he might show his fangs, but Saruman the Wise was not wise to this, nor would he be until the very end.
"This weather mocks us," hissed Saruman in anger, and Grima looked upward to the angry turbulent sky to see curtains of snow drifting silently down. Soon their path was white before them, and their footsteps muffled, and all was quiet in the dark gloom of their journey. Grima clutched the hem of his master's robes.
"A fire," he whispered, afraid to speak louder in the odd silence lest his guilt, teetering like an axe above his head, might be disturbed into crashing down and splitting him asunder. "Let us make a fire, Master. The cold is unbearable."
Saruman kicked him away irritably and snarled through gritted teeth. "Bear it, then, fool- perhaps enough of it might drive the ignorance from you! Let us build a fire, you say... Do you not realise that we are no longer so safe as in Isengard? Here in the wild we are hunted, Worm; there is no army at our dispense. Draw the wolves to us and I will cast you to them before they are upon us, a gift from Saruman the lucky, for through you I would make my escape."
"Mercy, my lord," wept Grima, though in his heart he was not surprised at his master's words, but terrified of them still. He cowered and shivered at the mention of the wolves, whose cries he had heard frequently upon entering the silent, snow-hugged hills. As night fell down and they made to rest, Wormtongue could not stifle his uneasiness, and his eyes were ever watchful, roaming ceaselessly in the dark.
Saruman had spoken truly of the wolf pack, who prowled desperately for food, as their normal quarry slept fast beneath the sheltering snow, but the wizard was mislead in thinking that only a fire might draw them close. Long had they stalked the pair, gathering their courage and their hunger. They were watching when Saruman kicked Grima to the ground, and could see that both creatures were weak with hunger and cold, and at a glance from their leader prepared themselves to attack.
As the moon rose, they made their move, howling their war cry in the shivering dark.
Grima made no pretense of sleep that night when they settled down for rest, though Saruman did; he lay upon his side with his eyes halfway open, waiting for mutiny, for he had sensed Wormtongue's madness and suspected him.
Thus both were ready upon the first rally of the wolves, and leapt up in the shadow as the pack advanced upon them. Saruman swung his broken staff, and smote a wolf that had leapt for his throat; behind him one clung to his robes, thinking it flesh, and dragged at him. The sky reeled up and Saruman was suddenly upon his back, gazing at the wolf that went for his throat, but then the dark form of Wormtongue clouded his vision and the killing blow he expected never came. He lay stunned for a moment, watching his servant madly fighting the angry dogs, so vicious that some backed off with fangs bared uncertainly.
Wormtongue had no weapon to the wizard's knowledge, and defended his master though he had no reason to, but as the wolves ripped at him and he at them, the hot blood that was both his and his attackers' spilling over his hands, a bloodlust previously unknown to him showed itself. Mindlessly he fought, feeling neither pain nor fear, and in time he forgot his master at his back, caring only to extinguish the snarling life that sought his throat.
Presently the surviving wolves backed away, forming a semicircle before him, and growled at him, seeking out the courage to spring upon him once more, but they could see that their quarry was not cowed.
"Come and face the son of Galmod," hissed Grima, his dagger in front of him where Saruman could not see. "Come and face Theoden's bane! Draw closer and warm my hands with your blood!"
Saruman watched, wordless, as the wolves sprang again, bringing his servant to the ground. Angrily Saruman struck out at them as they snapped at his robes, and stabbed one through the back as she lunged for him. Maddened with pain she turned and sunk her teeth into the prone form of Grima, who made no sound, covered with wolves but fighting still.
Yet Saruman had struck an important blow, for the wolf he had stabbed was their leader, and presently she slumped dead across Grima. Immediately the rest of the wolves fell back and vanished into the woodlands, howling their remorse and defeat, and soon all was quiet in the thickening dark.
Saruman wiped blood from his hands on his sodden robes, for the splinters in his staff that had been the wolf's bane had not spared him a lasting memory also. He took stock of his wounds: scraped and pierced hands, a bump on his head where it had struck the frozen ground, and a bite to his calf that throbbed mercilessly in the bitter cold. Stooping slowly, he seized a handful of snow and clapped it to the streaming wound, pausing for a moment with his cold burden, savouring the numbing relief it brought to his punished hands. His staff stood upright in the wolf leader's still corpse like a pennant, a hank of hide stuck with blood to the blunt end like some grisly banner. He wrenched it free and threw it upon the ground, and knelt upon the snow next to his fallen servant.
Wormtongue was covered in wounds that steamed in the still night, and the slain wolf's corpse still had its jaws round his throat. Saruman heaved it off of him, more curious than worried, for he doubted that the son of Galmod could withstand such an onslaught.
It would not be the last time Grima would surpass his master's assumptions, but it was certainly the first. His breath steamed steadily, and his lips moved as he muttered to himself. At length Saruman spoke, and his voice was not as harsh as it could have been.
"Open your eyes, Worm, if you still live."