Chapter Twelve: Back to the Tower

Three agonizingly long days and nights later, the tower of Orthanc loomed up before us, treacherous, cold and dark. I had never noticed before, but now I saw that it took the exact shape of Saruman's staff. I trembled as I approached the fortress' doors for the second time. Would I ever come out of there again?

An orc lifted Merry down from my back, and Pippin from Lunk's. Their hands still tightly bound, the hobbits swayed unsteadily when their feet touched the cold, barren ground.

I glanced at Lunk, who nodded to me. "You take 'em in, Snaga. You caught 'em in the first place."

I nodded, turning and glaring down at the hobbits. They put on a show of pleading with me and wrestling with their bonds when I grabbed their wrists and pulled them roughly forward, as Krân had once done with me, not very long ago.

With the rest of the horde standing expectantly behind, we strode up the steps; I raised my right hand, and knocked loudly three times. The door creaked slowly open to admit us, and I drew a deep breath and walked inside.

----

As I passed the threshold, a darkly familiar sight greeted me; halls and stairways, all hewn of black marble, the exact opposite of the White City of Gondor. Moonlight slanted coldly down through high, narrow windows. The foul stench of death plagued my nostrils again, and I wondered whether I would ever be rid of it.

A second door opened across from us, at the far end of the large hall we were in. Through it strode a figure that had haunted my blood-splattered nightmares for the past two weeks; an old man with a tall black staff, clad in flowing, pure white robes that openly belied the nature of his shriveled heart.

Saruman.

The wizard came toward me like a cat stalking its prey. I was a flightless bird in his path. Unable to move for fear, I could do nothing but wait and watch in petrified silence as he advanced, the look of deadly triumph on his lined features becoming all too clear with every step he took…

He halted not an arm's length from me. I could feel his dark gaze penetrating my soul. He stared from me to Merry and Pippin and back again and smiled evilly, giving a low, harsh chuckle. His voice, when he spoke, was like venomous ice.

"Good work, Snaga," he said to me, his deep voice making me shudder. "You will be richly rewarded for this, as soon as I'm through with these two."

He pulled Merry forward a few paces; the hobbit squirmed vainly in his grasp. The wizard smirked and turned back to me. "Take the other one and come with me. It's time to find out what they know about what I want."

----

We made our way up through the tower, ascending a long flight of stairs that I knew I had walked before. At the top was an iron door, which was shut and tightly locked. Saruman pointed his staff at it, and it opened with a groan.

"Inside," the wizard ordered. "Now!"

Shaking, I inched over the threshold. Now I stood in the first room I remembered from my capture: the torture chamber, with its terrible array of bloodstained axes, maces and swords.

The room was dark, lit only by a thin shaft of moonlight from a narrow window. I noticed that no-one had bothered to clean up all the dark, sticky blood that was splattered across the floor, from the orcs I had slain. The only thing that was different about it was what looked like a small pile of grubby rags and straw in the farthest corner of the room.

Saruman got down to business immediately. Grabbing Merry cruelly by the throat, he lifted him up so their eyes were level and snarled, "What is your name, halfling? If you lie, you die!"

Merry struggled to draw sufficient breath to speak. "M- Merry Brandybuck," he gasped.

"Do you know what I want, Merry Brandybuck?" the wizard asked coldly.

Merry nodded. "You want… the Ring."

"Correct," Saruman replied. "Now give it to me."

"I c- can't," Merry stammered. "I don't have it; I don't know where it is."

"You're lying," his captor hissed, eyes blazing in fury. I saw Merry cringe in disgust as a fleck of spit struck his cheek.

"No, I'm not!" he cried. "I don't know where it is, honest!"

"Fine," Saruman snapped. "Perhaps your friend can tell me what I need to know."

Flinging Merry roughly to the floor, he turned to his next victim. Pippin was daring enough to try and flee, but Saruman grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"And who might you be?" he inquired, his cruel voice like silk on steel.

"P- Pippin Took," the hobbit whimpered. "And I don't know where the Ring is, either! Let me go! Let us both go!"

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request," Saruman replied. "In a word, no. You're not going anywhere."

Slowly and deliberately he twined his long fingers about the hobbit's throat, closing them tight. Pippin struggled to breathe, his face contorted in pain. I could only watch, horrified, helpless to help him. My legs were like lead, rooting me to the floor. My friend was slowly dying before my eyes…

"Stop it!" a voice screamed suddenly. "Leave him alone!"

My heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, as if it were some small, frightened animal curled up inside my chest, holding its breath. I knew that voice, and I knew it well. But it couldn't be… she wasn't here. Was she? I hadn't seen her… or had I?

I turned my gaze to the far corner of the room. What I had first thought was a heap of discarded cloth scraps and straw was moving.

Skeletal, white-skinned arms and legs were emerging. A curtain of greasy flaxen hair framed a gaunt, dirty face with wide, tear-filled blue eyes. The grimy rags were in fact a dress, threadbare and stained. The girl wept and pleaded urgently with the indifferent wizard, "Don't hurt them, please! They haven't done anything!"

Those words were strangely familiar, I thought. Where had I heard them before?

A memory slid deliberately to the front of my mind. An orc –me – standing in a darkened chamber, while the pathetic figure of a young elf shivered and sobbed. Don't hurt me! Please, I haven't done anything!"

My pulse quickened. Could it be? I stared hard at the figure in the corner, focusing on what lay behind the grime. Gazing intently into her eyes, I saw a young girl with a fiery heart concealed by a shy exterior. A little elfling who loved her big brother more than anything else in the world. A terrified orphan whose whole life had been ripped to shreds in one terrible instant.

Elennar.

----

Saruman slowly released Pippin, who fell to the floor, coughing for breath. Merry scrambled over to his friend, crying, "Pip! Pippin! Are you alright?"

Pippin couldn't reply for a while as he choked and wheezed in an attempt to breathe. He drew a deep breath, then another, until he was breathing normally again.

"I'm alright," he gasped finally. "Don't worry about me."

"Silence," commanded Saruman. His dark eyes narrowing, he turned slowly to face me. I was still gazing at my sister in disbelief, and I flinched when he barked, "What are you staring at?"

I shook my head wordlessly, averting my head and bowing it humbly as I stepped back. Saruman nodded once before turning back to the hobbits and berating them sharply. His back was to me; I imagined a long, slender knife plunging between the wizard's shoulder blades, piercing his heart from behind… So why not?

A wicked grin rose to my lips as I unsheathed my sword. The blade glittered dangerously, long, thin and keen. This was my chance for cold, sweet revenge. Saruman would finally pay for every foul deed he had ever done…

I half-raised the weapon in a shaking hand, recalling Lord Denethor's words to me: "…Teach yourself to thrust your sword forward just a few inches more…"

Yes, that was it. I drew a deep, slow breath and held it, willing myself not to falter. I couldn't lose my nerve, not now. I was so close.

But…

A thought rose up in my mind: could I really do this? Me, Isilden, the unwilling Uruk, who had only before killed in a blind rage. Could I actually bring myself to slaughter someone in cold blood? And right in front of Elennar… how would that affect her?

I lowered my weapon slightly. My conscience seemed to be winning the battle of wills; bloodlust was definitely putting up a fight. A half-grin twisted my mouth at exactly the wrong moment – Saruman turned around just then. He saw my lopsided leer, and smiled appreciatively.

"Maybe you can get something out of these troublesome halflings," he said. "Shall I let you have your way with them?"

I nodded, my smirk widening as I got another idea. This one was a plan for escape. If I could only get Saruman to leave me alone with my friends, for ten minutes at least… That would be just enough time to carry out my newest plot.

Scanning the room, I spotted a long, nine-stranded whip hanging from a hook on the wall. Perfect, I thought. Now get out of here, you filthy son of a snake.

My timing couldn't have been better; not two seconds later an orc hurried up to the wizard, who turned and snarled, "What do you want?"

"Please, sire," croaked Zharag's familiar voice, "there's trouble in the horde."

"Trouble?" Saruman demanded. "What kind of trouble?"

"That lot you're sending to Helm's Deep, milord," Zharag replied. "One of them got real snippy with another, and then someone else joined in, and now they're all fighting. You'll lose a good fifty thousand orcs if you don't do something quick, they're hacking each other to pieces… it ain't pretty."

"Very well," the wizard snapped. "I'll be back shortly," he told me brusquely. "Don't go easy on them." He shot a dark, contemptuous glare in the direction of the two hobbits before turning on his heel and sweeping silently away.