Allies and Enemies
Trotter's skin burned and in his half-sleep he wondered vaguely if he had contracted a fever. It seemed to him that strange, brilliant shadows swept through his dozing mind, like the wings of giant birds against a background of deepest night. Fire fell from their feathers onto his face. With a cry he started up and found himself sprawled beside the coals of the campfire. Disoriented, he blinked and realized that it was still night, the hour when all is still. He was hot. Scrambling away from the fire, he fought himself clumsily out of his blanket. The night air felt good on his face. Without really thinking or knowing what he was doing, he stumbled to his feet and wandered away, with the vague idea of finding some cold water. The stars were bright and beautiful, but it was too quiet... no, not quiet after all. Somewhere in the distance he could once again hear the throbbing of the drum. For first time in a week it occurred to him to wonder what it was that made such a strange noise.
Trotter found himself at the outskirts of the camp and stopped there, gazing sleepily out into the dark. The music in the night lulled him and the stars seemed to sing silently. He swayed, and some inner voice told him it would probably be better to sit down, go back to sleep, as there was obviously something the matter with him. The thought sank away too quickly for him to grasp and he was left blinking dizzily, wondering what it was he had wanted to do.
They had come almost to the Gap, where Gondor began; he could see the White Mountains, dim, huge, and majestic. He reached out with a vague desire to touch them, but let his hand drop when he found he could not reach. Trotter shivered, suddenly cold, and put his palms to his temples, and then a Man shouted somewhere behind him in the camp.
Even feverish as he was, Trotter discerned something disturbing and oddly threatening in the tone of that shout. He could not think why there would be anything in the camp to be frightened of, but some instinct born out of his travels advised him to be cautious. There were more shouts, and the noise of what seemed to be a number of Men moving around quickly. They were carrying torches, casting flickering, fickle light around themselves.
Trotter crept under the nearest wagon, wrapping his dark cloak around himself and shivering. It was some time before he could figure out what was happening at the campfire where he had just been sleeping; but when it became clear to him, cold chills of dread made him cower to the ground.
No one was asleep now. At first all Trotter could tell was that several of the Men in the company were clustered around the coals of the fire where he and his companions had slept. Rode was awake, standing somewhat apart and looking ill at ease; Beleg and Anna stood close together. Beleg glared defiantly around, but Anna looked nervous and kept stealing glances at him. Finally, once all this had settled into Trotter's mind, sound began to reach his ears.
"Well, where is 'e? It ain't no good if we miss one of 'em and then 'e keeps follering us," one of the Men said. He was taller than the others and had a nasty scowl on his face. Trotter recalled that his name was Coldwell, but nothing else about him. They had rarely spoken. As to what Coldwell was talking about at the moment, Trotter could not imagine.
"I can assure you none of us have any desire to associate with you at all," Beleg snapped, eyes flashing with quick and characteristic anger.
"Aye!" Coldwell retorted, "then you'll have no objection to leavin' our company, now!"
"Now just a minute, here," the authoritative voice of Brady interrupted. The leader of the wagon train pushed his way with absolute confidence through the gathering of Men and planted himself squarely before Coldwell, arms folded expectantly. "What's this now? Quarreling with some of our company?"
"Quarreling!" Coldwell sneered, "I'm only sayin' what all of us has been thinking! Ain't it odd that those blasted drums haven't stopped thunderin' for nights on end now? That ain't never happened before! And ain't it odd that these drums start follerin' us just when these strangers join our company? I'd call that more than coincidence, and there's many that agree!"
A general murmur of assent and a few scattered shouts punctuated this speech.
"Do you have proof of any sort of communication between these people and the drumbeats? Because, I'll tell you, Coldwell, I'm a man who listens to what his comrades have to say, but I also try to be just where I can. If you're suspicious, back yourself up." Brady's voice remained calm, but Trotter suspected that he would not alienate his men if he could help it. What that meant for Beleg and Anna, he did not attempt to guess.
It seemed to him as if Coldwell's reply came to him in a dream. Perhaps the whole episode was, after all, nothing but a dream. Except that it was too cold to be a dream.
"Well, it's plain to see," Coldwell said, "the three of them and Rode here were speakin' about those drums the very day we first heard them. Since then they've follered us at a distance of no more than a league, I'd say." Some of the Men nodded at this, and Coldwell paused to let the concurrence sink in. "Furthermore, they tell strange tales and sing strange songs. And that girl—she's got some kind of magic talisman! I tell you, I know witchery when I see it..."
Anna's hand had flown unconsciously to her neck, which unfortunately served only to draw more attention to the Starflower necklace. Dark mutters rippled through the crowd, and even Brady's brow furrowed.
"Aye, miss," the captain said, "let's take a look at that, shall we?"
Reluctantly, Anna pulled the necklace out of her clothing and let it dangle, twinkling innocently in the firelight. She did not relinquish it, and no one attempted to take it from her; but the sight of it seemed to be enough to strengthen the animosity vibrating in the air.
"See?" Coldwell said, "what's a woman who looks like this doing with a gem of that sort? It can only be for some dark witchcraft! And what about the other... the dark-haired one, with his sword that he never takes off. The very sight of the thing makes me shiver. It's cursed, as anyone can tell. And what are they, any of them? Not human, that we know! Dwarvish, but more cunning in looks. Where are they going, and why? I'd like to know!"
"I understand your concerns." Trotter's heart sunk and his head spun at Brady's reply. He felt stunned. The captain had seemed so reasonable, even friendly. But Brady was a practicable man... he would not risk the ire of his entire team for the sake of a few strangers.
"And what do you propose we do about this, then?" the captain continued. There were shouts of "send them away!" and "leave them behind!" but Coldwell shook his head, unsatisfied.
"That's no good. They'll just go rejoin whoever or whatever's been playing those drums and then we'll have the lot of them on our tail."
Brady raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you suggest I do, Coldwell? Have them killed?"
"No!"
Twenty heads swivelled to stare at Oliver Rode, who looked small and uncomfortable under the eyes of his companions. He wrung his hands and stuttered slightly, but his words rang clearly enough.
"T-there's no need for t-that... it would be dis-h-honourable. They're our g-guests, practically. I won't have any part in it. None at all!"
Brady nodded, and Trotter breathed a silent sigh of relief. "I believe Rode has a point. They cannot be harmed, unless we all wish to forfeit our honour and integrity. But, my friends, I will not ignore your plea. If you wish it, I will see to it that these two, at least, be kept under lock and key for the remainder of the road, until such time as I can hand them over to the Guard of Osgiliath, who will treat them as they see fit. Are there any objections to this?"
The Men gathered around nodded and murmured, some more reluctantly than others.
"Objections!" Beleg spat, "objections! Yes, of course there are objections! We have done nothing wrong! And you speak of honour...! Humans do not know the meaning of that word! In league with the drummers! Face me in an honest fight, Coldwell, and I will show you which of us has the right!"
Beleg's hot words only served to darken the expressions on the faces of the Men. The Elfit looked to Rode for help, but poor Ollie only shrugged his shoulders helplessly and looked away in embarrassment. This last betrayal seemed adequate to spur Beleg to an act of righteous rage, but before he could speak or act he was interrupted.
"What about the third one?" someone asked.
Trotter drew back further into the shadow of the wagon. He half-expected Beleg to fling out a biting retort, but it was Anna who answered in his stead.
"Wherever he is," she said with stony calm, "I'm sure none of you will ever lay an eye upon him, much less capture him."
"So you say," Coldwell replied, "but we shall see." He glanced at Brady, who shrugged, indicating tacit acceptance. "Well," Coldwell continued, heartened, "what are you all waiting for? Start searching! And someone tie them!"
The crowd broke up instantly, some rushing toward Beleg and Anna, others beginning to run among the wagons, looking underneath them and among the wares. An ominous babble rose from the Men. To Trotter's eyes they moved like shadows, passing in and out of the light, calling to each other in deep, angry voices. Their movement disoriented him; but he did not fail to realize his danger.
Had he been well, Trotter might have attempted to hide or even come to the rescue of his friends. But he felt so faint and dizzy that the thought of walking, much less fighting, seemed impossible. All he could think to do was run away and hide somewhere, to come back later and try to free his companions. Even that task daunted him. What would have been so easy at another time seemed suddenly monstrous, gargantuan... how could he outrun twenty of the Big People, feeling as he did that he could barely stand? Yet no other option presented itself. And so he gritted his teeth and tried to still the swaying of the world, crawled out from under the wagon and made his way, with all the stealth of a desperate Hobbit, away from the light of the campfires.
In the darkness he could see almost nothing. The twisted bodies of trees loomed up around him, gnarled and ghostly. Clouds had covered moon and stars and it was deadly cold. The sounds of the wagon train faded away quickly behind him. Trotter became disoriented, wondering feverishly where he was, where he was going, whether he had not after all dreamed the whole episode. His bare feet sunk into the cold mud on the damp forest floor. The forest seemed unreal. But it was not silent. The deep beat of the drum accompanied him, and he could no longer tell whether it was the same drum he had heard for the past week or the ruthless beating of his own heart. Whatever it was, he could not shut it out. He began, somehow, to run on legs that felt as if they might give way any minute.
Trotter did not know how far he ran, but it could not have been very far. He was aware of the endless drumming, of branches lashing him in the face and roots grabbing at his feet, of the stabbing ache in his chest. Then the trees widened out suddenly into a dark clearing. The drum thundered, filling his ears and mind.
Something caught at Trotter's foot and he fell to the ground. Stars burst inside his head to make up for the lack of celestial ones. Then they winked out and he lay stricken, half-conscious, in the winter woods.
*******
The wagon was a decidedly uncomfortable place, Beleg decided, which was why he had been avoiding the things all along. Added to general discomfort were anger and humiliation, putting him in a definitely grim mood. It was perfectly dark, and the stuffy air smelled of dust.
He would have been willing to challenge the whole of the company rather than be taken without dispute. Only Anna's pleading look had stopped him. It still felt odd, having to take other people into consideration when making decisions. He had grown so used to travelling alone. As it was, instead of fighting he had allowed Coldwell and his cronies to bind his hands and feet and throw him into one of the wagons, covered tightly by a thick leather top. Then the covering had been lashed down again, and there he sat in the dark among bushels of cloth and other, unidentifiable objects. At least they had not separated him from Anna; he could hear her breathing softly beside him.
They spent five minutes trying to manoeuvre into more comfortable positions, Anna muttering just softly enough that he could not make out what she was saying. The wagon bed seemed to be full of barrels of something, wine perhaps or even cheese—the smell pervading the air was too neutral to be sure. Beleg finally gave up trying to find a way to sit without being cramped. It was simply impossible with his hands bound behind his back. Eventually he settled for leaning awkwardly against a barrel, his shoulder hunched painfully. Anna continued to squirm around, obviously not yet resigned to discomfort.
"Don't bother," Beleg said at last, "it's impossible. We'll just have to make the best of this whole thing."
"Best—of—what?" Anna grunted, stubbornness oozing through her gritted teeth, "this is only an—interlude. A few hours, and then..."
"Then what?"
Anna's movement stopped briefly.
"Then we'll think of something or... or Trotter will come and get us out..."
"You think Trotter is likely to rescue us from underneath the noses of twenty angry Men? He'll land himself in here with us!"
"Don't be silly! He's done greater things before." Anna's indignation was only too evident. There was a muffled thump as she struggled defiantly one last time, followed by a stifled exclamation.
"Are you alright?" Beleg asked apprehensively.
Anna did not answer immediately. Beleg squinted in what he thought was her direction, wishing in frustration that he could see. It would be only too typical if she had knocked herself unconscious, leaving him alone with the barrels... was that a darker lump? He almost thought one of the shadows had a slightly different texture. But wait... shadows? All had been dark before.
He was about to remark on the fact that he could almost see when Anna did it for him.
"Say... is it getting lighter?"
Without question, it was. He could see Anna's faintly lighter silhouette against the black of the barrels. He wondered if the sun had risen outside and light was seeping in—except that it shouldn't be morning yet. Then Anna moved slightly and suddenly he realized where the light was coming from.
"Anna," he breathed, "the necklace!"
She glanced down at where the Starflower had slipped from her neckline in that last, determined contortion. It was glowing ever so faintly, like a very timid bit of star. The light did not grow, but it remained steady, bright enough to allow them to barely make out each other's contours.
"How strange," Anna murmured, "it hasn't done that since I first touched it."
"Why do you think..."
"I have no idea..."
Beleg shook his head. "A small mystery... but I wonder..." He did not go on.
"Yes, it's certainly mysterious," Anna said, brow furrowed, "why does it light now? Why does it light for me at all?"
"What do you mean? You're its bearer, aren't you?"
He could tell Anna was gazing at him, or in his direction, though he could not see her face.
"I shouldn't be... I lost it. It left me when it found out about... well, you know, in Tharbad. Things like this don't belong to people like me."
Beleg's stomach clenched. "That's nonsense. The trinket can't think. Besides, it did come back to you."
"Only because it was given."
Beleg's head sunk onto his chest silently. He watched Anna's vague form out of the corner of his eye, wishing he knew what to say to make her understand. She was so set on disparaging herself that she would listen to no one. It was not something he had experienced himself and he did not know exactly what prompted it. He realized, in a quiet revelation, that he himself had been rather lucky. Despite being a half-breed, his life had not been unbearable. He had been loved and cared for and educated. Anna had only been alone, ostracized and disdained. Yet she was not pitiful, and now more than ever he felt the power she had over him.
"The things most worth having are always given by others," he said softly.
"How do you mean?" she asked, her attention suddenly focused gently but intently on him.
"I mean that friendship cannot be taken. Nor love. These things can only be given by the free will of others."
"If they choose to give them!" A faint snort accompanied the words.
"But they have. Trotter gave you back that necklace. He also gave you his friendship, from the very beginning, in fact. And you gave yours in return, did you not? As for myself..."
He could feel her waiting expectantly, curiously, half-knowing what he was going to say. He sighed inwardly.
"As for myself. Trotter asked me once, just before we left Fornost, why I chose to follow him. I said I would tell him someday. But now it seems I will tell you instead. The truth is... the truth is I wasn't following him at all. It was you I followed."
"Me?" The surprise in Anna's voice was nearly tangible. "But—but you hated me! You called me all sorts of awful names and—well!"
Beleg laughed with audible irony. "I acted rather rudely, didn't I? I hope you'll forgive me. I was a fool. Never before had I felt so... compelled. It was as if Fate had truly taken a hand, and I resented it. I do not feel that way now."
Anna had turned her face away; he could see the outline of her nose in the wavering light. He continued blithely.
"So you see, you have been given not only friendship, but love as well."
It might have been his imagination, but Beleg almost thought the light of the necklace pulsed for a moment, like the beat of a heart. He blinked, and found Anna looking at him steadily.
"Then I would be a miser not to return it."
Beleg suddenly found it a great irony and a great injustice that at that moment both of them were tied too tightly to move.
*******
Trotter did not realize immediately that he was awake. It was dark, and he could hear voices speaking softly very close to him. He felt oddly comfortable. Something about that seemed wrong... he had the nagging sense that he shouldn't feel good at all, that he should be cold or frightened or in similar discomfort. He wasn't cold; in fact, he felt hot, far too hot. The air around him seemed stifling, rushing in and out of his parched throat like dragon's breath.
He moved weakly and discovered that someone had covered him with a thick animal hide of some sort. No wonder he felt so overheated... he pushed at the heavy blanket, starving for a breath of fresh, cool air. At his movement, the soft murmuring stopped. He sat up, feeling wrung out and oddly light. Blinking, he looked around, but could make out little in the dimness besides vague, rough walls and the glowing embers of a dying fire. He couldn't be sure, but... there were two shadows beside the coals. Where they... people?
He coughed painfully, and one of the shadows moved. Yes—it was a Man! He was very short for a human, round-bellied and dressed in something that rustled. He did not come any closer, but Trotter was sure that the Man's attention was fixed on him.
"Who are you?" he asked, hearing his voice rasp in his throat. Swallowing heavily, he tried again. "Might... might I have some water?"
The Man did not seem to understand, and Trotter began to wonder if he understood the Common Tongue. Haltingly and with little hope, he tried Quenya; as he had expected, his strange hosts did not answer to that either.
Feeling distinctly at a loss, Trotter fell silent. He was painfully thirsty and light-headed, but could think of no way to communicate. He wondered dismally where he was—his memory extended only as far as his fall in the clearing, where the drums had been so loud. The drums... was it possible that these round little Men were the drummers that had so intimidated the merchants? Trotter was almost certain that it was so. If his throat had not felt so dry, he might have laughed.
Trotter was not fond of inaction, so he determined after only a moment that if he could not ask for water he could at least go find some for himself. This turned out to be easier thought than done: as soon as he stood, the world spun dizzily around him, and the two Men by the fire leaped to their feet.
"Nôth! Ri-shtelges!" one of them said, hurrying to his side. Trotter was so surprised that he sat right back down again. His surroundings jerked sickeningly and he found himself staring up at a concerned, brown, large-nosed face.
"Wha—what did you say?" he sputtered.
"Ri-shtelges, ghigra," the Man said, smiling. He gestured to his companion, who handed him a cup.
Trotter received the vessel gratefully, elated to find it brimming with cool water. He sipped it carefully, making sure not to spill any. At least it gave him time to think. These people spoke a language completely different from anything he had ever heard. He wondered who they could be—he could not recall hearing anything about a race of Men in this area, except of course for the Dúnedain.
He handed the cup back with a smile. "Thank you."
The Man smiled back at him, his brown face crinkling like a potato skin. "Yáma rikkel, ah?"
Trotter shook his head to show that he didn't understand, but the Man only chuckled merrily.
"Ri-doshkoles, ghigra," he said, gesturing to the blanket, which Trotter decided was actually a bear skin. This revelation, however, did not help him comprehend his host's speech. At least they seemed friendly...
"Fáles gebel ... esghâ vem doshkol," the Man said in a kindly but rather condescending manner.
Trotter sighed and wished he had the slightest idea what he was being told. His head felt heavy now rather than light and he was uncomfortably hot. The Man still by the hearth threw something onto the coals, and the space around them began to fill with sweet-scented smoke. It was pleasant, and made Trotter feel slightly better.
"Yámakk?" The one who had been talking crouched down beside him.
"Yá..." Trotter tried to imitate the word, unsuccessfully. The Man laughed. Then he became solemn and pointed first at himself, then at his companion.
"Drughu," he said.
"Drughu? You are... drughu?" Trotter repeated. The Drughu, as he apparently wished to be known, nodded encouragingly. Then he pointed once more to himself, but only himself this time.
"Túlin."
"Ah!" Trotter brightened, "your name is Túlin, and your people are the Drughu."
The newly-named Túlin looked somewhat baffled at the stream of unfamiliar words coming from Trotter's mouth. Trotter, however, had little interest in his new acquaintance's state of mind. His eyelids had grown suddenly and irresistibly heavy. The darkness seemed to grow thicker and hotter around him, and the smoke had become cloying rather than sweet. He placed his hands on the ground to steady himself.
"Doshkol," Túlin said, nodding at him.
"Doshkol..." Trotter agreed in perfect ignorance. Túlin grinned and gently pushed the Hobbit back down to the ground, throwing the bear skin back over him before Trotter could protest. In truth, he found that he didn't want to protest. He was too tired... he couldn't keep his eyes open, and the thick heat pressed him down into the realm of sleep.
When Trotter awoke again, it was day, and sunlight was tickling his nose. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and feeling far more alert than he had been the night before. By daylight he could see that he was in a small cave, its opening partly covered by pine branches. The cave was no larger than the average bedroom; the embers had died and only ash remained in the hearth. There was no one there besides him.
Trotter stood up, testing his legs gingerly, and found that they held him without complaint, though he still did not feel quite normal. His sword, belt, and waterbag were propped against the cave wall. He picked everything up and buckled it on hurriedly. He hadn't really noticed Nyéra's absence before, but having it back by his side gave him an odd sense of relief. That done, he walked carefully to the opening and pushed the branches aside, blinking in the light of the winter morning.
The sight that met his eyes was certainly not what he had expected to see. Somehow he had assumed that his two Drughu were the ones who had been beating the great drum for the last week. It had never occurred to him that there might be more...
There were about twenty short, sturdy, brown-skinned Men sitting in a semi-circle among the trees just outside the cave. Facing them stood Túlin, speaking in a slow and quiet voice in his strange language. They did not take notice of Trotter immediately, though he got the impression they knew he was there. He waited patiently, letting the weak winter sun infuse him with what strength it had.
The language of the Drughi was very different both from the hard, clear tones of Westron and the lilting beauty of the Elvish dialects. It had an unmistakable guttural note, as if the preconception of every sound was formed by a growl low in the throat. Trotter did not find it ugly, only strange, and it made him curious to learn more. He wondered whether these people had music and what it might sound like.
"Ghigra!" Túlin suddenly called, stretching out a hand in Trotter's direction. Interpreting the word as a summons, the Hobbit made his way to the speaker's side, trying not to notice the many eyes that watched his progress. Túlin placed his hand on Trotter's shoulder and turned him to face the semi-circle. Then he began to speak again. Trotter caught the world "ghigra" occasionally. It dawned on him that this was their word for him. He wondered what it meant... had the Drughu ever seen a Hobbit before? They did not seem particularly surprised at the sight of him. And why the drumming? Everyone in the merchant train had agreed that it was unusual. This talk looked rather solemn. Trotter thought it possible that repercussions of the struggle in the North had reached even this far, and he would have paid to know in what manner. If only he could speak to them!
To his surprise, his wish was soon fulfilled. Túlin finished his speech abruptly, and one of the other Drughu stood up, as if on cue. He looked younger and somewhat thinner than the others, with a great shock of coarse black hair. First he addressed the assembly, but immediately afterwards he turned to Trotter and said, very slowly, "I am Geshtôk."
"You speak the Common Tongue!" Trotter burst out in shock.
Geshtôk nodded, also slowly, and said, "You are...?"
"I'm Trotter. Trotter the Hobbit."
There was some muttering among the Drughu as they attempted to pronounce this new name, but it died down at a word from Túlin. Geshtôk lumbered to Trotter's side and pointed at the ground. "Sit," he said.
Obligingly, Trotter sat down and crossed his legs, slinging his sword onto his lap. Geshtôk eyed it curiously but did not protest. Instead, he joined Trotter on the ground, looking very solemn. Trotter felt like an ambassador; the Drughu certainly looked expectant, as if waiting for the results of some kind of negotiation.
Geshtôk touched his broad nose. "I," he said, "speak for Drughu. You speak for others."
Trotter nodded, watching Geshtôk's eyes. However primitive they might look, he was sure the Drughu were perfectly intelligent. His curiosity notwithstanding, these people might tell him something useful. They had obviously been discussing some matter with great concern, and he was now to become a part of it.
"You travel with Tall Men?" Geshtôk asked.
"Yes, I came with Men. From the North." Trotter waved in the appropriate direction. There was some more muttering at this, but it died down quickly.
"Tall Ones call us Púkel-Men. Bright Ones call us Drúedain. We are Drughu from the trees." He pointed south-east, towards Gondor.
"Drúedain!" It was an Elvish word, though Trotter had not heard it before. "From Gondor?" These Drughu did not look like the stories he had heard of the Gondorrim, certainly nothing like the Dúnedain he had known.
"No. Not Gondor. Not Stone-house folk. From the tree-land."
Trotter guessed that he meant forest. But he had a different question. "You played the drum?"
Geshtôk's face lit up with fierce pride. "Ah! yes! Drughu play drums. You heard warning?"
This was news to Trotter. "A warning? The drums were a warning? Against what?"
"Winter!"
Trotter frowned. "I don't understand."
Geshtôk touched his nose once more. "I tell you. We come from talking tree-land. From... North. Tall Men say Fangorn. Our kin are there. Only very few of kin. We want they come with us. More Tall Men come here, between us, if they do not come. But more: we do not like North. Winter is there; big winter. We know it wants to come. On the mountains, snow comes down. There are gorgûn with snow, but they serve big winter."
"Gorgûn?"
"Yes... Geshtôk does not know your word. Bright Ones said glamhoth, long ago."
Luckily Trotter knew this word from one of Beleg's poems. "Orcs!" he said, "the Orcs are coming out of the Misty Mountains! Yes, we know. But there are coming to the south as well?"
Geshtôk scowled. "Gorgûn want everything. North, south. Big winter will be everywhere. Drughu do not want this."
"Neither do we," Trotter assured him, "we—the Tall Men and the Bright Ones in the North—are fighting the Orcs and the big winter."
"Ah! You fight the Orrrc with steel? But you cannot fight big winter with steel. Winter sends bad thoughts, bad spirits to make you ill."
Trotter blinked, taken aback. He had not considered his sudden illness anything more than the result of hard travel, little sleep, and the winter cold. The winter cold... but that must be all. The Witch-king couldn't influence anything at this great of a distance. Could he?
Geshtôk leaned closer to him and lowered his voice. "Big winter spirit watches you. He thinks you are important; he must stop you. Geshtôk wonders why."
It took a moment for Trotter to realize that this was a question. Though the Men in the wagon train from Tharbad had not known his errand, he felt no compunctions about revealing it to the Drughu. "I am going to Gondor, to the land of the Stone-house folk. I'm going to bring back many Tall Men with steel to fight the Witch-King—the big winter spirit, as you call him. That's why he wants to stop me."
Geshtôk obviously approved. "Good! Tall Men are good for something. They will kill gorgûn and drive big winter away."
"Maybe. But the Witch-king is very strong... if I don't get to Gondor in time, it may be too late. And I'm afraid I've been delayed too long now. I've lost my companions again, they may be in danger, and I don't know the way to Gondor myself. I don't even know what day it is..."
Trotter could tell that Geshtôk had trouble following all this, but saying it aloud had made him realize just how much difficulty he was in. He fell silent, brooding. Where was he? The ground was sloping; the foothills, then, to the White Mountains. Probably not far from the Gap. He might make it to Gondor alone, if he had a horse, or knew the way, and if he had not been ill too long. In other words, not likely... even if he were guaranteed to reach Gondor, he couldn't leave Anna and Beleg in the hands of a bunch of surly Men, without even knowing how they fared.
Geshtôk seemed to read some of his mood in his expression. "You have trouble," he said, "you must go quickly to Ghondorr?"
"Yes. But I have friends who may need my help." He did his best to explain about Anna and Beleg, the wagon train, the Men's suspicion of them, and his resulting flight. Geshtôk could not possibly have understood every word Trotter said, but the Drughu certainly caught the gist of the situation. When Trotter had finished, Geshtôk turned to Túlin and began, presumably, to explain to him what had just been said.
A few minutes later, Geshtôk translated Túlin's reply, leaving Trotter no less worried and no more hopeful than before, but infinitely more curious.
"We wait for sun-going-down," the Drughu said, "then we ask drums. Maybe we find answer. Maybe we help you, Trrotterr."
*******
Hundreds of miles away, the Witch-king's breath blew mercilessly through the red hair of Falathor of Arthedain. It crept into his collar, raising goosebumps on his skin, then slipped away to whirl about the tendrils of the fire. The flames roared louder for a moment, then died down as the cold wind whisked away to disturb some other soul. Falathor hoped it would freeze a few Orcs on its way. Unfortunately, Lomin's uncouth followers seemed oblivious to the hardships of the wilderness. Falathor considered himself hardy enough, but he could not summon the utter lack of caring required to ignore the bitter cold. He could not remember the last time it had been this cold; not in his lifetime, certainly. Lomin himself was as hardened as an Orc. Not that he was much different from one anymore.
"Where are we going?" Falathor asked without looking away from the coals.
"So you finally brought yourself to ask." Lomin was sitting across from him, examining a sheaf of papers. Falathor had never imagined that the Witch-king's officers were literate, but apparently the higher-ranking Men often communicated by letter. He did not attempt to see what was written on the papers. Like everything else, it hardly seemed of interest. He had barely spoken for days, and only now had his curiosity and intelligence revived enough for him to wonder where they were bound.
"Where are we going?" he repeated when Lomin did not say anything more.
"We, my dear brother, are going to the East Road. When Angmar launches its attack, no refugees are to escape to Rivendell—and no one is to come out of the Elves' vale either. We will make sure of this. You don't have any objections?"
"What could I possibly object to?" Falathor replied acidly. "Although I doubt you'd be able to keep the Lord Elrond in Rivendell with this lot—not if he wants to come out."
"On top of things, aren't you? So are we all. Reinforcements are waiting at the Road. The kind of reinforcements that will make even Elrond think twice about cutting his way out."
"What...?"
"Don't look so shocked, it gives me a headache. The Witch-king has graciously lent us one of his personal servants. A rider in black. Along with a mountain troll and a generous squadron of goblins. There's no need to worry about Elrond."
"Aren't you afraid I'll run away and tell someone about all these plans?"
Lomin looked up from his reading. He didn't laugh, but Falathor could see the amusement in his eyes. "You're not going anywhere and you know it. You promised the First Lord of Tharbad you'd kill me, but you're far too honourable to go through with it. On the other hand, you can't just abandon your oath. So you're going to follow me around, sulking, indecisive, until something forces you to make up your mind. In which case I'll know a week ahead of time. What about this situation could frighten me?"
Falathor thought it better not to answer. They spoke no more that night.
They did not speak the next day either. Falathor rode silently on the horse Lomin had given—how that chafed!—him. He looked mostly at the sky, avoiding the sight of the Orcs and degraded Men riding around him. Never in his life had he thought to be a member of a company of Orcs... but then, there were a lot of things he had never expected. He thought vaguely of Indithel, safe now in Lindon, but the memory of her was hardly comforting.
It grew colder and colder as they rode north. Grainy snowflakes swirled about them but melted once they touched the ground, turning the soil to sticky grey mud. The vegetation drooped sorrowfully. Water streamed from the leaves of scattered trees—until the Orcs chopped off their branches out of sheer joy in destruction. Several times Falathor thought of simply spurring his mount and riding for freedom, but somehow he never did. Lomin had been right, blast him; Lomin was always right.
They reached the East Road where it crossed the Mitheithel in the late afternoon. The clouds were heavy and dark overhead; Falathor could almost feel them oppressing him. Every minute that passed seemed to sap more of his strength and will. Apathy lay heavily on him. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought it witchery... but it was, of course, witchery, only in a different way. This was the Witch-king's power: to turn everything grey, dull, worthless, and meaningless.
The worst part of it was he could not summon the energy to fight back.
They camped in the woods by the Last Bridge, hidden in the shadows of the forest so that no unsuspecting traveller might notice them before they fell on him. Excitement rippled through the company at the thought of bloodshed. It sickened Falathor; it made him want to sleep. He made his bed as far as they would allow from the stench of Orc bedding, near the bridge and the river where some traces of the grace of the Elves seemed to linger.
Then they waited, and so did he.
******
Nightfall brought more comfort to Trotter than it had for weeks. In fact, he was looking forward to it—looking forward to watching the Drughu and their drums, finding some answers, maybe even finding some help. The night was cold, but he barely felt it. Waiting among the trees, watching the fire flicker, he felt as if he were in a different world, far away from wars and kings.
They had built a bonfire. Trotter was grateful for the warmth it radiated; the cold of the night breeze kept trying to cut through his cloak. The flames threw a pool of brilliant light onto the ground, casting uncertain tongues of brightness onto the dim shapes of trees around. The Drughu had made sure, with quiet competence, that the fire did not come too close to any of the trees, where it might start a forest blaze. They stood in a circle around the crackling branches, drums in hand. Each man had his own drum, but they were too small to be heard from a distance. Túlin manned the giant one whose sound Oliver Rode had compared to a heartbeat. It was over six feet across and stood on its side, with a mallet for hitting.
To his surprise, Trotter found that the Drughu intended him to join in as well. Geshtôk provided him with a small drum.
"It is your question," he said, "you must ask." This meant little to Trotter, but his new friend would not elaborate. Resigned though confused, the Hobbit took a place in the circle. At a sign from Túlin, the company sat down, hands poised over the taut drumheads.
It began with the lowest one. Túlin struck it once, and a deep, throbbing boom rang shivering through the woods. The winds and the trees seemed to still in primal awe. The vibration elongated, hung humming in the air, died away... the moment it ceased, Túlin struck the drum once more, and another shockwave trembled through the ranks. After that the beats came regularly, unfailingly, and the other drums began to add their voices. The lower ones joined first, moving up the scale in pitch until the even the smallest became part of the layered rhythm.
That rhythm was more complex than anything Trotter had heard. The bass kept unflagging time, while tenor and alto overlapped and interwove. Each drummer played seemingly at random, with no regard for his fellows; yet somehow the end result resonated harmoniously, precisely, perfectly. Wildly, naturally, the pack of drums raised its communal voice to the sky. At first Trotter only listened, but soon the beat became irresistible and his hands, tentatively, found a path they could follow. The high speech of his instrument gibbered cheerfully among its brothers.
In a matter of minutes, Trotter forgot his purpose, his errand and loyalty, even his name. His consciousness, succumbing to a musical reprieve, left worry and responsibility behind to join the eternal symphony of the drums. All hearing was the rhythm; all sight the brilliance of the fire; all sensation the deep pulse of the underlying bass. Body, inadequate and discarded, remained rooted to the ground while soul fled rejoicing to the freedom of living sound.
He had no idea how long it continued, or when exactly it stopped. When he once again became aware of himself, the bonfire had burnt down to coals. Silence and starlight reigned now. Blinking, Trotter made out the Drughu, still sitting in a circle but with drums discarded. One of them stood up abruptly, and Trotter recognized Túlin.
"Êth dombek gobelgeken!" he cried. The Drughu answered with a shout that rang through the night stillness. "Eketo gohelmeket dehm! Megshaket ralêghran!" Túlin spoke again.
At these words, the assembled men jumped to their feet and sprang into a flurry of action. Trotter, bewildered, stood slowly and watched them run around in the dark. They were all talking softly amongst themselves, packing various objects up, tying small bundles, and hanging ornaments about their necks, wrists, and ankles.
"What are you doing?" Trotter asked Geshtôk, who had remained at his side.
"Drums favour you," Geshtôk answered, "drums favour ghîgra Trotter."
"Ghîgra?" Trotter frowned.
Geshtôk grinned. "It means: small one. Drums say: help the small one. We will help you find el and go to Stone-houses. The drums say war! Drughu will fight big winter!"
"Wait… find what? El? What does that mean?"
Geshtôk thought for a moment. "Family?" he suggested, "family people? Family you have lost. Drughu help you find."
Trotter did not reply, startled at the thought of Beleg and Anna as his family. In a way it was true. They had become as close to him as his family. Finding and freeing them became suddenly even more urgent. He had lost his first family; there was no way he would lose the second one.
"We leave now," Geshtôk informed him, breaking into his thoughts.
"What? Now? In the night? But – how will you find a way? It's dark and we don't know where they are."
Geshtôk nodded thoughtfully but with a definitely patronizing air. "Only one trade road. Drums say: Tall Ones and your el are on road. We go there, free el."
"The drums said that? But – "
"No 'but'," Geshtôk grinned, "we go now!"
As if to prove his point, the Drughu warriors gathered around. The remains of the bonfire, extinguished, had disappeared in the dark. The drums, too, were gone, presumably folded or disassembled into smaller components that could fit into the light packs the Drughu were carrying. They had knives on their belts as well, and spears that doubled as walking sticks. In fact, everyone looked a lot readier for a long march than Trotter felt.
But at the end of that march waited Anna and Beleg… Hardening his resolve, Trotter nodded to Geshtôk. Five minutes later a column of diminutive figures vanished into the shadows under the trees, heading south.
*******
"How long do you think it's been?" Anna whispered. She had awoken in darkness identical to that in which she had fallen asleep. Her hands and feet had grown numb from long confinement and she wriggled them despondently, trying to force blood into the extremities.
"Hours. Days. I don't know," Beleg sighed, "maybe they won't let us out until we reach Gondor. Or maybe never. I guess there are worse places to die, but I can't think of a more ignominious one than suffocating in the back of a merchant's cart."
"We're not going to die," Anna objected, and fell silent, unable to think of anything more to say. That had been a recurring problem: communication. Every since Beleg's confession, she seemed incapable of thought and speech. It was as if not only her body but her mind as well was floating in darkness. What a strange way to react to a proposal of love… still, she mused, Beleg was hardly talking much himself. Apparently they had finally stunned each other into silence. Months ago she would have gloated over a mute Beleg, but now she wished he would speak, and wished she could as well.
With nothing to say or see, she listened. Temporary blindness had honed her ears until the creaking of the wagon, the sound of hooves and of men's voices, the quiet whisper of Beleg's breath had become almost tangible. She could reconstruct the contours and colours to the point of reality, only to have them crumble again into components of fantasy. It frustrated her; she yearned for a glimpse of sunlight, a breath of fresh air. Anna did not take well to confinement.
Neither did Beleg. He was even more restless, though he made no complaint. Anna yearned to tear the bonds from both their bodies and burst out to freedom. Impossible, of course. She was helpless, as always, and there was no one to come to their aid.
She wondered unhappily where Trotter was. At first she had assumed that he'd escaped. Surely he would come back for them… but as the hours lengthened into eternities she questioned this notion. What if he hadn't gotten away? Maybe they'd caught him after all. Maybe he was in another wagon, a prisoner like them. Or even… she shied away from other possibilities.
Beleg moved suddenly, distracting her from her reverie. Anna could hear him in the dark. He stirred again, sharply, struggling against his bonds. Then he began to thrash wildly, twisting back and forth like a fish and cursing.
"Beleg! What are you doing?" Anna whispered.
"Blasted – Men!" he snarled, "They won't hold me anymore! I'll break these ropes with my – hands!" He fought in the dark like a trapped animal. Anna tried to inch away, but not quickly enough to avoid an erratic blow from his feet.
"Ow! Beleg, stop! You'll hurt yourself!"
"Better to fight than lie here like a bale of cloth!"
"Beleg! Stop!"
"No! I will not go quietly!"
Anna began to fear the Men would hear Beleg's shouts and come to investigate. Not that she wouldn't have happily joined him in an angry outburst, but prudence warned her that their situation was precarious. If someone heard they might end up in even worse straits.
Stopping Beleg once he was in a rage, however, was hardly an easy task. Words had already failed. What could she do? In growing desperation, Anna acted without consideration. She rolled clumsily against Beleg, thinking vaguely that he wouldn't risk hurting her in the dark and would cease.
"Will you stop?" she hissed.
He froze. She could feel his muscles trembling with strain and hoped suddenly she hadn't miscalculated.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered.
"What?"
"Listen! It sounds like…"
Shouting, Anna realized. She hadn't noticed it before, but people were definitely shouting and… screaming, it sounded like. Muffled cries penetrated through the wagon cover. A horse shrieked, and she shivered. The wagon jerked abruptly. With a thump, the right side dropped lower, as if one wheel had disappeared. A man screamed very close to them.
"What's going on?" Anna asked.
"Sounds like fighting…"
The two of them lay still, listening with bated breath. The discord of conflict continued for a while without any clue as to who was fighting or why. Finally, it began to die down, and soon everything fell silent once more. They waited longer. Dismal speculations crept into Anna's mind. There had been an ambush. Everyone was dead. No one knew they were there. No one would find them. They would stay there until… until…
Suddenly, voices rang very near. They wagon cover was torn back, and burning light blinded Anna's eyes. She blinked frantically, expecting at any moment to feel a sword blade in her flesh. Gradually, she began to make out a figure standing in the wagon bed. Her eyes adjusted, and the image became clear.
"Trotter!" Anna shouted gleefully, "it's you! I knew it!"
"You did not," Beleg grumbled good-naturedly as Trotter cut the ropes on their ankles and wrists. Anna stood up slowly. Her limbs ached with pinpricks and she felt faint, but the fresh air and winter sunlight lifted her spirits to the clouds. She felt ready to leap off the wagon and dance wildly on the cold ground.
"What happened? Where have you been? How did you…?" she asked all at once, too elated to allow Trotter to answer one question before posing the next.
He smiled wanly. She realized that he was very pale and haggard, thinner than she remembered him. He looked bad, worse even than she and Beleg did.
"Meet the Drughu!" he said.
"The what?" Beleg asked. The three of them climbed down from the wagon and Trotter waved at a group of Men – but Men very different from those who had taken them captive. These were short, round, and brown-skinned, dressed in furs. They looked almost like animals, albeit strangely humanoid ones. They bore long knives and spears. Some of them were herding a couple of dejected-looking traders together, while others busied themselves with a few scattered corpses. One of the wagons was burning, but the others were intact and it looked as if there hadn't been many casualties. Anna shuddered. There had certainly been a battle, between these allies of Trotter and the men of the merchant train.
They were in the mountains, Anna saw – the White Mountains. The caravan rested strung out on a road surrounded by evergreens. Spots of old snow dotted the shady areas beneath their branches. They could not be far from Gondor.
"Are those the 'Drughu'?" Beleg asked, nodding at the brown-skinned Men. Apparently catching sight of Trotter, one of them hurried over to them.
"This is Geshtôk of the Drughu," Trotter said, "also known as the Drúedain. They helped me find you."
"And they seem to have taken care of the merchants fairly well," Beleg noted.
Geshtôk grinned. "We fight Tall Ones, no problem. For Trotter's frrriends. Now we go to Stone-houses!"
"Stone-houses?" Anna asked.
"He means Gondor," Trotter said, "They've agreed to guide us to Gondor. You won't believe what's happened… I'll have to tell you on the way. It's quite a story! At least, I never expected to find allies like these in the middle of the wilderness."
Geshtôk was nodding eagerly. "Yes, yes, good story! Trotter will tell it. But first, we leave Tall Ones here and go on stone-road. The time is now! We walk, and in seven suns find the Stone-houses."
"Seven suns?" Anna gasped, "You mean one week? We're only a week away from Gondor?"
"Think of it!" Trotter said with a laugh, "Only another week and our journey will be over. What do you say to that?"
Anna didn't reply. Now that it came to it, she didn't know what to say. They were almost out of danger, and the prospect of a long rest beckoned invitingly. And yet… she caught Beleg's eye and found the same conflict there. That uncertainty stayed with her throughout the organization of a walking party and the tying up of Brady and his men. When they began to march, her eyes did not see the path or the trees; instead, the faint, imaginary glow of the Starflower floated before her, and Beleg's voice resonated in her ears.
*******
Falathor turned over yet again, unable to sleep. He gazed disconsolately at the bare tree branches blotting out the night sky overhead, wanting to sleep and yet resisting it. It wasn't the hard ground or even the cold that kept him awake; he had experienced worse in his lifetime. Something much more painful and persistent kept him awake: conscience.
They had been camping beside the East Road for three days now, with no sign of life, waiting for the promised reinforcements. The Orcs frightened off everything from people to frogs. Only insects remained, and they were hardly welcome. The place grew more horrid every day, greyer, wetter, danker, darker. The Last Bridge, beautiful and stately, stood like a last remnant of a goodness and dignity that would soon pass away forever.
Every night Falathor considered slipping away and riding for Rivendell or Fornost. Rivendell in particular called to him. If he could make it to Elrond's House, he might muster a force to aid the King in Fornost. The city's plight haunted him. Lomin had dropped tormenting hints about the Witch-king's plans and strategies in the North, and though Falathor knew nothing for certain, he feared the hammer-stroke would fall very soon. It might even be too late to remedy anything. His heart burned for his homeland.
Still he did nothing. Somehow he could not work up the spirit to take action. A deadly apathy ate at him, decimating his courage and resolve. He pictured himself slaying the Orcs set, discreetly, to guard him. He saw himself stealing a horse and riding unstoppably to the aid of his beleaguered country. And always the visions remained dreams and he a useless captive.
It was no use. He would never get to sleep. Even if he did, the nightmares could be worse than insomnia. Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, he crept silently through the shadows, carefully skirting the snoring Orcs, until he reached the Road. This he followed a few yards until the Bridge and the Mitheithel came into sight. The starlight glimmered on the river and the snow piled on its banks. It soothed him, promising that no matter how far the Witch-king advanced, some things would remain forever beyond his reach.
The Road called. It stretched emptily in either direction, ready to take him to fairer places. Not that walking would get him anywhere – it wouldn't take long for Lomin to catch up. He had no doubt that his brother would pursue him. Hopelessness assailed Falathor until he felt he was choking on it. Gasping, he leaned against a tree, gripping the harsh bark to remind himself of reality. But it was a black reality, and getting blacker.
The faint sound of music came to his ears. He wondered if he had fallen asleep after all, and this night walk was a dream. Music – it had been so long since he had heard music. When? He couldn't remember.
The noise did not fade away. It did not get much louder either, but Falathor recognized after a moment that it was not music. No; it was the soft, muffled thud of a horse's hooves. There was a rider on the Road.
Suddenly alert, Falathor crept closer to the Bridge, scanning the open space between the trees. Despite the sound and his sharp sight, it took him several minutes to pick out the traveller. A shrouded figure on a tall steed advanced softly toward the Bridge. Both were grey and barely distinguishable from the night.
Falathor's breath caught. Something about the rider nagged at his memory. It seemed impossible, considering he could barely see the person. And yet… that air of serenity and confidence mixed with caution. The loose robes and tall hat. All undeniably familiar. He felt certain this man was a friend to him, an enemy of the Orcs and the Witch-king.
The rider had almost reached the Bridge when three shadows reared up on the Road opposite Falathor. The Orc sentries, he realized with sudden panic. He had to warn the traveller!
"Who goes there?" one of them called roughly. Before anyone could utter another word, three muted sparks flashed, and the sentries fell softly to the ground. Silence reigned and Falathor collected his scattered thoughts. The man had shot fire! Only one person he knew was capable of that.
Not three feet away, an Orc burst out of the trees. "What's this?" he snarled, catching sight of the rider, "what's happened to the bloody sentries?"
Without pausing to consider, Falathor took two steps to the Orc's side. A firm grip, a twist of the arm, and the goblin collapsed, neck broken. Discarding the body, Falathor hurried to the rider, who had halted at the foot of the bridge.
"Gandalf!" he called softly, "Gandalf the Grey! How glad I am to see you!"
The head beneath its hat turned and the wizard smiled out at him. "Well, if it isn't young Falathor. Fancy meeting you here! Although if I were you, I'd be leaving now. There are bound to be more goblins about."
"Yes," Falathor said awkwardly, unwilling to explain that he had been travelling in the Orcs' company, "quite a lot more, I suspect. Where are going? What news from Fornost?"
"Ah, nothing good, I'm afraid. I am on my way to see Elrond and find out if he's willing to help. He's an old friend of mine, and I thought I might bring him 'round."
"Elrond! His aid would be invaluable. Any aid is invaluable. I fear we are sorely outnumbered…"
"Cheer up – quantity isn't everything, you know! Where the Witch-king's hordes are but numbers, we are individuals. But there's no time to chat. I must hurry on. We each have a part to play, and mine summons. Will you join me?"
Falathor's heart leapt at the prospect of Rivendell. Elven faces instead of Orcs and cheering fires in place of snow! His first impulse was to accept, but he rejected it almost as quickly. Someone would discover the dead sentries soon and guess that a traveller had passed over the Bridge. There were many miles yet to Rivendell; they would be caught before they could reach it. Unless they believed the voyager had gone the other way, to the west. Unless, in other words, there was a decoy.
We each have a part to play.
"No, Gandalf," Falathor said, "I have another errand. But I wish you luck – may you reach Rivendell well! And bring hope to Arnor!"
The wizard nodded. "I will do what I can. As we all do. Farewell, Falathor of Arthedain!" With that, he spurred his horse, and soon disappeared in the night beyond the bridge.
Falathor of Arthedain did not wait to watch. Whatever coincidence – if such it was – had orchestrated this meeting with Gandalf, it had cleared the cobwebs of uncertainty from his mind. He felt his courage and determination return. He had a task now. Everyone had a part to play, and his was entwined with the fate of his brother. He felt no fear, no regret, only a firm resolve.
He made his way stealthily back to the camp under the trees, stripping the dead Orc of sword and dagger on the way. His horse snorted softly when he approached, as if sensing his master's purpose. Lomin had deliberately put no guard on him. Falathor smiled grimly. Lomin had been overconfident, certain of his younger brother's weakness; he could not have reckoned on Gandalf to change that. Now Falathor's former powerlessness played to his advantage.
He galloped out of camp in the middle of the Road, without any attempt to hide his departure. They would follow soon, but not immediately; Lomin would no doubt find it amusing to give him a head start. Falathor counted on most of the camp to stay behind. They could not risk more than a small party. Lomin would lead it, without question.
The wind blew back Falathor's hood and bit at his cheeks. He laughed in its face.
"I've hunted you long enough, Lomin!" he shouted into the rushing air, "now it's your turn!"
