The Claiming of the Ring: Part II
by Europanya
No onslaught more fierce was ever seen in the savage world of beasts, where some desperate small creature armed with little teeth, alone, will spring upon a tower of horn and hide that stands above its fallen mate.
---The Two Towers: The Choices of Master Samwise
I
Sam stood in the shadows and drew the orc knife. He brought it to a cornerstone at the end of the passage from which he had just emerged and carved a small rune in the black rock. He rubbed it with his fingertip to see if he could find it by feel if need be. He could, so he stood and stilled his breathing to listen.
Sounds, distorted and muffled, came from far below him now. He had chosen well which passages to take out of the dungeon and to the best of his reckoning, had continued to progress ever more upwards and outwards. Only twice now had he passed an orc at a fair distance. Each time he had drawn the cloak hard about him, knife at the ready, and had hidden crouched in the darkest corner. He made no sound as he progressed through the maze of passages, turn after turn, marking the cornerstones as he went so he could find his way back.
Twice on this long journey, Sam had been forced to leave his master behind. After many long hours of thought, Sam had come to the difficult conclusion that the cloak could not hide two, and that he would move faster and fool the guards longer if he went alone. If he could find a clear way out first, then he might have a better chance of freeing them both. Still, nothing hurt more than the thought of Mr. Frodo waking confused and frightened without Sam to comfort him. He hoped that his choice would not end in folly this time and that Frodo lay quiet, unaware of his absence. But he could not think about his master lying alone on the cell floor and keep his legs moving forward, so he pushed those thoughts back into his sore heart and listened to the echoes.
A flight of stairs rose in a passage to his left and Sam took them as quickly as he dared. To his surprise, the walls began to glow with a faint source of light as he climbed higher. Presently, the stairs levelled out into an empty turret of four long slit windows whistling in the winds, cooling the sweat on his skin. A hard red light cut through them, angling to the flagstones.
Sam skirted the nearest wall and peered out cautiously, hoping he'd found the first level above ground. The lofty view presented to him only proved his worst fears and sent his heart into his belly. The broken edge of the Ephel Dúath stretched southward to his right against an ash-choked, fiery sky. Below plunged many hundred feet of black stone and smoky torchlight, flickering among seemingly endless windows, spires, gates and battlements. Barad-dûr was his jailer, and he was a crow's flight from the ground.
Sam felt sick and stepped back from the window to regain himself. Where did you think the Dark Lord would put you? In a pony stable? You knew where you were all along. But how are you ever to find a way out? It's near nine-hundred feet to the bottom if it's a yard. You've been gone from your master past an hour and all you've found is a window. Four of them at that. But your feet brought you here a-purpose, so's best have a look out the rest.
Window by window, Sam surveyed the oppressive view and began to get some hold on his position within the fortress. The dungeon which he had mistaken for underground, appeared to be a confusing windowless maze of cells and corridors winding into the core of the structure, making it difficult for prisoners to find a way out. What hadn't made much sense was its lack of use for a kingdom at war. But Sam did not waste his time pondering this now.
Sam tried to remember everything he could about the Dark Tower from their trek across the barren planes and distant whispered warnings uttered by Gandalf or Aragorn. How he wished one of them was here now to counsel him. But he doubted that even Gandalf could have seen this end for them. He could recall looking at the Tower from a great distance just a handful of days ago, grateful they needn't go any closer.
It seemed to him he was now standing within the highest pinnacle, where the main tower tapered and culminated in that terrible pulsing eye. Sam did not want to think where that was and hoped he would never see it. How he would ever find his way down the many turns and labyrinths of this terrible place in time to carry Frodo out, Sam had no earthly idea. Once they discovered him gone, no doubt every orc in Mordor would be set upon their re-capture. See then if you'd find yourself bound by just your wrist.
At the fourth and last window, whatever glimmer of hope Sam had been futilely clinging to faded entirely. This window faced to the East and Sam could see the angry red line of fire that stretched across Gorgoroth from the great crack in the mountain. The lava flowed along a canal that poured its evil down into a fathomless glowing moat surrounding the Tower's base. Tens of thousands of orcs, Southrons, Easterlings and Haradrim swarmed below, spilling out of the iron foregate, across the great black bridge and onto the plains. The fell armies marched like beetles for many miles out to the distant Black Gate, vanishing in the gloom. There would be no escape.
Sam's knees gave out and he slid to the stones, dropping the knife beside him with a clatter. I'm really here, aren't I? Not a dream at all. Sam saw himself now as only a tiny drop of life cast to float or drown in an unforgiving sea. Weary beyond measure with starvation and toil, his exhaustion fell upon him like a headstone and blackness took over his mind. He sat motionless, staring ahead into the intersected rays of red window light.
Over some minutes, sense came back to him and the first thought Sam mustered was that he would not die upon an orc blade. Nor would he live to see Frodo become a guest of the Round Room. Gollum had no doubt known this place as Sam could recall evidenced by the long scars criss-crossing his paper-thin hide. Death had been a mercy for him; death would be a mercy for them all.
He'll not have us for sport. I don't care how all-powerful this Dark Lord may be. He'll not have us! But if you give up now, Samwise, this will sure be your end and worse an end for your master. So on your feet!
As Sam rose, he could see Frodo on a distant road walking in the sunlight. His master's eyes were bright and clear; a walking stick was in his hand and not a care in the world on his shoulders. "Come along, Sam. Don't fall too far behind." Sam could still hear that kind voice and remember how he ran up to meet him, taking his hand, ready for their first journey together, so many summers ago. That the horror of their capture had driven that voice from his master's lips helped Sam reach beyond his despair. From someplace deep in his hobbit's constitution, Sam found a will strong enough to believe that he might yet escape the most terrible prison Middle-earth had suffered to build in three ages.
You've followed him your whole life. But now he needs you to find a way for him. He can't call to you no more. What's done is done. Tears will only make things the worse. He wouldn't want you wasting your strength crying over it.
Now use your head. Dad would say to you, "If you can't find your way down a mountain, Samwise, then best you turn 'round and go up." This tower ain't floating in the air. It's got its back up against that mountainside. We'd seen it at a distance. Maybe there's a door. A back way like at Bag End for when Bilbo's troublesome relation came calling. Dark Lords must have relation, too, don't they?
With no clear plan in his head other than "up," Sam left the turret, the orc knife in his grip. Though the need to hurry back to Frodo before it was too late weighed hard upon him, Sam could not yet accept defeat. At the base of the stairs he moved on in a fresh direction, away from the dungeon maze.
Sam soon found himself on a passage which wound up an incline along the right-hand curve of the Tower. At the end of it, he came to an archway at the beginning of a flight of unusually tall steps rising high into the topmost reaches of the Tower. The stones were cut from a different rock and polished much more smoothly than the rest. Torchlight splashed across them like sunset on a frozen pond. It seemed to him a voice spoke deep inside his head, telling him to take those stairs for good or ill.
Well, I said 'up,' and 'up' there is still to go. I'll climb it even if the Eye itself is waiting for me.
Sam climbed the flight in the truest sense, for his legs were too short to clear them standing upright. It was a long struggle and he was growing more tired after each scramble and pull. He was dizzy again and panting hard when he cleared the last step and saw that he had come to a landing with three massive sealed doors. Each were inscribed with flowing script that wavered in the flickering light of a large circular fire pit. He could not read the runes, but took them for some form of twisted Elvish. He pressed his hand to all three, giving a little shove, but all were sealed as fast as the doors of Moria. Convinced he had come to a dead end, Sam turned to leave when he heard a voice in his head, clear as day, say: Hide and wait.
Although he could not explain it, Sam felt the voice was speaking to him for the good and that he should heed it. Hide where? Sam asked and looked about. To the left of the three doors a stone had fallen, creating a narrow cleft between itself and the wall. Sam made for this and crawled underneath the massive block, hoping it was wedged sturdily. Then he laid his chin on his arms and waited.
II
To his dread, Sam soon heard footfalls ascending the passage. Peering through the shadows of his hiding place, Sam could see the approaching figure of a tall man dressed in polished armour of many intricate plates. At once, he was reminded of the Black Riders, except that this servant of the Enemy was very much alive.
The man paused before the central door and uttered words in a harsh tongue that sent a chill through Sam. The ground shook and Sam could see the centre door tremble and slide open to allow the man entrance. Before he did so, the man turned his head and sniffed the air as if something offended him. Sam tensed, but the man passed through the door and the stone resealed itself.
After the door quieted, Sam could hear the snarl of orc voices coming up the stairs below. Two of the creatures were speaking with each other in their rude, gruff manner. Sam pulled the corner of his hood back from his ear to listen.
"Why's the Lieutenant cracking the seal on the armoury?" asked an orc with a rasping voice. Sam could see their shadows against the wall, but their forms remained just beyond the curve of the passage.
"His Lordship's made a request for him to send out a weapon from the ancient days. The sword of the Golden King, I hear. He means to take it with him when he rides to claim the enemy's city next dawn," answered the other.
"Is it one of those nasty elf blades? I had to carry one up last night. Small it was, but full of trickery and elf-light. I can't get the bite of it off my hands." Sam could see the orc twist its claws together in the shadow on the wall.
"His Lordship's armoury ain't for your hands, worm. But I heard this was a powerful tark weapon, hammered before the world was remade. They say his Lordship's foe is of the ancient blood."
It was now that Sam understood the Dark Lord had not only reclaimed the Ring but had taken physical shape once more. He had ridden out to face his enemies, and was now preparing to claim the last stronghold of the race of men in Middle-earth.
The ground rattled again and the Lieutenant emerged from the door bearing a long jewelled scabbard of dark leather. He paused again, looking about and called one of the orcs to him.
"Arknag, come see about this smell. I'll not suffer such a stench to linger so near his Lordship's quarters."
The orc bowed to the Lieutenant. "What stench, my lord?"
The Lieutenant grasped the orc by his leather strappings and raised him with one hand until his feet dangled. "Clear your nose, maggot, and find it!" he ordered and threw the orc to the ground. The orc grovelled and whimpered upon the stones until the armoured man left the Hall of the Doors and descended the passage. The orc stood up and gave a cursory sniff of the air, then sniffed himself, shrugged and moved doggedly after them.
Sam lay still and waited until their footfalls were no longer heard. He slipped out of his hiding place and returned to the central door. He touched it and on a whim uttered what he thought was close to the same words the Lieutenant had spoken. When nothing happened on the fourth try, Sam sighed and made to leave.
Ash ghash krim! the voice in his head commanded. As Sam felt the words leave his lips unbidden, the door shuddered and split at his summons and Sam passed quickly within.
The light was very dim inside. Sam stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He was in a large domed room, the sparse glow of Mordor's red sky filtered down through the thick stained glass that ornamented the dome. The curved walls of the enclosure were hung with weapons of every size and kind Sam could name, and many he couldn't: swords, knives, crossbows, axes, scimitars, morning stars, flails and others. Some were polished and fair, others blackened and crude. Although he could not have known it, Sam stood within a circle of the finest weaponry forged since the world was made. These were armaments collected from Sauron's fallen enemies; some were thousands of years old and still readied for battle.
In the centre of the room stood a pedestal and upon it rested a flawless black stone sphere. Sam felt drawn to it and stepped closer across a finely woven carpet of ancient symbols and runes. The stone was not much larger than his head but looked to weigh many pounds. Without having a clear notion of what he did or why, Sam toed his way up the ornate pedestal so he could reach his hand out to touch it. The centre of the stone lit up with a bright blue flame. Sam was fearful he'd make his presence known. All the same, he clung to his perch, fixated by the swirling colour that grew until it lit the entire sphere.
The flame flashed and an image took its place. Sam saw a vast grassy plain laid waste by the marching of many iron-shod feet and the grinding wheels of siege engines drawn by trolls more enormous than the one Sam had helped fight in Moria. There were hundreds of these beasts all pulling and marching with the armies Sam had seen pouring from the Dark Tower's gate. Ahead of this black mass stood the white walls of a city on a mountainside. Fair and brave it looked, banners flowing in the winds, as it faced its encroaching foe.
Another flash and the scene changed to reveal that same city corrupted by black smoke and ringed with fire rising from pits carved into the fields around it. Before Sam's mind could absorb the vision, he was shown another of tall masted ships of many sails journeying up a great river from the sea. On one of these ships he saw a sword, long and proud, held in the grip of a mighty warrior, helmed and dressed for battle.
The next flash showed Sam a view he had seen before of the Black Gates, now cracked open and spilling forth with armies of orcs and fell men too vast to count. They flooded the surrounding plains and Sam believed he saw large birds like eagles flying over these foes and screeching into the winds.
The rest came more quickly and in such hurried succession, that Sam could not recall all the images until later. For within these were now intermingled the faces of those he had travelled with and loved: Pippin, Gandalf, Aragorn, each bent as if they held something heavy in their hands. The rest were pictures of war and of the slaying of many thousands of men bearing the splay of the White Tree upon their breastplates. They lay in the dust, bleeding into the parched ground, their banners fallen about them. He saw what he believed to be their ghosts marching behind the raised sword of that great warrior Sam had seen upon the ship; ever marching, ever on.
Then suddenly Aragorn's face filled the stone. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips curled in wrath. "Show yourself!" he demanded. "Remove your hood and be known to me!"
Aragorn's voice snapped Sam from his trance and he stumbled back to the floor, knocking his wounded head on the carpet. It hurt all the same. He groaned and shook his head, unaware that the images in the stone were true and had travelled both ways. That was a fool thing to do. What's gotten into your head? You'd best get out of this place before you sound the alarm.
Sam got to his feet and hurried back toward the door, which had remained open. Sam had not known the words to seal it and the voice in his head had offered no suggestions. He passed a richly carved chair and a glint of blue caught his eye in the shadows. He stopped and looked to it.
"Sting!" he cried aloud, as if greeting an old friend. The sword lay in a small pile of larger weapons awaiting their turn to be hung upon the outer walls. The sword was still in its scabbard and Sam could see it was in fine condition, glowing a healthy blue as he drew it. This did not surprise him much as he knew every step he took from here on would be choked with orcs. He buckled the belt about his waist and sheathed the sword.
Just beyond the chair where Sting had lain was a low stone table inset with glass. Jewels of some sort lay inside it. Curious, Sam stepped around the chair and peered in for a closer look. The display held three small silver rings each set with a dark-green gem that glinted in the dim light. The table was meant to hold seven, the remaining indentations lying vacant as if they'd been recently pinched by a thief. Sam wondered why he'd be puzzled by this when so many matters of greater importance loomed over him, but he paused to consider it carefully: three of seven… Something Gandalf had said in Rivendell struck him to the marrow and the wildest impulse Samwise Gamgee of the Shire ever fostered came over him. He drew Sting from its sheath and taking the hilt in both hands, smashed the glass top of the display into shards, plucking the three rings up in his palm. He held them for a moment before slipping them carefully into a pocket of the orc tunic.
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone. If these were indeed the three Sauron had reclaimed, Sam surmised, then he had found the reason he was meant to enter this secret chamber.
"Fancied yourself a parting gift?"
Sam jumped at the orc's rasp behind him. It had returned as ordered with mop and bucket to clean up the unidentified stench and had found its source quite easily. Sting in his hands, Sam turned and swung, the blade cutting sharply through the mop handle that dropped from the orc's claws.
As Sam recovered his balance, the orc grabbed a curved black scimitar lying on a nearby display. It swung a return blow at him and met edge for edge against Sting, blades sparking in the dim light. The shock of the blow numbed Sam's arms and toppled him back off his feet. He ducked and rolled as the orc sliced the air yet again. This orc was a few hands taller than Sam and heavier. Sam knew he did not have the advantage and got to his feet, running backwards to draw some distance between them.
The orc did not pursue him, but rather bent its gnarled knees and positioned itself between Sam and the exit, grimacing and spitting at the stones. "Come on! Give us a fight! Give me something to mop up, eh?"
Grab a stone! Grab a stone! When faced with a mightier foe, all hobbits are taught to stoop and pick up a rock. Sam quickly scanned the walls and tables around him. Something metallic and round caught his eye. Several polished balls hung in an iron basket off to his left. Sam ran for it and with one blow of the sword, severed the leather straps that held the basket suspended, pouring the balls to the floor in a noisy clatter. They were projectiles meant for a trebuchet, but Sam knew nothing of mechanised warfare and stooped behind a stone chest to load his fist.
"Where you gone? Where you hiding? Come on out and meet my pretty blade!"
Sam stayed low and weighed the ball in his hand, his hobbit's instinct measuring force and trajectory. He sucked in a breath and stood, hurling the object dead-even for the orc's forehead, knocking it to the floor with a nice smack of iron on bone. The orc lay motionless. Sam gasped in chuckled amazement at his accuracy. It had been many a day since he'd broken bottles with Jolly on the sheep fence in Bywater. You've still got your arm, Sam. Ol' Bill Ferny would agree, too!
Sam wiped the sweat from his forehead and caught his breath. Then, with Sting in one hand and a fresh projectile in the other, he went and stood over the orc's fallen form. It still breathed and Sam made short work of the orc with Sting across its throat. Sam tucked the iron ball into the free pocket opposite the rings, wiped his blade on the rug, and left the mess for some other creature to mop up.
III
Three hours had passed since he left the prison, if Sam could trust his sense of time, and he had failed to find any passage which might lead up and out the top of Barad-dûr. Sam was getting very thirsty again and his legs were weakening from lack of nourishment. His mind had been wandering in a waking dream for some time and he knew he could go no further unless he paused to rest.
Sting glowing dully in his hand, Sam slid into the corner of a long dark corridor and shut his eyes, leaning his cheek against the stone wall. What was he to do? Your time is about gone, Samwise. You can't be leaving Mr. Frodo alone much longer. You've not got hardly anything left in you to help him. Sam felt tears stinging his eyes, though he tried to stop them. Moisture was precious and he didn't know if he would ever find water again, nor if he would need it.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Sam whispered. "I just couldn't find a way out. Please tell Ham and Hal and the girls, and Tom, Nick, Jolly, Nibs, and sweet Rosie, that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I gave up. But I couldn't leave him alone! Not even if he didn't know me. I haven't a heart to go on in this terrible world if Mr. Frodo's not in it."
Sam swallowed the pain in his dry throat and got once more to his aching feet. He walked wearily to the corner and felt for his mark. It was not where he had left it. Sam's fingers began to shake as he sheathed Sting to feel with both hands, up and down the stones, and again on the opposite side, if perchance he'd marked to his right instead of his left. No marks. The stones were untouched. Panic rose in Sam as he hurried back up the corridor to the last turning and felt again. No marks.
Confound it! Sam, you fool! When did you stop checking turns? In his exhaustion, Sam had lost count and had not thought to feel the stones. No! No!
He tugged at his hair and slapped his cheeks that he might force a memory into focus. But Sam was weaker than he'd allowed himself to believe and while his body had forced itself along the many passages, his mind had drifted, unable to keep a clear reckoning of where he had come from or gone. The last Sam could recall was passing a hall of six archways where he knew he had marked the leftmost doorway. He knew it! That was where he had gone wrong. He had to locate the six arches or he would never find his way back. And that was the worst fate Sam could ever imagine, to become lost and never see Frodo again.
Sam's heart beat rapidly, making him light-headed as he trotted back, trying to retrace his steps. He went for close on half another hour checking stone after stone. But he was utterly lost and had let go of his very last hope. Of all ends, you deserve the worst, Samwise. Why did you think you should leave him? Why? Had you not learned your lesson the first time?
But Sam's scolding died in his head at the sound of drums beating deep below him. There were shouts of orcs and the running of many feet echoing through the stones both above and below. Something had stirred them to riot and Sam had a terrible idea of what that could very well be. He drew Sting and ran toward the turns that would bring him closer to their noisy swarm.
Horns blew in many pitches, commingling into a dissonance that pounded Sam's ears. He was close on a troop of them now, their torches glowing red along the stone corridor just ahead. He lagged behind them, following their lead until at last he came to the six arches and there found his mark. As he predicted, the orcs had turned down the marked passage and Sam followed them. Around and about the dungeon maze they went, but it was not as far to the centre as the way Sam had first found. The orcs were more acquainted with the turns. Soon, Sam knew they were not far from the square room just outside their cell.
Sam stopped at the final turn and pulled the cloak about him, keeping low. Peering around the corner, he saw their cell far at the end, and dark dread filled him. The cell door was open and orcs were swarming in and out of it. The orc he had felled lay out on the floor, kicked about and stripped for clues. The orcs were shouting and much pushing and flashing of knives could be seen--each trying to blame the other for his escape. There were so many foul creatures about, Sam could not spy Frodo among them.
Sam strained to catch any useful words in their growling chatter. He heard "chained the rat" and "dragged off" among the curses and hissing. The realisation struck like a spear in Sam's chest: they'd already taken Frodo away. But where? Before Sam could wonder about what to do, he heard another crew of orcs approaching up the corridor behind him. The space was narrow here, and too well lit for Sam to hide. White panic rose in him faster than any hard words he might give himself, when the voice returned to him: the rings, use the rings!
Rings? Bless him, he'd forgotten. Without giving much thought to what they might be for or what they might do, Sam jammed his hand in the pocket of the tunic and fiddled around until all three were slipped on separate fingers. Many things happened at once. Sam was first aware that when he held up his hand to examine the placement of the rings, he could not see it. Secondly, his vision swam with faint images layered one upon another in confusion. He saw cliffs and plains and forests and armies and darkness and fire altogether as the troop of orcs ran past him, a blur of arms and legs and leather boots. Sam staggered back so they would not trip over him in their haste. He pressed his back to the wall, feeling a jolt of thrilling power rush into his wasted limbs. The thirst that had plagued him for days eased out of knowledge. His mind grew sharp and clear, renewed with determination. I can find him. I will. Sam Gamgee was master of three Rings of Power, armed with an Elven sword in the Dark Tower of Mordor, and no one was going to stop him from reclaiming his master, not a thousand orcs or more.
IV
Sam took a moment to blink the confused ring images from his sight. He discovered that he could ignore the sundry visions if he turned his mind from them and set about taking charge of the situation. A small snivelling orc, who had been given a nasty cut from a punch in the teeth, stumbled back from the fray. Sam leapt upon it and soon had its arm pinned to its back, Sting at its throat. The orc thrashed and spit at the air, screeching.
Sam pressed the glowing blade against its hide. Sting, the orc could see, but the rest of Sam was invisible to mortal eyes. "I am the ghost of an elf warrior killed by your kind. I haunt this dungeon. You'll listen to me or else lose your head."
"Yes, yes," the frightened orc gasped.
"Tell me where they've taken the little elf prisoner, my kin."
"The prisoner? He's gone to the Round Room. They carried him off."
"When?"
"Some time ago!"
"You take me to him!" Sam snarled into the hairy pointed ear. "I'll let you go, but if you stray more'n a step, I'll clean your shoulders of your filthy head."
The orc whimpered and shook, truly frightened. Sam loosened his grip on the orc's arm, keeping Sting tight in his grasp. To the orc, Sam appeared no more than a floating blue blade.
"Go on!" Sam snapped. "Show me."
The orc began to slink along the wall toward the commotion in the cell room. "No! Not that way!" Sam growled, yanking the creature back by its long arm. "Another way. A secret way. You'll know of one, I'll bet."
The orc shuddered, its yellow eyes bright with fear. It slobbered and choked, "Yes, yes. I know which way. Don't hurt me!"
Sam kept Sting's glow near the creature's head as it turned about and made for the passage he'd come up from. The orc led Sam through the turns of the maze until they came to a storage room. Inside were straw bales, barrels, rags and a cistern of stagnant black water. Chains and restraints of various kinds hung on hooks along the walls. The orc lurched to the end of the room where a cabinet was built into the stones. It opened the doors to reveal a dark shaft with two thick long chains dropping away into blackness. The orc reached in with a long bony arm and yanked a wire. A shudder sounded from within and Sam feared the beast had summoned an alarm.
"Hi, what are you about? I said no trickery!"
The orc raised its hands as Sam nudged it between the shoulder blades with Sting. "It's a way. Another way down to the lower chambers. You asked that I show you a secret way!" it pleaded, cowering before the bluish gleam. "I have to call the box. Ow!"
A wooden box soon appeared, brought to their level from somewhere above on the grinding chains. Sam had never seen the likes of it. It was small. No more than four foot square. It waited for them.
"What is this?" Sam demanded, swishing Sting about.
"It's the supply lift! It will take us down!"
"Down where?"
"The Round Room!"
"Fine, then," Sam said. "Get in."
"Get in?" the creature moaned.
"Aye, and I'll be close." He pointed the sword at the orc's eye. "No mischief now."
"None, none!" it pleaded, backing into the tight space.
Sam shoved it to the wall with his shoulder as he squeezed in after. If the orc knew Sam held a physical shape, it made no attempt to touch him and remained cowered as far back as it could in the box, shaking.
"Well, get us going!" Sam snarled. "I haven't all day."
The orc reached for an iron rod in the side of the box. It cranked the rod downwards and the lift shook to life. With a groan of long chains, they began to descend.
Sam remained crouched and tense, ready to spring in the tight space if the orc felt a rush of bravery and tried to jump him. But the creature did not prove to be any trouble and kept its stringy head low, snivelling at its long dirty toes.
Sounds echoed through the shaft as they continued to descend for many long minutes. It was clear to Sam's ears that they had left the quieter levels of the Tower and were dropping through chambers of greater activity and occupation. Screams, shouts of beasts large and small, and clanging and groaning of distant massive machines and huffing furnaces rattled the box. Sam got an occasional glimpse through the open side of passing floors: torch-lit halls, workshops and quarters filled with the shadows of busy orcs bent over their tasks. None took particular notice of the running lift as it rumbled on ever lower.
The box grew hot. The whole of the Tower was warm, but as they descended, the sweltering air grew even more unbearable. Sam felt sweat spill out of every pore; rivulets ran down his chest and legs, pooling at his feet. His chest struggled, begging for one breath of cool air. How do beasts live in this place? It's like being inside a stone oven all your life.
When Sam thought he couldn't stand the cramped heat another minute, the orc next to him lifted its scaly head and yanked the iron bar up sharply, grinding the long chains to a stop. They were behind a new set of closed cabinet doors; only a slit of light passed through, orange and bright. Without came the screams of many souls in agony, terrible to hear.
"What is this place?" Sam said in dismay.
"The Round Room!" the orc whined. "You asked to come here!"
"I did," Sam said, leaning to peer through the crack. Many orcs marched about bearing long poles mounted with hooks and barbs. Beyond them and between them, Sam saw many forms of naked whipped flesh: prisoners. "Open it!" Sam ordered, nudging the back of the creature's skull with the flat of the blade.
The orc shuffled forward and pushed open the doors. Sam gasped at the sheer size of the cavern before him. It was a great hollow room, many hundred feet across and over a hundred feet high. Perfectly round it was to Sam, like the inside of an overturned bowl--a bowl made of smooth black rock carved by volcanic belchings thousands of years old. This was a place buried deep in the mountainside. The cut black stone floor of the space was occupied with instruments and mechanisms of torture, the uses of which Sam could never have imagined were they not before his own eyes. Greasy timber constructions mounted with iron bars, wheels and spikes stood side by side with garrotte poles, stocks and narrow cages. Iron bands and chains hung like tentacles along the circular walls. At the chamber's centre was a great glowing pit, thirty feet across, simmering and rippling with hot red light.
There was so much activity, a hundred orcs or more and twice as many prisoners, Sam could hardly understand what he was seeing all at once and remained still, all too aware of the endless chorus of screams upon screams of men and elves captured here in this very heart of hell. Oh, that I would live to see this…but I must. If I have to look into the face of every prisoner until I find him, I must. So swallow your heart, Sam, and step out.
Sam slid down from his cramped hideaway to stand on numbed feet. The orc who had delivered him stayed in the box. As soon as the orc was certain the blue glow had passed, it slammed the cabinet shut and cranked the lift up and away. But Sam was only half aware of this as he concealed Sting in the folds of his cloak and searched for his reflection in the shimmering glare of a fallen polished shield. There was nothing to see. He was hidden as long as the blade was covered. He stepped forward along the curving path past the constructions, careful not to stumble into an orc on his invisible legs.
The horrors Sam witnessed as he darted and slipped along the blood-stained stones would be certain to haunt his dreams. Prisoners, stripped bare as he and Frodo had been, were being led about shackled with chains at their wrists and ankles. Most were linked into gangs with fellow soldiers; others were led alone on long poles with iron collars fastened about their necks. They were being organised into long lines of standing victims awaiting their torments on the racks and ravaging machines. Sam wished he did not have to look into their eyes. Too many of them reminded him of Aragorn or Legolas, tall and proud. Many screamed in terror and others, mostly the elves, stood calm and still, heads held high as they bravely faced their fates. Many were wounded and bleeding, some begging for water; others hung limp in their bindings, dragged along amidst the trudging feet of their comrades.
Sam did not want to see how some where strapped into chairs of iron nails, or locked into banded masks, spikes of steel forced into their mouths. He did not want to look at the ones who were hung by their legs from horizontal poles and slowly sawn in half by masked orcs with long two-handled saws, nor the ones who were forced to sit upon pyramid pinnacles, or lowered by pulleys--ankles forced apart--onto heated spikes, or those straining against long angled boards sliding and tightening the garrottes twisted about their throats. Sam had never known or guessed such things could exist, that some fell mind had called upon craftsmen to build such machines, or that such terrible constructions were being used, day and night, without rest. Fires burned every few feet with glowing coals to heat the ends of iron poles and claws for the burning and tearing of skin and sinew. The stench of cooking hair and flesh filled the room and Sam had to breathe through his mouth to keep from retching.
Sam did not want to look, but he did. It was in this place that he had to find the dearest person in the world to him, even if it tore his soul apart in the searching. Sam hoped he had arrived ahead of the orcs who held Frodo captive, perhaps still marching down the long passages and stairwells to this place. He looked about for entries or doors, but none could be seen. The walls were smooth and seamless. Sam's fears deepened when he passed by the many stations of torture and came to the stone lip of the great pit; for here he saw how the prisoners were brought in.
There was a black crack near the apex of the cavern roof. It was so high above Sam's head it looked very small at first like a rat hole in a barn. As he watched, the glow of the molten pit flashed against something shiny lowering steadily on long black chains ever downwards from the opening. As it drew closer Sam could see it was a great iron cage, packed back to chest with prisoners, pressed tightly together, limbs flailing from the bars as it descended.
As the cage neared the pit, orcs swung out hooked poles and caught the bars, pulling the cage in and onto a platform enclosed within three high walls, open on the side that faced the lip of the pit. The cage clanged and echoed as it came to rest on the stones. The padlocked door was soon manned by a line of orcs who unlocked and opened it, mercilessly pulling the chained prisoners out onto the platform within the shadows of the three walls, cracking bones and strangling necks should any two or several have the misfortune to become entangled in the journey down.
The chained men and elves were marched past a tall armoured man wearing a bright red cloak. He sorted the prisoners this way and that with shouts in a harsh language Sam could not understand. Some were separated from the crowd and led out through a barred door in one of the walls to the torture ring, while others were made to wait near the edge of the pit. Once sorted, the orcs slipped out through the iron door, locking the prisoners left behind them on the platform. Then the cage was raised and hoisted back upwards towards the roof hole, empty.
Sam did not at first understand why these prisoners had not been led away to torment. But the answer came soon enough when he heard the lashing of whips and the low grunts of a large beast. Two great mountain trolls rose to their feet from the shadows, clamped in irons and chains. Urged on by their wardens with long pointed poles, the trolls set their shoulders upon the rearmost wall and slowly shoved it forward, narrowing the platform. The prisoners screamed and cursed, throwing themselves against the moving wall as their space narrowed. Foot by foot the wall grinded forward until their clinging mass could no longer fit upon the shrinking stones. The first prisoners soon slipped over the lip of the pit and hung by their chains over the fire. More and more fell, unbalancing the weight, until the ones left standing lost their footholds and all fell together down into the depths of burning rock, liquefied in a leaping flash.
Sam witnessed this all from where he stood, invisible, on the opposite side of the pit. He now understood why the upper dungeons were bare. Prisoners who mercifully succumbed to their tortures were likewise unlocked and collected in hand carts pushed by orcs who dumped them into the seething pit.
Sam swallowed his revulsion and forced his legs to move again, back to the racks and poles, shutting his mind against the horrors about him. Now that he knew how prisoners were brought in he could check and check again that he had not missed Frodo among the rest.
Sam circuited the whole of the cavern twice, eyeing every post, chain and shackle. Time was passing and still his master had not arrived. It struck Sam cold that perhaps the orc that had brought him here had been mistaken and Frodo had been taken to some other location where he was being tormented in private. Or even worse, mixed up in the chains and pulled by mistake into the pit. This sent a trembling into Sam so hard he didn't realise that Sting had come loose from the folds of the cloak and was glowing brightly at his side.
"Spits and nails! What's that glowing?" growled an orc, leading a line of prisoners.
"What glowing?" another orc replied, bringing up the end. Sam pulled up the blade and tucked it under his arm to conceal it. He backed slowly away from the orcs who had stopped their quarry to search the stifling air for another sign.
"It's these elves. Aarck! They're full of sneaky tricks. Keep 'em moving! Don't look for it!"
Sam backed slowly away and in his haze of dread and fear came up short against a timber base, rattling the chains of the strangled captive swinging blue above him. Oh, dear Master. How am I to save you from this place? Would I were a real elf or wizard so I might set a spell to find you. No sooner had Sam thought these words when he moved his fingers together to feel the presence of the three rings on his left hand. Sam was reminded of the images he'd seen in his mind's eye when he first put them on and now called upon them, asking if by some ill-understood magic he might be shown his master's face. Images gathered before his vision, layered over layer and confused. Most of them were of soaring over battle plains and tree tops or mountain crags. He thought he could see the world's winds blowing. Master, where are you?
Then Sam was shown a vision he recognised. He shut his eyes, willing his mind to focus on it. It was of the great pit in the centre of the room as seen from some height. Up! Look up! He opened his eyes, tilting his head to scan the high walls. Above and behind him some ways off hung a small barred cage. If Sam were to look from its interior he would have seen the fire pit from its advantage. Up there? he thought. Is my master in that cage?
Abandoning the idea that he had arrived ahead of Frodo, Sam made his way past the tortured souls back to the far curve of the wall where this single cage hung some eight feet from the ground. The small square prison was hoisted on a bar and pulley that stood out from the wall and was tied by a thick rope to an iron rung in the floor. A pair of muscular orcs stood below the shadow of the cage, scimitars drawn. They were guarding something held aloft within those black bars.
Sam tiptoed around them at a fair distance, trying to catch a glimpse of a foot or hand above. But he could see nothing but an old arm bone caught in the bars of the padlocked door. How was he to climb up and see? Sam wanted to call out but could not be sure, even if Frodo were inside, that his call would be heard and answered.
Sam crept about and watched the guards. They did not speak to one another nor did they stray from their vigilant watch. The only thing they did not watch closely was the rung behind them, where the rope was tied fast. The rope. If Sam could climb it and swing out, at least he would know if Frodo was held here.
Sam took the chance and carefully sheathed Sting in order to free his hands. He gave the orcs a wide berth and came around behind them along the cavern wall. There he took the rope in his hands, getting a feel for it. It was of a good sturdy weave and fibre, easy to grip. Sam might not have been the truest at descending a cliff face by rope, but he could climb one at need.
He took the rope in both hands, and bracing one foot against the wall, began to haul himself up. The distance was not far, but it took some time to climb it stealthily. His weight on the rope sent the cage swinging after a few pulls and he had to pause to let the line calm. Were it not for the power of the rings he wore, Sam would not have had the strength to hold still for so long between efforts. All the while he watched the backs of the orc's heads to see if they'd notice the strange tremble on the rope. They didn't. Sam made the height of the rope and gripped the suspension bar, wrapping his legs around it from underneath. He inched along upside down until he was over the top of the cage. There he swung his legs down, landing a little noisily on the flat roof.
The orcs heard the sound and one of them looked up and grimaced at the shaking cage. Sam held very still until both the orc and the cage settled down. He lay flat on his belly and dipped his head over the roof's edge to peer into the cell. Bless the Lady! The vision was true. Frodo lay inside, curled up against the remains of something long dead and turned to scraps of rag and bone.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam whispered, hoping Frodo could hear him. "It's Sam. I've come back!"
Frodo did not move. Sam could not tell in the dim light if he breathed or not, though his skin still held the same pallid tone Sam remembered when he'd last left his side. Of course he's alive. The orcs know it's their heads if he ain't!
Sam lay there some moments debating his situation. First he had to get inside, then he had to find a way to get himself and Frodo out. He thought he could make for the lift which had brought him here. The cabinet was not terribly far from where they now hung. He knew he would have to move slowly and quietly until the last possible moment not to be detected.
Sam wriggled across the roof until he could hang his head over the door. The cage was not deep, so he was able to grasp the heavy padlock and haul it up along the bars to rest against the roof. Sam tried to jiggle and jam it about with his invisible hands, but the longer he held the lock, the more it drew from the power of the rings Sam wore and soon faded and vanished; an unnerving and difficult problem. Either way, the lock was solid and true. Sam wondered if he could strike it in two with Sting, though that would create much noise and a flash of light. He reached for his belt to attempt it when his fingers rattled the invisible chain of keys he'd been carrying since leaving the dungeon. Well, if you're not the worst of the addle-headed numskulls. Keys, Samwise! And careful that you don't drop them with your not-all-here hands.
Sam unbuckled the belt and slipped the key ring off and onto his wrist by feel. But try as he might, he could not fumble about invisibly for their shapes and proper ends to fit in the lock. He'd have to take off the rings. Sam scooted back from the roof's edge and slipped the first ring off his index finger. Immediately, he could discern the dim edges of himself. Just enough to see the keys and the lock he was set upon opening.
Sam slipped the extra ring in his pocket and slunk forward, the cloak hood over his head, to try to free the lock. The padlock was old and stiff and would not take just any key. Sam tried the lot of them, one after another, until a slim copper key slid in fairly well and wedged against the tongue, just moving it. Sam tried to force it, and the lock jammed, trapping the key fast. He struggled with the end but could not get it to budge. Sam felt about in his pockets and belts for something he could use. The iron ball he'd lifted from the armoury drew his attention and he pulled it out, weighing it in his hand.
Sam slid the elven cloak past his shoulder and onto the metal roof. He angled the lock against it and, raising the projectile over his head, gave the key a sharp hit. The impact was muffled by the cloth, but made a sound nevertheless. He peered below, but the orcs did not look up. Sam wiggled the key and noticed it had given some, so he lifted his arm and struck again. The lock made a clicking noise and released, but the key broke in half, falling over the edge and striking the ground with a bright 'ting!' Sam pressed flat against the cell roof and held his breath.
One of the orcs turned its head at the sound of the fallen key but didn't bother to investigate. Instead, it raised its scimitar and pounded it into the base of the cage, shaking Sam's perch.
"Quiet up there! We'll have none of your antics! Hear me?"
Sam's blood pounded in his ears, but he lay still until the groaning metal under him stilled. The orc relaxed its grip on the weapon, as it turned to say something to the orc next to it in a strange tongue.
Moving as quickly as he dared, Sam unhooked the padlock from the bars and leaned over to inspect the door hinges. They were rusted and caked with black soot. They looked to make quite a noise upon opening. Sam couldn't take the chance. He watched the orcs below and decided what was best would be to create a diversion. Sam gripped the projectile in his hand and waited until a team of orcs leading more prisoners began to march past the cage guards. Then, Sam took aim and threw, knocking the bigger of the two orcs off its feet.
The orc fell heavily into the line of prisoners, tangling their bindings and tripping one of the chain gang leaders. An angry scuffle soon broke out between the two orders of orcs, each snarling at the others about who fell onto whom first. "Drunken snakes! Keep your hairy legs and arms to yourselves, we've orders to fill!"
Sam reached down and threw open the cage door with a screech. He swung himself down and in, drawing the door closed after him. He peered out fearfully, but the guards were too busy fighting amongst their own kind to notice any goings on overhead. Forgetting them now, Sam crawled to Frodo who lay with his bare arm around a partial corpse upon the flooring. Sam pushed the bones aside and lifted his master up and hugged him close in relief, a sob seizing his throat. Frodo lay limp, but air escaped his lungs in a faint sigh as Sam crushed him to his chest.
"It's Sam, dear master. It's Sam. I've come back for you," he wept, holding him, clutching his hair. Sam's tears fell on Frodo's skin as he pressed his lips to the pale cheek and forehead, for the moment lost in the simple happiness of finding his master alive after such a dire search.
When he could stand to loosen his hold on Frodo some, Sam lowered him into his lap. His master's chin and chest were red and bruised as if he'd been dragged for a distance. A new brown stain ran from his lips to his neck as if they'd forced him to drink once again. Sam felt a rage rise in him. How he wanted to find them, each and every foul hand that had brought hurt to this fairest and gentlest of hobbits. He'd find them and they'd know what a hobbit was made of. But vengeance could not be served on this day. Sam had a more urgent task at hand, getting Frodo down and away. He knew it would be easier if Frodo could stand on his own.
Sam stroked his master's matted hair back from his brow and began to plead. "Please wake up, Mr. Frodo. Please wake up. I need your help." He warmed the pale cheeks with strokes of love and patience until Frodo's eyes stirred behind their lids and fluttered open. "I need you to get up now. We can't rest here. Not yet," Sam said, smiling in relief. But that smile soon faded when he saw the fear gathering in those lost eyes.
"Mr. Frodo, don't be frightened. It's Sam!" Frodo lifted a trembling hand in a feeble attempt to shield himself from Sam's touch.
"Oh! Mr. Frodo, wait! I forgot. I'm wearing the rings." Sam wiggled each of the remaining two off his fingers and into the base of the pocket. "I'm sorry. I forgot you can't see me very well!"
Frodo lowered his hand slowly and blinked. He turned his head to look at the bones lying on the floor, then back at Sam. A trembling came over Frodo and he made a little sound, his weak hand reaching for Sam's face. Sam took that hand and pressed it to his cheek.
"I'm not a ghost, Mr. Frodo. Those aren't my bones. Your Sam is warm and alive," he said sadly, gathering Frodo close. He murmured kind words to him until Frodo relaxed against his chest and closed his eyes, safe again. Sam wiped the tears from his cheeks on the tunic sleeve. He had to find a way to get them both down unseen. But it was certain to Sam from Frodo's state that it would be in his arms, or not at all.
"How am I to get you away from this terrible place?" Sam whispered. "There's so many of them, and so few of me. I made some poor decisions this day. And leaving you behind was the worst of them. I promise I won't let you go from my sight again. Not for a second. But give your Sam a moment to think and he'll find a way to get his feet back on the floor."
Sam sat in the gloom, holding Frodo, and tried to think as clear as he could. With the rings off his fingers, his body was feeling every inch of his exhaustion; his throat was dry and desperate for a swallow of anything wet. He'd have to put the rings back on to get them away from here, but that would terrify Frodo who could not understand. But would Frodo disappear too, if Sam but held him while he wore the rings? As the padlock had done until he let it go? He would try it now to see, for it appeared Frodo had fallen into a swoon once again.
Sam dug in the pocket and donned all three rings once more. He held Frodo with both hands spread upon his skin. Frodo began to fade, but only slightly. His form was still apparent. Perhaps he and Frodo were too big and the rings' power too weak to conceal them both. At any rate, Frodo was not faded enough to fool the hundreds of orcs swarming about the place for long. Then Sam got another idea; he took off one of the rings and placed it on one of Frodo's fingers, leaving himself two. Frodo faded a little further, but Sam now bore a pale outline of himself. Perhaps this was the best they could do.
Sam unclasped the cloak from around his neck and wrapped Frodo in it. He took off the orc belt and cinched the cloak closed around his master's wasted body. He hoped it would hide Frodo a touch better and comfort him as well. Then Sam moved the orc knife scabbard to Sting's belt along with the keys. Frodo stirred again and opened his faded eyes. Sam was glad to realise that Frodo could see him better with the ring on, and was not afraid of his dim shape. Sam tore his gaze from those needful eyes and looked to the pile of bones and rags he had kicked aside. He took the dwarf ring off Frodo and placed it back on his own finger, vanishing once again.
"Don't worry, Mr. Frodo. Your Sam's got a plan."
V
The orc wiped the back of its sore head and licked the blood from its long fingers. It knew it had not lost its footing. Something had been thrown at it, from above most like. The felled orc knocked a smaller grunt out of its way as it got to its feet, stumbling out of the chains and tripped legs. Ignoring the angry shouts of its comrades, the orc walked away to pace steadily under the shadow of the cage. If the orc was not mistaken, it looked as if the cage was dragging harder at the pulley bar, as if the weight within had increased. The cage was shifting slightly, too. And from last looks the prisoner had not been up to rolling about. The orc went over to the rope tie-off and unknotted it, lowering the cage for a look.
"Boils and Blood! Have you lost your head? You're not to lower that cage!" the orc's fellow guardsman shouted, kicking away from the squabble. "This elf-creature is special. We're not to meddle with it!"
The orc's comrade raised its scimitar over its head to stop the descent of the cell. But it soon became distracted by the opening of the iron door and the fleeting glimpse of something small and round leaping down into the shadows beyond them.
"Ai! The elf has jumped!"
"Prisoner has escaped!" the orcs began to shout. "Prisoner has escaped! Sound the alarm!"
A blare of horns went up, echoing off the round walls as the orc's comrade and several others made for the direction of the leaping shape. But this orc, head smarting from its recent blow, smelled some warning in its black snout, it would not be fooled twice.
The orc held the cage until it hovered a few feet from the floor and tied it off. Something was still in it, sprawled on the floor, but it was in shadow and hard to see. The orc also noticed that the corpse that once shared this space had taken a little flight out the open door on its own. "Where are you, stink? I'm not so blind to elf magic! Show yourself!"
The orc closed the heavy door and held it shut while it grasped the bars and shook the cage, tilting towards the torchlight for a better look. Inside lay the prisoner it had locked in this cage over an hour before, lying flat. Except it now appeared to be wearing something grey and difficult to see if not looked upon directly.
"Got dressed all by yerself, did ye?" The orc shook the bars again. "Get up!"
The prisoner raised an arm and pawed at the floor as if to move, but collapsed and stilled once again. "Garn, what a wasted little rat ye be…aaaagh!" The orc screamed for in a flash of blue, it looked down to find the claws of its left hand had dropped to its boots, shorn clean off. The iron door swung out with such a force it knocked the orc backwards. In a confusion of vision, the orc saw a blue light lift the little prisoner up and float it right out the door in a leap to the floor. The orc growled and got to its feet, grabbing its scimitar in its still-clawed hand and raced after the floating shape as it weaved into the crowds of bodies and machines glutting the place.
"Outta my way! Outta my way! This little elf is mine!" The orc growled, shoving prisoners and orcs about with its shoulders, leaving a trail of blood on them and the stones. It soon lost the fleeting shape in the congested gloom, but the startled cries of guards and executioners could still be heard as the floating elf veered through them.
"Elf magic!" the orc shouted, splattering blood as it pointed with its maimed hand. "The rat's got elf magic! You scabs! Look for him!"
There were too many faces and arms and legs to trip and shove away for the orc to keep the blue light in its sight. It was soon knocked to the floor by an angry comrade swinging a long pole at the orc's knees. From the stones, the bleeding orc saw an odd sight off in the shadows under a platform. The little elf slumped against something that was not there, but which lifted the elf's hand and chose a finger, slipping something silver upon it. And with that gesture the little elf faded into the blackness in the shadows, passing from the orc's sight.
***
Sam held Frodo to him under the slatted planking of a gallows now rumbling with the armour-clad feet of many orcs. His breath was short and laboured and his arms shook from his efforts. Without the third ring, Sam's weakness had returned and he had to catch his breath before he dared to make for the nearby cabinet and shaft. Frodo was not heavy, but he took an arm to hold over his shoulder, and that left Sam with very little balance to swing a sword at need. He'd have to get them out by dash and dive, or not at all. If he stuck to the shadows they might not be easily seen, but the orcs he'd stumbled and darted between to cross to this hiding place had taken notice of them, even if they could not quite trust their eyes nor follow their small shape very well.
With the whole of the place up in alarm, Sam knew he'd have to make a frantic run to the cabinet, leap in, and hope for the best. But what are you going to find in that shaft, Samwise? A coach at the ready? That little weasel you rode up with took off once you stepped out of the box. Don't be thinking he's sent the carrier back to you out o' courtesy. No, Sam knew he would have to call the lift and then wait. Who knew how long that wait would be or if they would be spotted. The cabinet wall stood out from the main curve of the cavern, but it didn't cast many shadows and there was hardly another plank or strip of iron between here and there. He would have to trust to luck if luck could survive in a place like this.
Sam crawled out from under the platform and pulled Frodo after him. He got them both up, Frodo over his shoulder, and ran. He nearly collided with a tall orc who veered across his path. Sam held up sharp and the creature gave him hardly a confused glance as Sam dived for the meagre shadow of the wall. Setting Frodo down a moment, he slid the cabinet doors wide. He passed a frantic hand along the inside walls, feeling about for a call lever. There wasn't one. He glanced quickly behind him to see if he'd been noticed, then stuck his head all the way in, looking this way and that. Above his head hung a long curled wire and Sam took it in his fist and tugged at it until he heard a click. The shaft groaned and the chains rattled. He listened. Far above, he could just make out the creak of the box. How long it would take to descend, he had no idea.
Sam slipped away from the cabinet and sank as far back into the shadow as he could, gathering Frodo's faint form to him and asking the White Lady of Lothlórien away in her magical wood to have a care for them, and hurry that box right down.
In his arms Frodo lay still, his faded eyes open, their gaze resting peacefully upon Sam's face. Frodo had woken up the moment Sam put the dwarf ring on him and seemed to be more alert ever since. Sam noticed how his eyes would now focus on objects beyond them, his dark brows knit in confusion. Perhaps Frodo was seeing some of those ring visions, too. Either way, Sam was glad that Frodo seemed to understand so little about what was happening around them and was not afraid as long as Sam held him.
"It will be all right," Sam whispered, not daring to look away from the fray for very long. His small hobbit's voice was drowned in the blaring of horns and running of feet, but he hoped Frodo would understand what he said all the same. "I promise, I'll keep you safe. Don't let go no matter what. I don't know how long we've got, nor if these rings are calling straight to the Dark Lord himself; but I've got to try."
A shadow passed over Frodo's cheekbone and Sam looked up sharply. The bleeding orc stood not a yard away, swinging its scimitar back and forth, its yellow eyes blinking and staring hard into their slip of shadow. Sam stood quickly and gathered Frodo up on his shoulder and moved his free hand to the sword hilt. He would not draw it unless the orc's eyes focused on something certain.
"Where are you, little rats? I can see you. I can see you." In truth, the orc could not see them. Not clearly, but for the tail of its eye which had caught a movement and knew somewhere in this space the little elves had cloaked themselves in magic. "Why you huddled in this corner, eh? The lift, is it? It's not supposed to run at this hour. Not to this level. Waiting for a ride, are we?"
The orc tore its piercing eyes from the corner and moved over to the cabinet. It slipped its head and shoulders in, black blood dripping onto the cabinet doors. It moved its head out of the shaft and made for a coal brazier, selecting a long red-hot claw and pole from the assortment.
Seeing this, Sam moved slowly away from the lift wall and out towards the pathway, looking in all directions for some sign of recognition from any of the monsters surrounding them. He watched in dread as the orc took that claw and forced the glowing end of it into the shaft, rattling the chains until it caught, snapping the long pole from its hand and up into the darkness. There was a loud shriek and grinding of distant gears as the shaft groaned and the lift came to a slow shuddering stop.
"No!" Sam shouted in disbelief and fury. That was his plan, his only plan! Why hadn't the Lady heard him? The Round Room had no doors or windows. Nothing. They were trapped and Sam knew it was only a matter of time before the evil closed in on them. His shout had turned many orc heads, so Sam held fast to Frodo and ran desperately the other way.
Go! But carefully! Sam told his legs as he ran and dodged his burdened way around the curve of the room, circling the pit of fire. Two things crossed Sam's mind: they could die quickly or they could die slowly. The choice was his and he would have to make it swiftly.
If they get close, you jump, Samwise. You jump fast and no arguing about it. He'll go with you and that's the hardest. You'll have no breath for goodbyes. But as Sam fled and heard the feet of the orcs lumbering behind him, shouting and cursing others to follow the small shadow, he could not turn fully to his right and make that final step. Somehow his feet would veer and dodge about a pillory or rack and he'd be a few feet inwards again, though still further around the circle.
Sweat dripped steady in his eyes and his heart rammed his ribs like it might escape on its own. Sam's instinct to run and hide was so strong it overrode his own decisive purpose. Before Sam Gamgee could question the sense of it, he found himself ploughing his near-invisible body into and through the legs of a line of confused and cursing orcs exiting an iron door: a door that was built into a high wall--one of three--and there was a fresh platform of prisoners between them all. Sam dived through the standing mass of naked bodies and fell onto the stones, Frodo atop him, as the iron door shut and locked.
Maybe Sam had thought to jump from this place or wait with the prisoners until the choice was no longer his. But no matter; he was here at the very edge of death and the whips of the troll-drivers were snapping in the air as the wall behind their wretched souls began to tremble. The men shouted and screamed, chained together, while the elves began their solemn chants of death.
The cage that lowered the prisoners to this precipice was still settled upon the platform. The order to retract the cell from above had been lost in the raucous confusion of the Round Room's alarms. The orcs that had followed them from the lift now came upon the barred door, demanding it be opened that they might hunt and retrieve the 'little elves' before the moving wall assigned their deaths.
The tall man with the polished armour and red cloak, whom Sam had seen earlier determining prisoner's fates, stood at the outside of the iron door and drew his long sword, challenging the bleeding orc and its comrades.
"If you let those elf-rats fall, you'll soon be next!" shouted the maimed orc.
"By whose orders?"
"By his Lordship's fury, you pox!"
"I've not heard of such orders. All elves are to burn or be defleshed. That is the law!"
"These are not like other elves! They're smaller, trickier! They stole his Lordship's Ring!"
More arguing and flashing of blades ensued, but Sam paid them little mind as he got to his feet, Frodo in his arms, and whirled about, trying to find a solution even at the last. The chained men and elves grew more frightened as they saw the wall begin to advance. They pulled and fought their bindings, rushing the wall and throwing their combined and futile weight upon it as Sam had seen the helpless prisoners do earlier.
But Sam knew something they didn't. The cage still sat on the platform. It was locked, but he knew it would likely rise soon. Frodo over his shoulder, Sam made for it until he faced the barred door, bound and locked by a heavy chain. Laying Frodo at his feet, Sam drew Sting and called upon the blessings of the Lady once more to make the Elven-blade true as he smote the chain in one hammering blow. Blue light and red sparks caught the air, but the chain fell apart, the lock clanging to the stones. Sam hurled the door open and dragged Frodo in after him and pressed them both to the centre of the floor in order to hide as best as they could.
The flash of light from Sting's unveiled blade caught the notice of some of the prisoners and they shouted in their sundry languages to turn about and make for the cage. But there was too much noise and panic for many to hear or realise the cage was now unlocked.
"Stop the wall! Stop the wall!" came a harsh cry from the other side of the stones. The helmed man was shouting to the troll drivers. But the beasts were too well trained and once they hurled their weight against the wall and started it in motion, they knew no reason to stop. The lashings and driving of metal poles only spurred them on, for no orc had ever in their lifetimes called the wall to halt once they begun. In the event a guard had been left inside, it went over with the rest, no loss to any who served in Barad-dûr.
A call went out for hooks and rope to scale the walls, while more orcs tried to force the iron door to open, but it was already blocked by the leading edge of the wall as it slowly advanced.
A handful of chained elves, who had seen Sting's flare and took it for a sign of good, were slowly making their tangled way towards the cage, dragging the panicked others along at the limits of their shackles. The leader was just able to grasp the bars of the door; it swung open in his fair bloodied hands.
From inside the cage, Sam watched the elf in indecision, one hand on Frodo's cloak, the other on the sword, ready to fight if an orc cleared that wall. He wanted to free the elves, all of them, but that would mean letting go of Frodo and the cage was now beginning to shift and grind along the floor as its baffled operators high overhead signalled the chains to retract. Their unexpected weight in what should have been an empty hoist, was pitching the barred box sideways. Sam had to scramble to keep them from falling and sliding out through the bars meant to hold larger prey.
The lead elf gripped his way, hand over hand, until he could lift a chained leg up and into the cage, his weight causing it to tip and swing, jarring against the stones in sparks. Sam danced about, trying to rebalance the weight, but his size was no match for a tethered elf who was dragging the bodies of his friends behind him as the cage rose.
More prisoners saw that the cage was open and rising and ran for it, crawling and climbing over one another until the side of the cage tipped down under the added weight and crashed into the stones. Sam fell hard and he and Frodo rolled across the flooring, coming up longways against the bars. The elf still clung, but behind him, his friends had begun to reach the limits of the disappearing platform and a few fell over the edge, dragging them one after another into the throat of the pit.
Sam held fast to Frodo and crawled along the edge of the bars until he came close to the clinging elf. If he freed this one, he thought, then the rest would fall and they would be righted. At least I'll save one, just one!
Wedged between the ever-tipping bars and the floor, Sam gripped Frodo's hood in one hand, and drew Sting in the other. With a strength Sam didn't know he possessed, he swung its biting blade through the chains that bound the elf to the shackle line. Like a snapped rope, the elf and cage released, rocking violently back into place and sending them all tumbling about its interior. Sam scrambled and held on to Frodo, who was sliding, sprawled across the floor next to him. Sam braced his feet and caught them both mid-slide, coming to rest in the centre again.
The elf did not fare so well and hung by a hand to the edge of the open door, swinging out over the fire. The cage, now rebalanced, no longer met the stones and swung out wide on its iron leash over the horrible heat of the open pit. Sam could feel the iron under his belly begin to warm. He stood shakily and lifted Frodo off of it and over his shoulder. The elf clung long enough to see his brethren fall one after the other into the liquid wrath below, until overwhelmed by the sight and heat, he looked once to Sam and smiled. Elbereth! he cried, and let go and fell.
VI
The iron flooring was still painfully warm when the cage slowed its ascent to pass through the crack in the cavern roof. Sam knelt on the floor and sat as still as possible, Frodo tucked against him, knowing his toes and knees had not received their final burns atop the dread mountain. Their surroundings dimmed as they were hauled up through a narrow passage and into a small bay of rock. A team of orcs caught the cage as it came up through the opening and swung it inward to drop upon a platform. An orc came to examine the swinging door, puzzled by the broken chain.
"Hop fast, you slugs! We need a new chain and lock. Prisoners are backing up the tubes!" One of the half dozen orcs manning the bay scampered over to a rack of hanging chains and restraints, clawing through it.
"What in Morgoth's name is going on down there?" the orc at the cell door growled, tossing the chain aside.
Another orc grunted as it approached the cage. "Not our problem. What do we care if those scabs loose some prey? It's their hides, not ours."
"They've got every horn in the Round Room blaring. If they're barking about that elf, he's no trouble to them now. Didn't they see him fall into the pit?"
Sam stayed perfectly still in the centre of the cell, watching the orcs and getting a feel for the cage bay. The space was small, another pocket of rock with smooth round walls. A narrow portcullis was drawn down over a tunnel in the rock face behind the loading platform. A mass of exhausted prisoners were pressed into the bars, awaiting their transport. One of them, a man, was clearly dead, crushed into the iron by the numerous bodies crowding in behind him.
"Open the drain!" an orc guarding the tunnel gate shouted, as he pinched the dead man's face with disgust. "We've got more corpses in this bunch. Why they bother leading the dead up here, I don't want to guess."
"It's their game all right," replied the orc who'd been fishing for a lock. "They've got no pity for us. Dead flesh keeps the beasts fed, anyways." He tossed a new padlock to the orc at the cage door and took out a ring of keys. Sam watched him kneel at the back of the bay where there was a small barred drain at the level of the floor. The orc inserted a key and opened the grate, dropping it open with a clang. The drain was narrow, barely enough space to stuff a body long-wise, but room enough for a hobbit or two to crawl through.
Sam saw his chance when the orc opened the cage door to affix the new padlock. He took a breath, lifted Frodo and ran for it.
"Hoy! You see that?"
"See what?"
"That shadow. It came right out of the cage!"
The orc at the door looked about, thinking his comrade mad. "The cage was empty, you worm!"
"I saw it, too–Wait! It's gone over to the wall, see it? It's at the drain!"
"Catch it before it gets to the eyries!"
Sam knelt at the drain and pushed Frodo down into it. A fetid stench wafted from its depths. Sam watched his master's cloaked body slide away into darkness. Sam hoped the fall wasn't too far as he dove in after.
He fell some distance, sliding down smooth rock, scraping his arms and chin. Sam hit a bump and his head knocked against the stone ceiling of the chute, driving sparks into his vision as he tumbled out the other end, head-first into a pile of sticky bones, rancid and reeking of decay.
Sam righted himself and looked about. They had fallen into a low room. From some chamber nearby came the unsettling sound of many beasts and orcs growling and bellowing. Frodo lay a few feet away in a heap of severed limbs and heads. The fall had roused him, and he was slowly crawling through logs of chopped, clotted flesh, trying to get away from whatever nightmare they had stumbled into. Sam waded through the horror until he could grasp Frodo's cloak and lift him up out of the bodyless legs. Frodo clung to his tunic, hiding his face in Sam's neck, his frightened breath coming in gasps. "It's going to be all right, Mr. Frodo. Just keep a hold on me."
Sam stumbled through the hill of bones until he gained the stone floor, blackened with dried blood. A heavy chopping block stood to one side of the room, a bloody axe imbedded in its surface. They'd fallen into a butchery. With a hand over his nose and the other around Frodo, Sam could see this small heinous room opened up at the far end into a lit corridor that dazzled his gloom-adjusted eyes. Despite the stench, Sam could feel fresh cool air drifting in from the passage.
Sam heard a rattling of metal wheels approaching from that bright passage and slunk back into a dark corner. An orc came in wheeling a cart. It stopped at the corpse pile and kicked some legs about until it found two or three it liked. The orc heaved the meaty cuts into the wheelbarrow and pushed it back out, whistling.
Knowing the shadows would keep them safe for only a short while, Sam waited until he could see clearly again and carried Frodo along the passage until he could peer cautiously out. Before him was an airy cavern as big as the Round Room, but marked by many dark pockets in the bowled rock walls. Directly overhead, some two-hundred feet or more, the chamber broke open into pale sky. A great black wasps' nest it was, inhabited by flying beasts of sinew, scales and webbed wings. This was the fellbeast eyrie, the hive where Sauron ordered his henchmen's steeds bred and fed to maturity. More than two dozen beasts were kept here in the hollows along the walls, where eddies of liquid rock once churned, centuries before. A loose network of scaffolding wrapped around the interior, spiralling upwards to nests halfway to the opening of the dome.
Sam held Frodo close as he stood, stunned by the freshness of the wind and the true light that stung his eyes. The sky outside was still muted by grey clouds, but the eyrie was nonetheless a breathable space, and compared to the rest of the Tower, clean. The beasts screeched and bellowed in their nests, chained as they were to the rocks with thick iron collars about their necks. Orcs were wandering about with buckets of water and carts and shovels to clear the niches of waste and dead scales. Sam could feel them under his feet, dry and rough, fallen from the nests high over his head.
But there was something else in this cavern Sam had not thought he would see: Dwarves. Several of them were moving among the orcs, shouting orders at them in their serrated language. They stood a little taller than Gimli and wore shorter beards of black braided hair. Helmless, they wore no armour, but kept whips at their sides.
A great beast flew down through the cavern's high opening, bellowing and beating its wings. Its dwarf keeper beckoned to it from high on the scaffold, directing it to descend into the adjoining eyrie. The beast landed in a stone nest of straw and lowered its head before the dwarf, allowing itself to be clipped to a long chain. The dwarf patted its massive shoulder, speaking to it in kind tones as the beast settled in to feed and drink.
Sam had not known that men and orcs were not the only races to swear themselves over as servants to the Enemy. Dwarves had slipped sides centuries ago and these black-bearded clansmen were descendants of the great dragon masters of long ago. They stole dragon's eggs and interbred them over the ages until a breed emerged that would obey and answer their bidding. It was a hard twist of fate that these same dwarves were also seduced by the Dark Lord--their greatest achievement becoming a beast of burden for the Nine. From the look of the proud herd, there were many steeds in waiting.
Sam knew he had tarried too long, for passing workers were beginning to turn their heads at the shifting half-shapes clinging to the shadows of the butchery. Behind them, Sam could hear muffled shouts and curses as orcs from the cage bay began to crawl down through the narrow drain after them, too big to slide freely.
Sam tightened his hold on Frodo and trusted to luck as he crossed into the light of the eyrie and ran for a nearby ladder, leading up to an empty scaffolding. It was difficult to climb with one hand, but Sam knew he had to manage and grasped each rung after the other, hauling them both up. Down in the passage below, he could hear the scuffling of the orcs, clambering and shouting their way through the carrion of the butchery. Soon, they'd enter this space and rouse the eyrie keepers to search every nest until they were found. Sam's heart sank as he climbed faster. He knew he'd brought them both to a dead end. There was nowhere left to hide.
At the height of the ladder, Sam let Frodo slip onto the scaffold as he climbed up over him to have a quick look around. Dwarves were wandering up to their level along the boards and would soon be upon them. Sam took Frodo up again and looked to the eyrie a little ways behind him. The nest appeared to be abandoned, an empty bowl of black rock. Sam slid Frodo down into its smooth bottom and followed after on his belly. There was another pocket of rock just beyond, that remained in shadow. In there, he felt they might hide for just a while. Just long enough.
VII
When Sam carried Frodo into the shadowed rock opening, he found the flooring was not vacant, but covered in fresh clean straw. Within that straw bed stood a clutch of newly hatched eggs. Their leathery skin was still hardening in the breeze. Too exhausted to move any further, Sam lowered Frodo into the soft straw behind the clutch and lay alongside his master, breathing hard and trembling.
Frodo was still awake and looked to Sam, a glimmer of hope still kindled in those distant eyes. Frodo did not utter a sound, but lifted a pale hand to touch the tears leaking from Sam's eyes, bringing the droplets to Sam's lips, wetting them. Sam searched those sad round eyes and took Frodo's giving hands in his and kissed them. Then he wrapped Frodo up so close in his arms it hurt to breathe. With his lips at Frodo's ear, Sam began to whisper his farewells.
"I know I haven't been of much good to you these last days. The whole world's gone wrong, and there's no use pretending it ain't. Perhaps it would have come out better if Gandalf had chosen you a wiser keeper. But he could not have loved you half as much and that's the truth. We've one more journey to take, master, and then we can rest. Hold tight to your Sam. Trust him."
But even as they lay close and Frodo sighed, comforted in his arms, Sam could not bring his hand to the hilt of the sword, nor could his palm find its way over Frodo's lips. I'll fail you again, Sam thought and wept, holding him; rocking, waiting for the world to end.
***
It did not end. The dwarf Sam had seen coming up the scaffold was the keeper of this eyrie and now stood near the lip of the outer bowl and looked for the return of its ward. A big female flew in, another dwarf riding her saddled back, checking her reins as she roared her defiance and soared down through the cavern's high dome to land. Her talons scraped the stones as she slid to a stop. Wings still spread wide, she bellowed in fury as her rider dismounted and she suffered her collar to be clipped to a chain tethering her to a nearby post.
She was still hot with the rage of recent birthing, and the dwarves had taken her aloft so that she might cool her blood and return to shelter her clutch with care. Her eyes were flickering green as she hissed at her keeper and lunged at the chain, searching for her promised meal that had not yet arrived. The keepers shouted down to the whistling orc, lagging up the scaffold with the beast's meal of fresh cut flesh in a wheeled metal cart.
She was starved from a long gestation, so when the red meat she craved to sink between her fangs did not arrive immediately, her snout turned to the smell of her clutch, fresh and still tinged with blood. Her keeper called to her and drew his whip, lashing her breast, but she was unmoved, for another smell was present in her nest as well and she turned from the dwarf to go seek it.
***
Sam felt the beast's hot breath on his back before he saw her. The stench of rotting flesh blew over him as the beast stretched her long neck across her clutch to sniff what lay hidden in the straw. That his final moments of hard-won peace should be wrested from them by yet another indomitable foe, drove Sam into a sudden rage.
He leapt up, whipping Sting through the air. "Go, you devil! Leave us!"
The beast cocked her hideous head, foam frothing and dripping from her riding bit. If Sam could read the expression in her large solid eyes it was neither wrath nor hunger, but confusion.
"Back!" Sam shouted again, lunging fiercely toward her. "Leave us be, I said!"
To Sam's utter astonishment, the fellbeast obeyed. Lowering her head, she began to calmly retract her massive head from the nest, as if in apology. Sam watched her and a strange realisation took him. "Wait," he said, cautiously. The beast snorted and turned to face him, half in and out of the enclosure.
"Lie down," Sam said, taking another brave step. The beast lowered her head and, with a furling of her great horn-tipped pinions, lay her belly upon the stone floor with a hiss. Sam stared open-mouthed at the calmed, waiting creature. In amazement, he raised his left hand before his eyes, faintly glinting with gems and silver. The rings; Dwarvish rings of power.
The dwarf keepers were approaching across the bowl, shouting to the beast, ordering her to stand and come eat. But she did not stir and lay so her solid eyes rested upon Sam alone. There's only one way to be sure, Sam thought. If you've not gone cracked from head to stern, this creature's at your bidding. Sam looked beyond her saddled back to the roof of the dome, open to the light and air. Up, I said. And up there is still to go!
Sam's heart leapt with hope. "Up!" he cried. "Up!"
The fellbeast rolled her shoulders and got onto her taloned claws. Then she spread her wings and began to flap them, stirring the straw and dust into the air.
The dwarves ran for her, drawing their whips and Sam stepped back into the shadows as they fought to bring her down with shouts and lashes.
"Up," Sam said quietly and she heard him. Up, he said silently, and still she heard him, flapping until her talons left the stones and she strained her neck against the chain. Break it! Sam willed and the beast took the chain into her wide fanged mouth, thrashing and pulling at it until it snapped free, whipping the screaming orc and flesh cart over the lip of the nest.
The fellbeast rose gracefully and hovered just out of reach of her trainers who were now running for the scaffold, shouting down to the confusion of orcs who had rushed the room, searching for the shadows that had escaped through the drain. The dwarves called to their bowmen to fetch their arrows as Sam ran back in to the straw to take Frodo up in his arms and carry him out.
Down! he ordered, and the beast dropped lightly upon her claws, now that her keepers had run off to arm. Sam ran for her and she extended her front leg and leaned over so that Sam could crawl up to her shoulder and gain the saddle. He lifted Frodo upon it and hauled himself up behind. He took the reins and wrapped the long ends of them about Frodo's waist, securing him as he slumped back into Sam's arms, staring dazedly above into the light.
"Up!" Sam shouted aloud, for he no longer cared who heard him. The beast sprung from the floor and beat her wings, flying them swiftly above the reaches of the highest eyrie. Below, Sam could see the orcs and dwarves tearing about the scaffolds and lower floor, hunting for bows and arrows as if their lives were at stake, scrambling helplessly to stop the thieves from rising higher and higher and up through the only unbarred exit in all of Barad-dûr. And Samwise Gamgee, a hobbit of the Shire, had found it.
VIII
The torchlights of the Dark Tower of Mordor fell away below, like the charred remains of a log smouldering in a dying fire. Sam willed the fellbeast higher through the whipping black clouds and away up over the heights of the cliffs. Glancing across the swarming plains, the belching of Mount Doom could still be seen shooting barbs of red fire into the sky. Sam turned away from it and concentrated on guiding the beast with his mind while holding Frodo fast in his arms, wrapped and tied into the reins. It was a long way down.
Through the black swirls of smoke and ash, Sam saw the ragged edges of the Ephel Dúath rise and pass under them until they soared over the plains beyond. Mile upon mile of hard pitted ground stretched below, trampled and charred with the burning of the dead. The clouds were thick and difficult to see through, save in patches. Sam knew he'd never find his way if he didn't direct their mount up and beyond it.
Higher, he told the beast and she obeyed, raising her slobbering head and screeching at the red sky. They flew up through the hovering darkness for many hundreds of feet which Sam did not want to think too closely on. Eventually, the blackness thinned and cleared and Sam could breathe easier and see the blue roof of the heavens above them. For the first time in weeks, Sam saw the sun shining golden and pure, striking her rays down at the foul clouds, welcoming them into her curtain of light. Far off to the west, where the black clouds sputtered and failed, for the first time in his life, Sam could see the sparkling sweep of the sea.
Frodo's eyes were filled with light as they left the gloom behind them. Sam watched as tears welled in them before they blew off his master's face into the winds, falling onto the hidden lands below. His expression had lost some of its haggardness and Sam thought the light and warmth had lit a spark deep within that would catch and thrive if only given time and peace enough to allow it. Frodo did not look at the ground as Sam had to, eyeing a scrap of land through the ink to help him identify their course. His master's eyes were caught up in the glory of gold on blue--the colours of home and heaven.
They flew for some time, until far below Sam could just make out a green line of tall trees, rich with leaves. He was not sure how far they had flown, nor where they were going, but he thought by the angle of the sun and the sea they might be flying over Ithilien, heading away from the war-scarred plains. How long a flight it would be to Lothlórien Sam could not guess, but that was where he intended to go. If any place would stand the test of a second darkness it would be within those groves. But first they should seek a spot to find water and a few hours' rest. The clouds were thinner here and Sam thought he saw the flickering ribbon of a stream far below and ordered the beast to descend.
The trees grew larger and the scent of pine and holly stronger as he willed the fellbeast to soar just over the treetops, scouting for a safe place to land. Grass, bush and bough flew past under the translucent wings. Sam heard something quick sing through the air. The beast raised her head and bellowed, pitching them to the side. He called her level and she struggled, flapping. Something wet hit Sam's arm and he realised the beast was bleeding from a flapping tear in her wing's membrane. Before he could react, another whizzing was heard as the shaft of an arrow caught the beast in the neck.
"Up! Up!" Sam cried. But the beast could not gain the sky and thrashed and soared sickly on a crippled wing as she struggled to catch the winds. Two more arrows flew, one shooting by Sam's head as the other thudded into the creature's belly and black blood spurted from her mouth in a sick gurgling. Sam could not see where the arrows were coming from, hidden in the green of the forest as they glided lower and lower. Sam's last thought, as he struggled to untie Frodo, was to jump for grass, as the beast's great wing snagged on a bough and she pitched hard, diving down into the snapping sweet-scented branches of the garden of old.
Continued in Part Three
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