Aragorn stepped into the dark hole of the cave, Frodo cradled in his arms. At first he could see nothing, the darkness was so complete. But the echo of his footstep came quickly back to him. The cave was shallow, but deeper than the other. Given the time remaining to them, it must suffice.
Aragorn set Frodo down gently, just inside the entrance. "Bide a moment." He shuffled forward, arms extended. Within a couple of steps, he sensed rock looming before him. His fingers touched stone. Aragorn swept his hands over the surface. The first cave had had a ledge. Perhaps, if that line of stone ran the length of the cliff face, he would find—
There. At a height just above his head, Aragorn's fingers lapped onto a shelf. His hands made out the length of it; it was about five feet wide, slightly narrower than the cleft in which he stood—not surprising, as the entire cave narrowed as it tapered towards the ceiling. Aragorn could not begin to guess the depth of the shelf from his position on the ground.
Turning, he discerned Frodo's petite shape leaning against the entrance. The hobbit held his left arm with his right; their flight must have aggravated his injury. Wincing in sympathy, Aragorn bent towards him.
"Frodo, there is a ledge, but I'm not certain that it is deep enough to hold you. Might I lift you up to see?"
"Of course."
Frodo's collected tone reminded Strider that he was dealing with a rational creature, one that had remained composed despite all the fear and haste of their present situation. Perhaps it was his height that made Aragorn continue to underestimate him. Aragorn resolved to do better in future.
Carefully, he gripped the hobbit's chest beneath the arms. He raised him overhead so that Frodo was level with the ledge. "Put your legs forward," he cautioned. "Feet first."
"They are."
He heard bare hobbit sole slap against stone, then Frodo stepped up and slipped onto the ledge. Aragorn released him when he felt Frodo take up his own weight.
"The ceiling is low." Frodo's voice rang hollowly, and his clothing scuffled on rock. "But the shelf is wide enough. The back is… no, it's blocked. I thought there might be a passage, but it's only crumbled stone."
"How far back does it go?" Aragorn's heart pounded. Let it be deep enough.
"Not far. Maybe… eight or nine feet?"
Aragorn closed his eyes, imagining. Nine feet should be enough. Even if he failed and fell, it's possible that the hobbits would survive, at least this initial attack. What might happen if the troll chose to stake out the mouth of the cave afterwards, was rather less doubtful.
No. Aragorn would do none of them any good by dwelling on grim possibilities.
At an enraged roar, he spun towards the entrance. Outside the cave mouth, the three remaining hobbits were flinging themselves off the earthen bank, landing awkwardly on the turf. They must be mere seconds ahead of the ravening troll.
Aragorn shrugged off his pack. "Frodo, give me your blade." He dumped his gear hurriedly in the corner. He would need every advantage of lightness and speed he could give himself.
There was a rustling from above, then the slap of leather against stone. "I've put my belt over the edge. Can you feel it?"
Aragorn turned back to the ledge and swept his hands along the stone; almost instantly he found the sword belt. He followed it up to grasp the scabbard, then swept the whole thing down. Hastily, he propped the blade in the corner, where he could find it again easily by touch.
Three panicked hobbits were just reaching the entrance. Aragorn took two strides forward, and snared the first of them—Pippin, as it chanced. The little creature cried out and jerked away. Panicked, indeed.
"Come inside, quickly!" Aragorn barked, hoping the sound of his voice would penetrate the haze of fear. It worked, for Pippin stopped fighting him. Aragorn pitied him; such a young creature, so ill-prepared to face such a terror as this. He spoke again, hoping to restore some of Pippin's fragile confidence. "Stay with Frodo. Guard him. I have taken his dagger, and he is unarmed."
Pippin answered tremulously, "Yes, Strider."
Aragorn stooped to retrieve Merry, who fortunately seemed more composed. Most stoic of all was the redoubtable Sam, who was so busy collecting a cache of rocks that Aragorn had to forcibly sweep him up and set him in place next to the others. Aragorn groped for the corner, where he had set Frodo's Arnorian blade. Finding the scabbard, he drew the dagger and took it into his left hand. His right he reserved for Narsil.
Narsil. Rarely did he adventure with that blade, for obvious reasons. Yet it had seemed right for him to carry it on his current errand, given what Frodo bore. With Isildur's Bane arisen, Aragorn preferred to have the weapon that had vanquished its master close at hand. Narsil—the blade that had separated Sauron from his Ring, and from his former rule. Even broken, its cunning steel had pierced the old tyrant's enchanted flesh, and so ended his malevolent reign. The craftsmanship of Telchar had never been rivaled, not by the Noldor, and not by all the generations of Naugrim since. Aragorn could feel the power locked within the metal, flickering up his palm through the hilt like lightning. Reverently, he drew the ancient blade.
Just in time. The behemoth that was the troll crashed to earth, after leaping down the man-high embankment into the clear space before the cave. Its roar fired Aragorn with a familiar energy born of adrenalin. This necessity, which he hated, was all too common: pitting himself against the servants of Sauron. And this beast was one of that brood, whether he knowingly acknowledged the lordship of Barad-dûr or not.
The time to attack was now, while the troll was still off balance from his leap. Aragorn gripped a blade in each hand. With a cry of Elendil!, he sprang from shelter.
The night seemed oddly bright, after the depths of the cave—light enough for Aragorn to see the pebbled skin of his malformed opponent, stubbled with coarse hairs that bristled like wires from each wart or nub. Its body was thick, almost toadlike—but Aragorn knew it would have none of a toad's softness. The mountain of flesh before him was solid muscle and bone.
A ridiculously small head turned to mark him as he charged. It seemed to rotate from the beast's shoulders, as there was no visible neck. The skull tapered considerably to its tip, out of which sprouted a knot of wiry hair. Huge ears bobbled at the sides of its pointed head, one of them fat and misshapen, as if overgrown by tumor. The eyes were sunk deep beneath a beetled brow; set too close together; they glimmered with an orange light. Its nose was a great, hooked blob, overhanging thin, leathery lips that were pursed in an almost comical expression as Aragorn sprang to meet it.
The troll's landing had thrown his weight forward, so his arms were crooked behind him in compensation. That left his belly momentarily unguarded. It swelled like the toad it resembled over the filthy breeches that were its only garment. That mound of exposed flesh would be Aragorn's first target.
Right, then left. The blade of Narsil slashed lengthwise across the brute's belly, followed by the blade of Arnor, crossing the wound from top to bottom. Aragorn hardly felt the stroke of Narsil's strike, so keen was that true-tempered steel. To his satisfaction, the blade of the vanquished North was not a poor companion for it. Many a blade could make no dent against troll skin, yet this one cleaved it indeed—though it took an effort. Aragorn delivered his double slash and leaped away, before the troll could react.
The squeal that followed pierced his ears. Aragorn rolled to evade the counterstroke. He was wise to do so, as he felt the brush of the troll's great paw whisper past him in the merest ghost of a miss. Aragorn regained his feet and made for the rear of the troll, which faced the embankment the monster had just jumped down.
"You must keep circling," Elladan had told Aragorn once. The son of his foster father had been surprised by a hill troll during a lone excursion through the Ettendales—one of the few living beings who could tell such a tale. "He is far stronger and larger than you, and will crush you if ever he can close. But he is not fast. Speed you must use, Estel. Keep him circling, so he cannot grab you."
Aragorn had not the speed of an Elf, nor the experience born of centuries of warfare. Yet such gifts and training as he had, he would use.
Aragorn sprang for the side of the embankment. So great was his momentum that he actually ran sideways upon it for two steps—long enough to slash the troll across his wide, hunched back. Narsil he directed towards the base of his enemy's spine, naked and hollow above the ragged breeks. The blade sank deep, and skated along bone. The troll jerked and started to spin towards him. A great elbow whirled towards his face. Aragorn jabbed it with the dagger, using the move both to ward off the blow, and to assist his leap to the uphill side of the embankment. Aragorn vaulted to safety and skipped back from the edge.
The troll came around. It was hip-high to the earthen wall, but its arms were unencumbered. Aragorn had barely time to fling himself backward before the seeking hand nearly grasped him; again, Aragorn felt the puff of air against his skin. He regained his feet and faced his enemy, blade wielded in either hand.
"Seed of Morgoth," he panted, "thy doom awaits."
The great grey arm shot forward, but Aragorn had judged its reach well, and the fat, calloused fingers closed on empty air, the tips of the cracked nails clicking against each other just inches from his leg. The troll's leathery lips drew back, revealing stained, jagged teeth that could either mangle or tear. It wheezed out a word, its breath reeking of spoiled meat. "Man… flesh."
It hopped, a move that extended its reach just enough for the fingertips to thump Aragorn's hip, and topple him. Hurriedly, Aragorn scrambled away, striving to put more distance between himself and his adversary, as it clambered up the embankment to pursue him. Its great iron hand groped after him. "Come 'ere!"
Aragorn danced backward. He was halfway to the woods. If he could lead the troll there, it might give the hobbits time to get away, farther down the cliff face. He could only hope that the troll would be unable to track them by scent, should they choose to do so. Sam would sense the opportunity, surely, and strike out find a safe haven for his master. What the others might choose to do, Aragorn had no way of knowing. But he must keep the troll hard after him, staying barely out of its reach, or it would lose interest in the difficult quarry and return to the cave. Aragorn hoped that he might be able to dodge it once he reached the eaves of the forest—and that his oversized opponent would not uproot the trees and attempt to crush him with them, once the forest was gained.
The troll lumbered after him, hunched forward and staggering a little. Aragorn was pleased. His attacks might not have incapacitated his foe, but they had hurt it. Aragorn fervently hoped that the blood loss would slow it down. He had lost the advantage of surprise and ground, so the odds were not in his favor. He was no match for the beast on the flat, and the troll must know it. Aragorn could hope only to stay out of its grip, until he found a fresh opportunity to attack. He faded towards the woods.
Suddenly the troll rushed him, gnarled hands extended. Aragorn backed hurriedly—the troll wasn't so hurt as he pretended! In his haste, Aragorn caught his heel on a stone. He tripped, then rolled frantically to the side, anticipating a strike. The troll's growl was loud in his ears. He lashed out blindly with Narsil, and heard a squeal. Something dragged at his boot, but he kicked free, aiming now to tumble away from the trees and closer to the cliff, forcing the troll to pivot. Elladan's advice resounded in his mind: Keep him circling.
Aragorn regained his feet just in time to see the vague shape of a giant hand reaching towards him. He thrust with the dagger to ward it off, and slashed at the palm with Narsil. Both blades connected, but did not slow the troll's strike. For the beast was not reaching to grip this time, but to smack. The blow drove Aragorn's hands back towards his body, then the great palm slammed into his chest, and Aragorn was airborne. For a disorienting moment he was weightless. He landed on his back some yards away, feeling every sharp stone under the pelt of ground cover jab into his back. He writhed, unable to draw breath from the force of his fall. His stomach heaved, but he could draw no air into his lungs. Spots flashed before his eyes.
The mountainous shape of the troll charged, hands extended. Aragorn tucked the blades close to his body, and rolled. Thank the Valar. He'd scarcely completed one complete turn before the ground dropped away. He had rolled off the embankment near the cave. Normally Aragorn wouldn't have chosen to make an uncushioned, seven-foot drop—but it was preferable to being crushed in a troll's fist. He landed heavily, his arms jarred by the impact against his chest. He looked up to see an array of jagged nails reaching for him—but they stopped short, straining some three feet above him in the air.
Morgoth had imbued his creations with none of the grace of the Firstborn. The troll, for all his hideous strength, simply hadn't the flexibility to reach him.
Aragorn kicked against the embankment to propel himself away, even as a trunklike leg draped itself over the cliff. Still fighting for breath, Aragorn dragged himself to his feet, as the brute clambered after him. Aragorn now stood approximately where he'd engaged the troll upon first leaving the cave. His chest finally unlocked from its spasm, and he drew fiery draughts of air. Gratefully, Aragorn felt new vigor flow into his limbs, even as the growing shadows were purged from his mind. By then the troll was down again, and turning about to face him.
Aragorn charged. The troll, still off balance from its climb, cringed against the cliff to protect its back, warding him off with a hand. But Aragorn had no intention of closing. At the last moment he changed his course, aiming for a stone that protruded from the bank. He used it as a step and sprang up—now back on top of the embankment, leaving the troll below.
The beast bellowed its frustration. "I will crush you like an egg!" Suddenly, he stooped. Aragorn barely had time to register what was happening, before the troll straightened again—to sling a goodly stone at him. Aragorn dodged, but not quickly enough. The boulder caught him a glancing blow on the thigh. With a cry, Aragorn fell to earth.
"You are meat!" the troll roared, enraged beyond sense. "I shall sever your head with my teeth, and pour your spouting juices down my throat!" He heaved himself up the shallow wall he had just descended.
Aragorn took a moment to assess his injury. The muscle was bruised, but the bone was whole. The injury would slow him, however, and he'd barely had the speed to avoid the beast's attacks as it was. Aragorn watched the troll clamber gracelessly to its feet. Perhaps Aragorn could use his injury the way the troll had fooled him—pretend that he was more badly hurt than he was, and thereby lead the troll away.
It was worth a try. Aragorn got to his feet, but staggered, holding his damaged leg stiffly. It was easy to do, for unfortunately his injury was only too genuine. He took a step back, and nearly fell. That was no act; the battered limb had forgotten for a moment how to support his weight. Aragorn caught his balance, then held his blades ready.
The troll observed his prey's floundering with a sneer. It laughed, a grating sound like pebbles in a mud sluice. "Come, human. Fill my belly."
Aragorn limped back another step. Good; the leg was strengthening. Even more comforting was the fact that the troll had not charged again. I am not the only one who is growing weaker, Aragorn thought with satisfaction. His earlier swordwork was starting to take its toll. Perhaps that accounted for the troll's increased bluster. Lacking his usual strength, he had resorted to jeers.
He knows he is failing. I have only to outlast him. Grimly, Aragorn backed towards the woods. This time, he was certain the troll would follow.
His theory was to remain untested. Even as he moved away, the troll howled and grabbed his back. With a growl, it spun towards the cave. Its head jerked suddenly, and it rubbed its face with a hand. "Maggots!" he roared. He raised his arm to ward off another invisible blow.
No, not invisible. Aragorn could see it now, faintly in the dark: stones. A series of stones flew at the troll from the below the embankment. There were too many for just one hobbit to be throwing them all. There must be two of them out of the cave at least. One of the rocks missed its target, hitting the cliff edge with a sharp crack.
"No!" Aragorn waved his hands to draw the troll's attention. "This way!" Don't help me! he mentally screamed at his unseen assistants.
But it was too late. The hobbits had succeeded in their distraction. Ignoring Aragorn's cries, the troll was now focused on them. Hidden though they were from Aragorn by the earthen cliff, doubtless they were perfectly visible to the troll. He went after them now, his revenge on the Man postponed until he could put an end to these smaller (and doubtless sweeter) foes.
Aragorn sagged in despair. He doubted that he could survive another direct encounter with the troll, not in his current condition. But he was held by his sworn word.
I am Aragorn son of Arathorn; and if by life or death I can save you, I will.
Aragorn took a fresh grip on his blades, then started after the troll. His leg moved with difficulty over the uneven terrain. Aragorn prayed that the Valar would give him the strength to do what he must, and the courage to die well.
