A/N: It's all Tolkien's. What was that about being able to update faster during the summer? It was research for this fic, I swear… Or, at least, that's how it started out. Unfortunately, my minor character muses love to steal bunnies, and it's easy to distract them. Ooh, Denethor's sisters! Shiny…
Also, I ought to warn you that this is a Warg-centric chapter and all that implies: hard PG sex'n'violence. Okay, no sex. (Yet.) Thank you for your reviews!
She dared not raise her head, fearing what it might come in contact with. Her arms flew up to guard her neck, and she pulled into a fetal position to avoid as many stray bites as possible. Surprisingly, there was no weight upon her back; nothing to keep her pinioned. The growls faded, and she felt a wet muzzle, still warm with lifeblood, nudge her arm. "Chev'yahna," a familiar voice called to her. "The hunt is finished."
Reluctantly, she pulled herself up into a seated position. Three wolves, fur clotted and blackened with drying blood, stood before her. Wirsankor heavily favored his left rear leg, and Roliran had accumulated a new set of scars about his ears and muzzle, as well as a few minor wounds along his neck and chest. The third Warg Tasana did not recognize. Small, brown, and possessing a certain youthful arrogance that could eventually develop into real charisma, the yearling momentarily made her think of the missing Gaundalan. He licked self-consciously at the blood upon his muzzle, bowing before the elder, more powerful brothers once the beta fixed the yearling newcomer with a stern look. Tasana buried her fingers gratefully into Wirsankor's coarse fur, running a hand lightly over his injured leg. It did not feel broken, although it was possible that the short wolf had pulled a tendon in his desperate attempts to avoid the mutated Warg's broad jaws. "What of Gonaki?" she asked. Two corpses lay before her, and none of the wolves had begun to dig into them.
Roliran studied the crows that circled above the kills, unsure if he ought to drive the birds off completely. It was considered bad luck to do so, but the beta was willing to risk the future displeasure of the Wargish gods' messengers if it meant denying a traitor an honorable death. "His blood goes this way," Roliran said, pointing out the scent trail with a nod of his head. The black alpha had left so much blood on the ground that surely even a nose-blind zwiero should be able to pick up the traces. Still, blood was everywhere, and almost all of it belonged to his kin.
To think that his father's brother would prove a traitor was more than Roliran wanted to consider right now. His own younger brother, with the woman's fingers still entangled in the short wolf's ruff, walked over to the uneasy older wolf, rubbing beneath Roliran's bloodied and bleeding jaw. Roliran assumed a dominant posture out of fearful habit, but he understood and recognized Wirsankor's sudden urge to reaffirm his loyalty. If their father were dead, Roliran was the most likely to take over the alpha position. Wirsankor apparently wished to reassure him that this little brother's loyalty, at least, was without question. Sahnchanc's madness would not happen again, the larger gray Warg swore, so long as Roliran had teeth to fight it.
"Let's find him," Tasana said. The human took a steadying breath, released Wirsankor's ruff, and began to follow the blood trail, her face pale with fear. Like Roliran, the woods woman understood the probable outcome of their battle, but wished she could deny it. As she found more blood, the trail became even more obvious. Gonaki had begun to weave clumsily through the burnt remains of the dead underbrush, leaving footprints in windswept piles of wet ash. At last, several yards from where his brother and the mutated Warg lay, the healer and her followers discovered their Sekrahc where he had collapsed on his side, breathing shallowly.
"Chev'yahna." The black alpha's lips pulled back slightly in a smile as she knelt next to him.
"Twenty-three years and not a single thing has changed, old friend." She bound the wound tightly with her cloak. "Now I imagine you wish you hadn't soaked this through."
"Wet then or wet now. It doesn't matter." His movements were slow, tired. Lids drooped over golden eyes.
"Sleep. We'll get you fixed up here, 'Naki. The rest of us could use a chance to lick our wounds as well." She stroked his fur, feeling a faint tremble where her hand touched.
"Die now or die later. Doesn't matter," he growled softly, as if at some figure in a nightmare.
"Yes it does. Your pups need you. We'll stay as long as we have to." The big black tail gave a single half-hearted thump against the ground, and the alpha spoke no more.
Tasana had to place her head against the furry chest, but she could faintly discern a slow, muted heartbeat. Roliran looked questioningly at her as she leaned against his father's side, tears running through the ash upon her face. "I don't know. I can't handle this again. Must I always sit by the dying?"
"You can heal them," the beta told her bluntly. "I can hunt." He turned away, following as the strange yearling led the brothers to better hunting grounds. Part of the woods woman wished she could join them, but Roliran did have a point. She had the skills – and the hands – to deal with a crisis as none of her pack mates could. It was up to her, and she could not let them down.
The sooner Gonaki is ready to travel, the sooner we can return home to Boromir, she told herself. The woman would not let other alternatives take root in her mind. Gonaki had overcome injuries before, and at this point, Boromir would likely be trying to walk the rest of the way home. Thinking of her proud lover marching up to the gates of the white city with a pack of wolves nannying him brought a half-smile to her face. His fever would have broken by now. It would have had to. And yet, Tasana was not yet willing to leave her lover entirely to the mercy of his own mental state.
I can't do this, she thought again, gathering what few herbs she had left with her, but I will. Boromir would survive long enough for her to stabilize her alpha's condition and assemble a stretcher. They would have to drag Gonaki's weight, which would be no easy task, but with a slow pace and plenty of rotations, Tasana, Wirsankor, and Roliran could bring their alpha home alive.
Chev'yahna considered her options. Straight, sturdy saplings and a hide or cloth would work the best, but there was precious little standing wood left in the blackened forest, and what was left would hardly serve her purpose. The secondary option would not please Roliran and Wirsankor. Bone and sinew could be cobbled together into a relatively mobile cradle, but given their uncle's treachery, the wolves would likely have preferred to donate their own bodies than allow Sahnchanc's to be turned into their father's only source of transportation.
When Tasana had first encountered the funeral methods of Wargs, she had been thoroughly sickened. Their insistence on the deceased serving a purpose as the living did have its philosophical charm, but the practice almost made the human wish to be an outcast. The greatest insult one could give the Wargish dead would be to chase off the scavengers until the corpse was bloated and disease-ridden. To honor a fallen pack member, the survivors tore the body to shreds. Sekras ate of the brain, crunching bone and lapping up blood. Much of the rest was left for the ravens, although other close relatives of the dead wolf would steal pieces from the body to eat themselves. Tasana supposed her pack members had an equal right to be horrified at the idea of preserving a body, but there were some customs of the wolves that not even twenty years could ameliorate.
But for once, custom might work in her favor. She could butcher an animal, and right now, that was all Sahnchanc and his son were: dead animals, the spoils of the hunt. She regretted this; afraid of what this worldview made her, but there would be little time for guilt right now. A maddened traitor had been put down, and her alpha and her lover needed her. There was butchering to be done, so that her pack might eat.
As Tasana slid her knife into the ruined silver pelt and dragged it through, the strange young brown wolf retreated from her and the brothers, returning with all speed to its master.
When Sam first heard the noise, he automatically checked the sky overhead. Dark clouds scudded above the trees, but the threat of rain was not serious. Yet the thunder had not stopped, nor even slackened. The hobbit's eyes drifted to a swaying branch. Following it down, Sam realized the whole tree was shaking from the force of the rumblings.
Ragged breathing and the crackle of leaves heralded Gollum's retreat. Samwise stood quickly, upsetting his stew. Although he knew he should be more worried about what could have caused the commotion, it was their guide's response that had angered him. Sam tore after the frog-faced creature, vowing vengeance. Behind him, the rumble increased, and heavy footsteps could be discerned amongst the horn and bellows that added the overtones of thunder.
Frodo seemed oblivious to the noise, eating his bowl of stew quietly while the army approached. Sam hated to tear him away from such a peaceful moment, but there was little help for it. The younger hobbit disliked the selfishness of Gollum's sudden departure, but could not deny the wisdom of it. "Mr. Frodo, come on. We've gotta leave here," Sam said, doubling back for his best friend.
"What's wrong, Sam?" the elder hobbit asked, setting down his bowl.
"I don't rightly know, but we'd best find out from a place of safety, now, shouldn't we?" The larger hobbit grabbed Frodo's hand, pulling him away from the cookfire. The source of the rumblings approached, trampling through the forest just beyond the abandoned remains of their campsite.
Soldiers, Frodo noted, a fully equipped army. There were more men there than the hobbit had seen in a very long time. All those weapons made it seem as if the army were even bigger than it actually was. And the sheer number of men was the least of the amazments that this disturbance had to offer. Beside Frodo in the heavy brush, Sam sat with a dropped jaw. Oliphants! Frodo had thought them mere figments of his old Uncle Bilbo's fancy. Were he less detached from his surroundings and less concerned about what else might spot them in the forest, Frodo supposed he too would be awed at the sight. As it was, the hobbit's subconscious noted the potential threat, and allowed him to continue scanning the forest. It was not men or beasts that frightened him, not with Sauron watching him. Hooded black shapes were coming for him.
There. No, perhaps not. Perhaps it was only the wind, or the thunder of the army. Sam's amazed, unmoving presence at his side was comforting, a counterpoint to the shaking, suddenly all-too-crowded forest. Gollum had disappeared into the trees ahead and above of them, and Frodo's sense of direction had fled with the guide. The foreign army seemed to be all around them. And within their ranks, who knows what more sinister dangers might be lurking?
The Nazgul had supposedly died on the river, just outside Rivendell. But Frodo had never truly believed it. The nightmare creature on the river, which the scouts had tried so hard not to mention, was no fever-dream, no matter how much they all might have wished that it was. The black riders were still out there, and they were coming for him. They were coming for the Ring and its bearer.
Yes, these soldiers could prove a threat to the hobbits if Sam and Frodo moved too incautiously around them. They were armed, dangerous, and hostile, but they were not looking for a pair of small wanderers with the most unlikely weapon imaginable. Only the Nazgul were, at this point. And Sauron's greatest trackers hunted the hobbits exclusively.
Another half-glimpsed shadow interrupted Frodo's thoughts, and then all hell broke loose. Arrows sped from unseen bows, wreaking havoc amongst the massed troops. The foreign army bunched and faltered, swarming over one another like ants from a disturbed nest. The panicked oliphants caused more damage amongst their own troops than the arrows had, crushing men underfoot in their fear. Another volley brought one of the creatures stumbling to its knees, knocking over the oversized basket it carried upon its back. Its contents, including not a few men, tumbled violently onto the battlefield. Another oliphant charged out of control, careening off into the deep woods.
A few of the surviving soldiers made some attempt to organize themselves, drawing bows and standing away from the two remaining live oliphants in sight. Unfortunately for them, the arrows were coming from every direction. One man shot wildly into the trees, but there was no drop of a body, nor cry of pain. Then the unseen archers picked their next target. The clump of gathered men dropped, one by one.
"It's a pity, if you ask me." Sam's whispered comment startled his companion. "I know they're the enemy, but to see so many men dropped like that, as if they were shootin' flies, well, it breaks my heart. They might well have fathers or mothers or sisters waitin' for them back home. Who knows? And seeing that great beast of legend go down? Never thought I'd see an oliphant." The younger hobbit shook his head, bemused and troubled. "It's easier fighting orcs. I can hate them. But after you've met a good man or two, it's right hard to see the bad ones."
"It is," Frodo agreed quietly, placing a pale hand upon his friend's shoulder. "But we'd best keep quiet, Sam. This fight's not over."
It was close to being over, though. The remaining soldiers had scattered, running from the death trap and headed in all directions. Once or twice Frodo had stiffened in fear as a panicked soldier came too close to their hiding place. The last time, the man had actually come face to face with the hobbits. They stared at their unwelcome visitor with twin expressions of horror. The man, however, had not seen them. Those sightless eyes would not see anything, nor could that voiceless mouth reveal the hobbits' location. An arrow stood unbroken, deeply impaled in his back.
Frodo did not hear the sudden hush upon the battlefield. His brain was filled with the screams of his best friend, and as always, the screeches of the Nazgul. His eyes were on the newly dead in front of him and the unseen terrors of his mind, so he did not see the cloaked form steal down from the trees. Only when the being grabbed him and Sam from behind did Frodo realize that while soldiers would grant him a quicker death than the Nazgul would, he would still be dead. The dark, hooded head looked over them once, and then called out into the forest: "Captain! You'd better come see these."
More shadows in the trees transformed themselves into hooded figures. Sam and Frodo were surrounded. There was no chance of escape now.