This chapter is especially for aural_fixation- I should have called this chapter 'all paths converging nicely' :D

*The Palantíri were rumoured to have been made by Fëanor himself (Maglor's father in case you weren't aware

Gonhîr: Fire master

Kazad: ancient word for Dwarf, respectful. Noldorin word.

Ascatar-axo the archaic Quenya name for this Palantir.

Thank you to my dear Anarithilien who was right as always! This was a right mess until she showed me the way through it. I've tweaked it a bit further but don't want to bother you on your big weekend. Hope you have the most WONDERFUL day with your daughter's wedding, my dear. Best love always.

Chapter 24: Call to Arms

Frodo stood with Sam and Merry staring in horror at the red flames roaring into the sky at the mouth of a tumulus, less than a mile away. Against the fiery glow, Frodo could just make out figures moving about, flaming torches in their hands and black cloaks streaming in the wind like ink in water. Tall black horses were silhouetted against the flames, heads high and restive, long tails and manes rippling in the wind.

But there was a more immediate danger. Thick-boned skeletons, their gaping rib cages deep and barrelled, hauled themselves from the earth. Orcs that had been slain in the ancient battle between Cardolan and Angmar. Ancient armour hung from their bleached bones, flapped about like old, loose skin. One stooped jerkily and groped about in the soil for a rusted machete unearthed by its own violent emergence. Slowly, it raised itself onto its haunches and swaying slightly, it looked about. Another turned its skull to look at the first, it held an old, blunt hatchet.

The two ponies that had been standing near Dods and Iberic charged past Frodo, followed by Baranor's horse, snorting in fear.

Frodo staggered back, breathless with horror. He felt for Sam's arm. 'Run,' he said. 'We cannot fight both Riders and Orcs. If we can get back to our own ponies, we can get away. We'll find Elrohir.' He tried to drag Sam back towards the ponies, but Sam resisted, looking beyond Frodo fixedly towards the last place they had seen Baranor.

At that very moment, Baranor's ancient silver horn sounded through the air. It bugled shockingly over the wild moor, and the skeletons jerked around towards it. The horn sounded again, desperate, urgent. Up on the hill, the Riders' tall black horses turned restlessly towards the sound.

Sam looked first at Merry and then Frodo, his face serious and his eyes lit with the same courage and defiance that had seen them both through Mordor. 'We can't leave 'em,' he said simply. 'I know we agreed that we would go if he sounded that horn, but we can't.' He drew his short sword and in the strange and eerie twilight, light gleamed over the damasked blade, and it seemed like dragons curled and black runes slipped along the blade.

Frodo peered closer and read the runes that seemed mercurial, black and silver. 'Alone shall he pass but not alone he will return,' he murmured in astonishment.

Merry glanced at him briefly and then quickly turned back. 'That helps us not at all,' he said grimly.

Sam nodded towards the skeletons that lurched heavily towards them, and said, 'I won't run away when there's folk that put themselves in the way of danger to save my skin. Even with those Black Riders up there too. We've faced Orcs and goblins and a Balrog before, and Merry, you killed the Witchking with one of these swords. I intend to put this lot right back to sleep again. C'mon!' And he began to run towards the Barrow. Frodo stared for a moment and then his courage returned, and he drew Sting. The blade leapt with the familiar blue light and Frodo charged after Sam, Merry close behind. 'Go wide!' Sam shouted, gesturing.' Dodge behind them!'

They were quick and the Orcs still unsteady. As they ran, Frodo could see Baranor ahead of them between the tall grey stones that led to the mouth of the tumulus. In one hand he held the silver chased horn to his lips, he had his sword in the other. He was shielding Dods.

'Where's Iberic?' panted Merry.

'There! He's on the ground.' Sam pointed as he ran, and Frodo saw a body lying prone behind Baranor. Iberic. His head was turned away and the wind ruffled his curls. Dods stood over him protectively, a short sword in his hand that he pointed towards an Orc that was creeping towards them.

Merry ran faster, overtaking Sam and Frodo and suddenly an Orc skeleton lunged at him. Merry threw up his arm, thrusting the dagger that Baranor had exchanged for Merry's between the ribs of the Orc. Sam leapt in too. He had snatched up a metal buckler from somewhere and used the round shield to batter against the skeleton, driving it back. Frodo saw ancient weapons, shields churned up by the emergence of the dead army. He grabbed one of the round bucklers like Sam had and rushed in, chopping at the heavy, thick bones of the Orc with Sting. Sam swung his sword high and fast, and the light shot along the blade, as if it had caught fire. He hacked at the spine of the skeleton, and it staggered back. Merry had snatched up an axe and slammed it against another Orc that lunged at them. There were skeletons coming at them from all sides now, and others slowly hauling themselves out of the earth.

'Quick!' Frodo grabbed at Merry, and they ran towards Baranor. As soon as the Man saw them, he glanced at Dods and then came out to meet them, rushing at the Orcs that lurched after them. His long sword broke one of the rusted hatchets and took the skull off one of the skeletons. Sam and Dods pulled Frodo into the small circle, and they quickly stood back to back around Iberic, swords drawn. Iberic was on the ground and did not move.

'You should not be here!' Baranor said anxiously, hauling them into a proper defence. 'I told you to go, find Elrohir.'

'We don't leave our friends behind,' said Frodo glanced over his shoulder. 'Dods, are you all right? What happened to Iberic?'

'He just fell,' Dods said, his face looked frightened, and Frodo remembered that Dods, for all his courage, had never faced Orcs before and certainly not as ghoulish as these. 'We suddenly found ourselves here and just…. I don't know. He fell, just collapsed, like he had suddenly fallen asleep where he stood. And there was this horrible noise… a sort of whining, moaning. It got right into me, but it stopped and then these…things, these skeletons appeared.'

'It'll be the Barrow Wights,' said Sam, matter of factly. 'They'll have enchanted him, they're probably after both of you to take into their barrows and sacrifice you I'm afraid. He'll wake up once we've got these Orcs finished with and we can get away from here.'

Orcs crept slowly towards the Hobbits as if they enjoyed the fear of the Hobbits. Frodo instinctively shuffled a little closer to Sam and Merry, and the warmth of their living flesh comforted him.

'There are an awful lot of them,' Merry said quietly.

'You should have fled,' Baranor said desperately. 'I cannot save you all.'

'You misunderstand,' said Merry more cheerfully than any of them felt. 'We have come to save you!'

Baranor breathed out through his nose and nodded, chastened. 'Yes. Of course. I know who you are.…. But these are…these are bespelled. It is the Barrow Wights that are animating the bones. They cannot…die.'

Frodo glanced up at the Man. 'How many are there?' he asked in sudden fear. 'Elrohir said if someone wanted an army, there is one waiting in the Barrow Downs.'

Baranor glanced down at Frodo and his handsome face was grim. 'Even if we can defeat these Orc bones, we still have the Barrow Wights to face.' He wiped his face with his wrist. 'And I do not know if you saw the bonfires on the hill? Black Riders.' He sighed heavily as if he had already been fighting a long time. 'I do not think we can defeat them all. I wish you had run.'

'We couldn't leave you,' Merry repeated defiantly. He looked towards the oncoming Orcs as they crept closer and closer. 'We have done this before,' he added.

Frodo felt Merry and Sam on either side, close ranks, standing defensively around Iberic.

One of the Orcs raised its heavy hand as if it were a signal.

'Here they come,' warned Baranor and raised his sword so it was in front of him, hefted a shield he had pulled from the churned ground. Frodo held Sting before him, and the blade was lit with a fiery blue. In his other hand, he held the round metal buckler before him too.

The Orc suddenly let its hand fall and at the signal the Orcs charged forwards. No longer clumsy and slow, they leapt at the Hobbits, fast and furiously, hacking carelessly, heavily, intent on killing, for there was a hatred for warm flesh and the pulsing blood in their veins. Heavy jaws clacked and fanged teeth snapped.

One skeleton rushed at Frodo, machete raised high. Frodo lashed out with Sting but the Orc barely wavered, and crashed through their ranks, hacking as it came. Frodo ducked as the rusted blade grazed his cheek and he kicked at the feet and knocked the Orc over, but it simply rolled with him, catching at him with its bony fingers, digging and tearing at his skin. Frodo dug with Sting into the arm socket until it crunched, and the bones separated. It gnashed its teeth at him, and he thrust Sting into its eye socket, hauling with all his strength until the skull was suddenly loosened and the skeleton crashed into another and the pair of them tumbled down, tangled limbs and bones falling apart as if the sorcery that animated them had suddenly left them.

Frodo was aware of Merry, Sam doing the same, smashing and splintering bones, kicking them away but he barely had time to shove one skeleton away before another was at him. It used its height and weight to rain down slashing blows upon him. He rammed the metal buckler into the midriff of the Orc and followed up by kicking its legs at the knees. Even with no muscle and no sinew, it was hard to fracture the thick bones and he saw from the periphery of his vision that the other Hobbits were trying to do the same and that Baranor was slashing at the Orcs with his sword. The Orc grabbed at Frodo and raised its hatchet. Frodo smashed the buckler again and again against its bleached, grinning face but it did no more that sway slightly and he hacked and hacked and hacked at its bones.

'We need Elrohir,' Frodo shouted and Baranor nodded, his face anxious. Are we going to lose this, thought Frodo, suddenly afraid. He ducked a slicing blade but suddenly something punched at his knees, and he collapsed. A tall skeleton stood over him, brandishing a long handled axe and its empty eye sockets staring down at him, bared teeth grinning in triumph as it raised the axe.

Baranor's horn sounded again, desperate, urgent. Calling this time, summoning Elrohir to arms, signalling for help.

But it seemed the only thing it summoned was the fog, which crept over the moor towards them.

Frodo managed to roll away at exactly the moment the axe came slashing down and thunked into the soft earth where he had been seconds before. Long bony fingers raked at him as he rolled, tangling in his hair. With a cry of horror, Frodo shoved the Orc away, but it dug into his scalp with preternatural strength. He tore at the bony hand in panic, and suddenly Sam was there, driving his sword between the metacarpals and the small bones of the hand until there was a nauseating crunch and the fingers fell apart and scattered over the mud churned up by the fight. In horror and disgust Frodo ground the heel of his boot upon the bony hand, and it clawed up at him like some ghoulish spider.

In desperation, Baranor sounded his horn again. The fog crept towards them, thick and impenetrable now, and it seemed to wrap itself about the blast of the horn and muffle it.

The wind too fingered insidiously through Frodo's hair, around his neck, filled his mouth, his ears with its whine. It was only a matter of time, he thought wearily. He felt something shift near his feet and looked down to see that an Orc had gripped Iberic's ankle and was dragging him from between the other hobbits. Dods clutched at Iberic's coat frantically and kicked at the Orc. With a cry, Frodo struck at it, but another leapt in front of Frodo and hacked at him, left right left right rapid blows that had Frodo reeling under the impetus.

There was a sudden, determined charge from the Orcs and they drove the Hobbits apart. Leaping upon Baranor in particular, the Orcs beat him and dragged him down. There was a cry from Baranor as he went down under them. Sam and Frodo tried to pull the Orcs away, but they were too big, too strong and one of them jabbed a sharp elbow up into Frodo's face. A burst of pain threw him backwards and he fell, hitting his head hard against the standing stone.

His head spun with the concussion of the blow, and he blinked, white dots of light floating before him.

Now the wind blew across the moor, through the stones. It was thin and high in the air, and his arms ached with tiredness. He hoped now that Elrohir and Pippin would not come, that at least those two might escape.

Something heavy was being dragged away now. Dizzily, he raised his head and looked around. Three Orcs were leaning over Iberic and searching his body as if looking for something. But it Baranor who was being dragged away, he hung limply in the grip of two big Orc skeletons that moved swiftly towards the barrow. Baranor's head lolled to one side, and his mouth was slack. The fine leather baldric from which hung the ancient silver chased horn was tangled in his fingers or he would have lost it, and his sword was gone. The Orcs dragged him quickly, moving faster than Frodo could have reached him. Mist poured down from the tumulus and the Orcs and Baranor disappeared into it.

'Baranor!' Frodo cried and he struggled to his feet, swaying slightly and holding onto the menhir. He could not see Sam or Merry now for skeletons moved between them like a scene for some ghoulish hell. A heavy Orc, its armour flapping and clanking, lunged at Frodo, bringing a blunt hatchet down again and again on Frodo's round shield until suddenly the buckler cracked under the weight of the attack. Frodo punched the cracked shield up into the skull's fanged jaw and the skull rocketed back. He had no time to celebrate however, for two more skeletons jumped at him and he was beaten back and back until he stumbled over something and crashed to the ground.

The skeletons stalked towards him, skulls leering, and the wind blew furiously, with the mournful, unbearable whine of the Barrow Wights' Song creeping under Frodo's skin, into his ears.

Suddenly hands grabbed Frodo and hauled him back and to his feet and Sam was there, thrusting his sword through the ribs, battering at the vertebrae, kicking at the Orcs shins and knees.

Merry shoved Sting into Frodo's hand. 'Don't give into it, Frodo.' Merry gave him a slight shake. 'Our only chance is to hold out until Elrohir gets here.' He turned away to lash out at a lumbering Orc that threw itself into their small circle. Sam smashed an axe down onto a hideous, deformed skeleton and it writhed silently before the Hobbit chopped at it again and the bones fractured. Dods was somewhere behind him and Frodo could hear him weeping as he fought, and Frodo could no longer see Iberic for the fog had crept over the grass and mud so they could no longer see their feet.

'Sam! Frodo! Look!' Merry pointed up towards the tumulus that loomed over everything.

High up on the tumulus, the grey fog had coalesced into three tall pale shapes. They had no faces only gaping mouths that hungered endlessly for life, for light, for spirit. Maiar, like Gandalf, but corrupted. As powerful as Balrogs, but of darkness and grey shadow, not flame. They hungered for the warmth of blood, to undo flesh, unpick sinews from bones.

They will devour us, Frodo realised.

Cold….

The mist filled his mouth and nostrils and seeped into his eyes and reached behind his eyeballs.

Cold.

Cold.

Never wake.

Frodo wanted to shake his head like some biting thing had flown into his ear or something drilled into his brain.

Sleep under stone.

He felt his body slowing down, the blood ran slower and slower in his veins. Lifting his arm to fend off a blow, he felt the impact judder all along his arm and his fingers felt nerveless, his arms were so weak.

He could hear Sam calling but it seemed so very far away. I just want to sleep, he thought wearily. Sting fell from his grasp and quivered angrily, point first in the soft earth. He was dimly aware that Orc skeletons towered over Sam, raining blows upon him but Frodo could not move, he could only watch as if from very far away. He wondered where Merry was and saw him lying down too.

The wind picked up more strongly, its whine louder, piercing and driving them mad. Sam struggled and cried out and then suddenly he was struck down. An Orc skeleton leaned over Sam, prodding and sniffing. Suddenly it caught something and lifted its snout. It made no sound, but it reached for something that lay near Sam, something that glittered furiously, fiery red and silver in the strange half-light.

Sam's sword. One of the Mergyll-Dagnir.

The Orc lifted it triumphantly and the dagger glittered as if furious, flashing in the eerie twilight. Silently the Orcs moved away then from Sam leaving the Hobbit unmoving on the churned up and bloody mud.

Forcing himself to move, Frodo crawled slowly towards Sam, one hand, one foot at a time. At last, he struggled to his feet and stood swaying unsteadily, Sting glittering defiantly in his hand, ready to defend his dearest friend to the bitter end.

There was a thunder of hooves and Frodo saw tall shapes, horses, moving through the mist. The Riders are here already, he thought sadly. And I cannot do anything. There were already three skeletons turning towards him, stalking over the turf, machetes in their bony hands, fangs grinning, and behind them, the Riders' cloaks spread on the wind as they galloped steadily over the moor towards Frodo and his exhausted, wounded companions.

0o0o

Arod surged ahead, Gimli shouting in equal measure of alarm and encouragement, as Maglor urged the horse over a ditch and galloped, flattening out like he raced the Nazgûl themselves.

But Elrohir held Barakhir back and reached out and grasped Aragorn by the arm. 'Be careful little brother. They may want you more than even the Mergyll-Dagnir.' And then he hauled the saddlebag from across Barakhir's withers and thrust it towards Aragorn.

With a start, Aragorn reached out. A shock charged through his fingers, and he looked up, startled into Elrohir's eyes.

'Remember what Maglor said. It is a weapon too.'

'Be safe too, Moryo,' Aragorn said, using Arwen's pet name for Elrohir. They nodded briefly at each other, eyes full of what they could not speak and then Elrohir turned Barakhir sharply and the horse snorted, pulling hard at the reins, and surged away up the bank towards the tumulus. Roheryn followed steadily, his big hooves kicking up clods of earth. Aragorn glanced behind to see that Pippin was valiantly coming up behind them although a little way back.

The horn sounded again, its rallying cry shockingly loud.

Leaning low over the horse's neck, Aragorn drew his sword and hefted the blade in his hand, feeling its weight, the sharpness of the blade. Anduril. Flame of the West glittered eagerly.

Immediately they were galloping between standing stones and into the Iaun-Gynd where the tall, grey menhirs leaned inwards like they were listening. Grey fog pressed against him and Roheryn slowed down to a canter. Ahead of them, Aragorn could hear the loud and frenzied clash of blades but other than that, it was strangely quiet for a battle. There were no battle cries or shouts.

Something lurched out of the fog, too tall for a Man, too heavy for an Elf. Orc-like but clumsy and silent, without the usual gibbering and snarling. He struck the creature hard. There was a clatter and something else lurched up at the other side of him. Roheryn whirled about and kicked out with one hind leg and as Aragorn slashed down with his sword, he felt the horse half rear and his front hoofs crunched down on something. Aragorn struck one side, then the other, but he could not make out what the enemy was; his blade did not sink into flesh but battered away at something hard, that rattled.

His assailant leapt up at him and Aragorn gasped. A heavy skull appeared from the fog, jaws gaping, and fangs bared; old armour flapped about it like skin. In horror, he knocked it to one side. Slicing the air left right left and kicking out, Aragorn's eyes were wide with horror at what saw.

This was as Elrohir had feared and warned them against: an army of the dead. Orcs that had been killed here in the War of Angmar against Cardolan, raised up from the earth by the Úmaiar.

A cry from Frodo came from somewhere in the fog and then Sam's voice shouting.

How many are there, he thought, and felt Roheryn stumble beneath him. He leapt to the ground and hauled a skeleton away from the horse's flanks. Roheryn's big teeth snapped over a skeletal arm and the horse shook it until it fell apart. His heavy hoofs smashed down on a skull and lashed out again. Aragorn shouted furiously and fought harder. But as he shattered bones, they simply crept together again. He heard Gimli's great battle cry ring out somewhere to his right, but Aragorn could not see the Dwarf and he himself was beset on all sides.

The wind caught at him, pulled its cold fingers through his hair, whispered to him of the cold beneath the earth, of never waking. He knew immediately it was the Barrow Wights and he brushed his fingers quickly against the Evenstar which always gave him strength. But there was another voice on the wind, a thrilling power in it that called to Aragorn's strength, reminded him of the flutter of banners streaming on the wind of the White City, HIS city, of the beat of the city's heart, of Arwen's amber warmth and steely strength. It reminded him that he loved Arwen with all his being. He felt a leap of vigour in his blood and battered down the awful whine of the wind. Instead of the moaning Song of the Barrow Wights, he listened to the bang of his own pulse rushing through his veins, his heart thundering, the potency of his blood surged through him, his strength. This was Maglor, he thought, countering the Barrow Wights.

High up, on the mound of the tumulus, light flashed through the fog; Aragorn did not know if it was lightning or fire. It flashed again and caught on a glint of metal moving purposefully up the side of the tumulus. When the hillside lit up again, he saw Maglor, cantering up the hillside upon Arod, to meet the Úmaiar, a helm clasped his face and a long horsetail streamed behind him. The flashing light reflected from his cuirass, and upon the sword in his hand. Behind him, was the black silhouette of Elrohir and Barakhir following.

Lightning flared again and this time, it was so bright that for a moment it lit up the whole battlefield. The Hobbits were huddled near the avenue of stones that marked the entrance to the Great Barrow, fighting hard, trying to hold against a horde of Orc skeletons. Sam was struck down, and Orcs crowded round him.

Aragorn charged forwards, Roheryn crashed into the Orcs, sending bones and skulls scattering. He drove them away from Sam and then slashed Anduril down into a knot of skeletons that had surrounded Merry, who was huddled over on his knees, holding a round wooden shield above his head to try to protect himself. Aragorn battered and slashed at the skeletons, so that Merry could struggle back to his feet and Frodo stood over Sam, swaying and barely able to stand, but Sting glittered and flashed in his hand.

Then there came a great battle cry. 'Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!' Gimli's voice rang out through the fog like a great horn had sounded in the hills, answering Baranor's despairing call. Gimli came striding towards them out of the fog, casually throwing a skull away from him as he approached. Pippin trotted along in his wake. There was blood on Pippin's face and one eye was swollen. Gimli's great axe whirled and scythed through the skeletons that gathered around him, sheared bone from bone, shattering one skeleton and then another.

'You came,' Frodo said, looking up at first Aragorn and the Gimli. There were tears in his eyes. 'You got Sam's message! About Merry.'

Gimli grinned and turned swiftly to smash his axe through an Orc's spine, and as it fell, he stamped on it with his heavy boots. 'I'll stand guard, Aragorn. You see to Sam.'

Aragorn knelt beside Sam and gently turned him over. Sam gave a low groan. Blood soaked the front of his tunic.

'Hush, Sam, quietly now,' Aragorn said. He glanced up at Frodo concerned and serious, and pulled his saddlebag from Roheryn's withers, rummaging for the ointments he knew that Elrohir would have in them. He found the small precious jar of gonathra ointment and pulled it out. Carefully, he eased Sam back against the stone and applied a generous palmful of the gonathra to the wound. Aware of the noise of battle around him, of the press of Orcs and the need for him to rejoin the battle, Aragorn put a folded cloth into Sam's hand and pressed it against the wound. 'Can you keep the pressure on here, Sam? I need to fight.'

There was another Hobbit lying nearby whom Aragorn did not recognise. He was very still. A second Hobbit was standing guard over him, and he turned to look at Aragorn briefly. He was shaking so hard he was barely able to hold the sword. Blood stained his tunic and was smeared on his face, but he hacked at the skeletons that lurched towards him and Pippin fought beside him.

Roheryn darted between the Orcs, smashing them with his hooves and snapping at them with his teeth. Aragorn chopped and hewed gracelessly with Anduril but every time he fractured one bone, smashed a skeleton, the bones crept together, knitting themselves into new, deformed limbs and bodies and simply came at them again.

Suddenly the attack ceased. The Orcs dropped back as if waiting for something, standing just at the edge of the thick fog that covered the moor so that Aragorn could no longer see the tumulus, or even the tall stones that pierced the fog swirling over the ground like a thick grey tide. The skeletons stood silently, one or two swaying slightly as if the wind might blow them over, but they did not turn away. They seemed to be waiting. Watching for some sign.

The wind rose slightly, lifting Aragorn's hair, fluttering the edge of his cloak, tattered the fog around the edges so it drifted closer, ribbons of grey that wound between them. A high pitched whine buzzed through Aragorn's ears. Dipping and rising, the wind pulled and tugged at him, and he felt his confidence ebb, his belief in himself wither. Who was he that he thought he could reunite the kingdoms? How did he dare?

There was a warmth near his foot, and he glanced down momentarily at the smooth leather of the saddlebag. Vanwë had said the Palantir was a weapon. But how to use it?

He stooped and reached down to the saddlebag, flipping it open but as if that were a signal, a knot of skeletons flung themselves towards him. They were bigger, heavier built and their bones massive. They wielded huge nail-studded maces, and though Aragorn met each blow with his sword, he felt the shudder along the blade. He knew that Gimli whirled his axe through the Orcs, but they came from all sides. Suddenly and hard. The heavy maces rained down upon Aragorn.

I cannot withstand this for long, he thought. His shoulder cracked under the assault.

Suddenly he felt the saddlebag snatched from where it had been at his feet. He spun around, searching desperately but something came down hard on his head and there were white dots in front of him and a blinding pain.

0o0o

Pippin ducked a spear that was aimed at him and seized it as it plunged into the ground beside him. It was so much longer than he was, but he hefted it anyway so the point was towards their attackers, and he flung it as hard as he could into the knot of Orc bones that moved towards them, jerky but inexorable. Aragorn collapsed suddenly beside him, and his heart leapt, and he stood over the Man, desperately battling to keep the Orcs from him. Beside him, Gimli too brought his axe down heavily on the neckbone of a skeleton, but he was fighting more and more slowly, as if it were a huge effort. A ragged-edged hatchet fell upon Gimli's unguarded side, and the Dwarf slowly sank to his knees. He looked up briefly and Pippin saw that his face was despairing. His beard was bloody, and an Orc knocked the Dwarf's helm from his head.

We cannot win, thought Pippin. He threw himself between the Orc and Gimli and struggled to chop away at its joints. The Orc stumbled back into a half crouch, watching Pippin.

It doesn't matter what we do, Pippin thought. There are just too many and they just keep coming ….

The Orc skeleton swayed horribly as if unsteady and Pippin thought how there was no muscle, no sinew and how easily they toppled if you just battered them. But they just reformed, haphazardly as if it didn't matter.

The wind swirled the fog into ribbons so that it broke for a moment, and he could see the battlefield briefly; scattered bones lay everywhere but they moved, seething like a pit of serpents. Pippin cried out, but the wind was a horrible murmuring, a whine that dipped and muttered and then rose into a shriek, thin and high in the air. The noise seemed to penetrate Pippin's ears and he clapped his hands over them to shut out the unbearable whine.

Only then did he realise that up until right now, there had been something else keeping it out, fighting with it. Something that reminded him of starlight and the warmth of the hearth, of friendship. It made him think of the Prancing Pony, of beer and bread and cheese and food. Solid things that kept him warm and real. Everything that was not on this cold, bleak moor where he stood facing uncountable enemies, unable to win. But the whining mutter of cold dread drove that other Song away now and Pippin felt the cold creep into his blood and bones.

The fog thinned for a brief moment, and lightning flashed over the Iaun-Gynd. He saw Vanwë, high up on the tumulus. The wind battered that high place, and leaves and twigs scurried across the tops, the grass streamed flat under the rising gale. Vanwë stood, hands lifted as if to hold back the wind and his long hair streamed in the wind that seemed to want to tear him apart. He was too far away for Pippin to see distinctly but he seemed to be shining and all the starlight seemed concentrated in that one place where he stood.

Then the mist poured down over the tumulus again like smoke and Vanwë disappeared from view once more. Then the whine of the wind came back, muttering and moaning, bitter and full of hate. Strings of words seemed to shape and then dissolve before he would grasp them. Cold, hard words that were full of hate and malice, that wanted to hurt him.

Cold.

Cold.

He felt his hands grow cold, so he could not feel his fingers and his blood slowed in his veins. Turning his head slowly, he saw that Aragorn lying on the ground, his arms thrown up over his head. Roheryn was standing nearby, exhausted, and his nose almost touched the ground, and his eyes were half closed. His flanks heaved.

Cold be hand and heart and bone…

Pippin tried to call out a warning, to tell everyone to move, to fight, not to stop. But his jaw was heavy, and he felt like he was in a dream, a nightmare and could not wake. Gimli was still kneeling on the grass, bowed over as if he had taken great hurt. His helm lay where the Orc had cast it and there was blood soaking his sleeve and his axe lay uselessly in one hand, as if he could not lift it.

'Gimli' he said clumsily, his tongue felt too thick in his head.

And cold be sleep under stone…

Wasn't there something that Vanwë had said, about the Palantír, thought Pippin dully, it was a weapon. And he had seen Elrohir hand it to Aragorn before they parted. The saddlebag had been on the ground nearby but now it had rolled up against Iberic or been thrown or kicked there in the skirmish. The round bulge of the Palantír called urgently to Pippin. He reached for it.

A bony fist came out of nowhere and smashed Pippin in the face, but he hardly moved. Impossibly strong fingers seized and ground the small bones of his own wrist, but he could not fight. An Orc leaned its face close to Pippin's and gnashed its teeth as it slowly bent Pippin's arm back, so he thought it would break. It hooked the last Mergyll-Dagnir between its spidery fingers and pulled the blade from Pippi's grasp. It held the knife up as if admiring it. The light flared over it and the dragons seemed to writhe and flail furious at its capture.

Never more to wake….

Pippin felt his mind reeling away from his body as if he was watching himself from a long way away, and his knees buckled. He sank gently onto the grass, aware of many Orcish feet stalking over to him. There was the scuff of the saddlebag being pulled over the grass by one of the Orcs.

All was silent now. Metal flashed above him.

This is it, he thought dully.

Through the silence and the fog, came the dull thud of horses' hoofs. The jingle of the metal bit in the horse's mouth. Not Arod then. Not Roheryn, who stood exhausted, too weary to even lift his head to the newcomers. A blur of red through the mist told him these Riders carried fire, flaming, burning torches. Steel glinted red in its light. Long black cloaks swirled like ink in water.

Eru, prayed Pippin and he heard a low cry from Aragorn, and Pippin knew then that these were the black Riders that Tubby had seen, who had vanished into the Downs, who had left charred ashes in the mouth of the barrows and let the Wights free.

There was a flare of fire that sizzled and spat and then something rolled between the Orcs' bony feet.

Pippin stared.

Suddenly a heavy hand seized him, dragged him upwards and almost threw him to the ground further away. A heavy body crushed him, and he could not breathe. He was going to be suffocated, devoured, he thought and struggled.

There was a huge explosion of fire and sound and the ground rocked beneath him. A blast of heat came from one side, and he heard a voice by his ear.

'Fuck me, me if it isn't Peregrine Took!'

Erestor of Imladris looked down at Pippin and the fire reflected in his amber, vulpine eyes. He looked terrifying and Pippin had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

0o0o