Merry's mouth was dry. The troll was very close behind them; there might not be time to climb onto the shelf. He felt sick with dread as he plunged into the cave.
Almost instantly, he stumbled into Pippin, invisible in the dark. He put out a hand to steady him, even as Sam yelled, "I've lowered a strap for ye. Grab it!"
Miraculously, Merry's sweeping hand found the strap, and here was Pippin, solid in his other hand. Merry pushed the strap into his cousin's palm. "Hang on!"
Pippin almost instantly rose, and Merry got behind him to give him a lift. He'd just heard Pippin scuffle over the edge, when the cave went black, like someone closing the flap on a tent. A great bellow deafened him, and he jumped straight into the wall—like a hare startled into the side of a fence, knowing he couldn't push through, but trying anyway.
"I've lowered the strap!" Sam yelled, his words ringing in Merry's punished ears. "Reach for it!"
Merry groped up the wall. He could feel the troll's hot breath humid on the back of his neck, puffing into his hair. He swept his hands over the rock face frantically. There it was! He closed his hands upon the belt, just as a great leathery fist closed about his body.
Merry's breath left instantly, forced out by the crushing grip. He could feel his ribs creaking. His toes lifted away from the floor, but he could feel nothing of his arms or legs, nothing but the gruesome strength of a fist closing, closing, so it seemed all his blood was squeezed up into his head, to bulge out his eyes and pound in his temples in spikes of pain that matched his frantically beating pulse, until he thought his head must burst.
Suddenly the fist flew open. The blessed rush of air was followed by the smack of a hard surface. Sparks flared behind Merry's sightless eyes. Far away, there was shouting and urgent calls and something like a great beast screaming. Merry lay as he had fallen, cheek pressed against cold stone. It seemed as if he was spinning, spinning. And the world spun with him.
-0-0-0-
Sam thought his heart might trip over itself, he was that scared. He'd begun to think, after they'd hoisted Mr. Pippin up so handily, that they might actually make it. Then that troll had come barging in, blocking Sam's light. Mr. Merry must be right up against the wall where Sam couldn't see him, unless he were to lean right over—and that would just bring him down atop of Mr. Merry, if he did grab the strap. So Sam was forced to kneel at the brink with his legs braced wide, and holler and hope.
He never did feel Mr. Merry take the strap, but he could feel it rising, rising, with the troll's closed fist. He might have thought the troll had grabbed the strap on purpose, were it not for the two hairy feet sticking out below, barely visible in the gleam of light near the floor. Mr. Merry was trapped inside that grip. Worse, the strap was tightening, as the troll drew back his arm. Sam pulled in the opposite direction, but doubted if the troll even noticed the drag. Unless Sam let go of his end right quick, he'd pulled off the ledge.
Before Sam could decide his course either way, Mr. Pippin settled the matter—by jumping on the troll's arm. Not even Mr. Frodo had seen that coming, to judge by his yell. That got Mr. Merry loose, Sam had to agree, but the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, without so much as a yip, made his blood run cold. He wondered if he'd find any living hobbits down there, if ever he and Mr. Frodo had a chance to climb down when this nightmare was over.
Mr. Frodo was flinging stones for all he was worth. "Pippin!" he yelled desperately. "Merry!"
Sam longed to calm him, but he reckoned that any advice along the lines of, "Now, don't go straining your shoulder, Mr. Frodo," would sound so far beyond daft that Sam didn't dare to utter it, much as he worried that Mr. Frodo might do himself a harm from his actions. There'd be time to worry over that once they got past this here troll that was dead set upon doing 'em harm and to spare, not to mention eating whatever stopped fighting long enough to stand still.
Sam scooted towards Mr. Frodo, hands extended in the gloom. He found his master right enough, and grabbed him about the shoulders, feeling the heave of his body as Mr. Frodo threw another stone. Sam began pulling Mr. Frodo towards the rear of the cave.
"No, Sam!" Mr. Frodo writhed in Sam's grip.
Careful of the hurt shoulder, Sam held tight. "We've got to get out of reach," he said in his master's ear.
"But Pippin, and Merry—"
"There's plenty of stones to chuck right here," Sam released his hold, now that he had dragged Mr. Frodo half a dozen feet farther from the edge. He knew there were stones a-plenty; he could feel himself tripping over them with every step.
Mr. Frodo instantly plucked one up and hurled it. Stooping, Sam followed his lead. They could hardly miss, even in the dark. The shrieks of the troll were enough to guide them, along with the glimmer of light from the entrance.
"They'll be eaten, Sam." Mr. Frodo's words tore Sam's heart, the tears in his voice were so plain to hear. "Merry and Pippin—he'll swallow them both."
Sam opened his mouth to offer what was sure to be meaningless encouragement, when the loudest scream yet struck his ears with a physical pain. The next moment, the mouth of the cave was unblocked. Sam strained his eyes to see. The troll was still there, but he had fallen to his knees, facing out the cave mouth. Though the cave still echoed from that last horrendous screech, Sam could hear, faintly outside, a new battle cry: "Elendil!"
Sam closed his eyes in gratitude. Strider had come. Sam sank to his knees, weak with relief, and prayed that the Ranger wasn't as bad hurt as they had supposed.
-0-0-0-
The troll's one saving grace, Aragorn reflected, was that it was appallingly stupid. How else could it forget about the armed human warrior at its back, while it pursued the helpless little hobbits for tossing their irritating but essentially harmless stones?
However, the brute's stupidity gave Aragorn the opportunity he needed. With the troll straining to cram his meaty shoulders into the narrow gap of the cave mouth, Aragorn was able to approach its vulnerable backside undetected.
If he closes with me, he will kill me, Aragorn thought. It was up to Narsil now. Even such a deadly blade as this would be unable to strike a killing blow through the layers of hide and muscle that clothed the troll's broad, scabby back—not with the blade broken a foot from the hilt as it was. But the keen-cutting edge would allow Aragorn to cripple the brute. That was his best chance of keeping the troll from closing. He could no longer fight by slashing and leaping away; his injury would not permit it. He had to risk the more difficult strike.
From a dozen feet off, Aragorn flexed his hurt leg. He put his full weight on it to test it, and then darted in. His target was the tendon that ran up the back of the troll's great heel.
Narsil sliced it like butter. The taut sinew, cut loose from its mooring, bunched suddenly at the troll's calf. The leg collapsed, bringing the troll down on its knee. Its shriek of agony filled the cave.
Aragorn immediately struck towards the second leg, intending to inflict the same wound. "Elendil!" he cried. He thrust at the ankle—just as the troll's good leg kicked out.
Aragorn's blow went awry, slicing the calf without crippling the leg. Worse, the troll's foot slammed into Aragorn's legs, knocking him back and rolling him across the bumpy turf. Aragorn came to rest on his belly. He was stunned and battered, but not incapacitated. Blearily, he stirred his legs. They moved on command; that would have to suffice for now. He pushed himself up, grateful for the use of his arms, and the blades still firm in each grip. As he rose, something wet trickled down his forehead.
The troll had turned to face him. Propelled by its good leg, it lurched forward. Aragorn shrank back when the troll moved to grab him, but his bruised leg buckled under the strain. He went down on one knee. The troll heaved itself forward to close the gap. Unable to evade him, Aragorn raised his blades as the troll seized him about the chest. Its fat fingers pinned the arm with Narsil to his side, though Aragorn wrenched the other arm free. With a greedy snarl, the brute lifted him towards its slavering jaws.
I shall sever your head with my teeth, and pour your spouting juices down my throat! the troll had cried. Aragorn was moments away from that fate. The mouth gaped. Breath hot as an Umbar wind, foul as sun-baked carrion, bathed his face in a repulsive cloud. The teeth closed in.
With all his strength, Aragorn swung the dagger of Arnor into the creature's mouth. His strike punched through the floor of the troll's mouth and pierced its lower jaw. Aragorn had angled the blow such that the guard caught between the front teeth, so that the upright haft would prevent the creature from closing his jaws.
With an anguished squeal, the troll hurled Aragorn down. He hit the ground hard enough to see stars. The earth revolved beneath him. Dimly he heard a metallic clatter, and knew that the troll had pulled the dagger free. Too small for a troll's grip, he had tossed the tiny blade away. Dazed, Aragorn watched through slitted lids as the looming presence of the troll blocked out the emerging stars. The troll leant over him, cautiously. The reek of its breath engulfed him, dampening his skin with noxious fumes. Aragorn's crushed chest struggled for breath, but he otherwise lay still. The hovering face bled heat onto the cool night air. The small eyes blinked, checking its prey for signs of resistance. Satisfied that his foe was momentarily helpless, the face descended, the jaws opening once more.
Aragorn struck. Uncoiling all the strength and speed he had left, he drove Narsil into the juncture of the troll's jaw and throat.
The troll lurched back. For a moment it looked startled. Then it gagged; a great gout of blood erupted from its mouth. Noisome liquid, black and thick, gushed from the wound, spattering the turf and spraying Aragorn's face. The troll tried to howl, but the blood burbled in its throat, smothering the sound. The orange gleam in the tiny eyes faded, went white. Slowly, the body tipped forward. With a moist sigh, the troll collapsed onto Aragorn's prostrate body.
The dead weight drove any remaining air from Aragorn's lungs. His ears roared and his limbs went numb. The night leaked away, as his stubborn consciousness drifted off.
