Hello guys! Happy New Year, and Merry Christmas, and I know, I know, I may as well be adding Happy Easter to the mix with how long this update has taken. I had a lovely Christmas, but December and January have both been rather challenging months for me so far, so all writing has had to take a backseat. To try and make up for it, I have two chapters for you today.
As a note, if anyone's wondering why in situations like these I tend to produce two chapters at once, it's because they're usually planned as a single chapter in my mind. When they then become too long and split into two, I need to make sure that I haven't lost anything between the two, meaning the first can't be posted until the second is complete, if that makes any sense?
In any case, I hope that you enjoy these chapters - they were incredibly tricky to write, but I think I'm happy with them now (or at least as happy with them as I will be. If I keep tweaking them until I'm 100% pleased it'll be Happy New Year 2021 by the time they make it up!)
Without further ado, please forgive any of my typos and enjoy the following two chapters!
Chapter One Hundred and Five: In the Shadow of Barad-dur
Frodo woke to the freezing cold, shuddering against the wind and gazing up at a sky smothered in smoke and ash. Sam was dozing behind him, pressed up against his back, and it looked like the blood had finally slowed its escape through the bandages over his shoulder. At Frodo's feet were Nelly and Bróin, their limbs wrapped so tightly around each other that it could not be comfortable. A thin layer of white ash had fallen over them all as they slept, covering them in what looked almost like a sheet of lace, but beneath it he could see that Nelly's skin was red and raw, and a lump rose in his throat.
Of all of them, her wounds worried him the most. Her ankle had been utterly shattered in the battle with the orcs, and she had also won a knife to the shoulder and a gash as deep as his thumbnail across her chest for her troubles – and that was before she had been thrown from Toothy. Frodo had never seen gravel rash so bad before. Her face was swollen, and despite their best efforts many of the wounds upon it were still oozing blood, and she looked as though she ought to be wrapped in one giant bandage. When she lost consciousness, the other had continued to try and help, using the last of their water to make what little salve they had left go far enough to dab over each of her wounds, but if she escaped this without any infection, it would be an utter miracle.
Beside her, Bróin looked comparatively stable, but his face was flushed, and drenched with sweat. He was beginning to lose weight, and visibly – something that would have happened an awful lot sooner if he was a hobbit, and something that boded very badly for a young dwarf. Without the importance of their mission to drive him, Frodo was not sure how long the young dwarf could hold on. Still – for now, Nelly and Bróin were both breathing, and though there was sometimes a shudder to their breath, he could see their chests rising and falling, and he sighed.
Opposite him, curled around Nelly and Bróin was the only uninjured member of their broken little fellowship, but Toothy was not sleeping. He gazed out towards smouldering crater of Mount Doom, only ever breaking his gaze to glance over his shoulder at the dwarves and hobbits.
Frodo shivered, propping himself up to get a better view of their surroundings. They were nestled on a small ledge that might have once been a lower balcony of Barad-dur, but now it was but a black rock in a sea of rubble and ruin, and barring an overhang of broken stone above them, it offered a little shelter from unfriendly eyes. Crushed and crumpled bodies of orcs and men alike could be seen here and there in the ruin, their twisted limbs poking out beneath great stones, but they had seen no sign of any living thing since they fled Mount Doom.
Clutching at the cool chain around his neck, Frodo swallowed, trying to pretend that his throat did not feel like a gallon of sand had been poured down inside it.
They had not meant to linger so long – he had not meant to fall asleep. When Nelly lost consciousness, they had tried to rouse her, but when they were sure she was breathing Sam suggested letting her sleep for a moment, and had encouraged Bróin and Frodo to close their eyes.
"Just half an hour or so, no more than that," he had rasped, the smoke already roughening his voice. "Just to catch our breath now. I'll stay watch."
Frodo had tried to watch too, but even the throbbing, burning ache of his leg could not keep exhaustion from claiming him. Never in his life had he felt so utterly empty, void of all strength and energy and emotion, and he did not feel much better now, despite the sinking feeling that he had slept too long. There was a hollow pit in his stomach, and weariness that bit deep into his every bone, and the pain in his leg had doubled.
Gingerly, he reached down, running his finger over the top of the bandage he had so hastily tied around the wound. Beneath it, it felt like the orc's fangs were still sinking deep into his flesh, still ripping and tearing and burning, and his whole leg was shaking and shuddering. His fingers itched closer to the bandage, but as they did, Bilbo's voice ran through his mind.
"Now, Frodo, don't pick at your wounds, my lad, that will only make it worse."
The thought of Bilbo brought with it a pain so fierce that it distracted him from his leg for a moment, and he sobbed, pressing his fist up against his mouth. He wanted Bilbo to come and get him. He wanted Thorin to scoop him off the ground and cradle him like a baby and carry him home. He wanted Dís to stroke his hair and tell him that it was alright, that it was all over, and he wanted Fíli and Kíli to tuck him up in warm blankets and sing him to sleep.
But those wishes were impossible – no one was coming to rescue them, and escape was looking less and less likely by the moment. If Frodo was honest with himself, the chances of his ever seeing his family again were as slim as his chances of sprouting a pair of wings and learning how to fly.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Frodo grappled with the chain around his neck, gripping the mithril shield tightly in his palm.
"My mother gave me this on my tenth birthday," murmured Thorin. "This is mithril, Frodo. It is strong, and beautiful, and the most precious of all metals and gems to our people. It grants great beauty, and weighs very little, but it is very strong. You could bite down on this tiny shield, or any link of that chain, with the jaw of a wolf and it would not scratch. This is what is protecting your uncle. This one can protect you."
Frodo looked up in surprise. "Me?"
"Yes, you. If you want it." Thorin fixed Frodo with his sharp, blue eyes. "It can remind you that I will always protect our family, and I will always protect you."
Frodo took a long, deep breath, and opened his palm, gazing down at the shield upon it. True to Thorin's word, nothing had ever marked or marred the necklace – not even the ring had done any damage to it. Its carvings were as beautiful and detailed as ever, and even here, where the stars were veiled and the glowing fire of the mountain was the only light, it glittered and shone like a star.
How, Uncle Thorin? How can you protect me now?
The shield stared up at him, bright as ever, and as Frodo stared back, his eyes traced the engravings he knew so well, he read the words of the inscription for the first time in a long time.
Amrâl-ê za-mahashmur astû la'anatu hikhthuzul, rakl-khi.
My love will protect you always, precious one.
Bróin coughed violently, and Frodo winced, glancing at the young dwarf. His fringe was plastered to his forehead, but he had shifted in his sleep, and the rest of his hair had fallen over Nelly's. Beneath the flaming auburn hair, Nelly looked almost like she could be Nori's little sister by blood.
And Frodo paused.
Nelly knew how to survive better than any hobbit Frodo had ever heard of, and it was all because Nori taught her – he had taught her how to look after herself, how to protect herself. All of the hobbits of Erebor had knew how to fight, how to survive the wilderness.
The love of the dwarves had taught them how to protect themselves.
Drawing in a deep breath, Frodo closed his eyes and raised the shield to his lips. "I'll try, Uncle Thorin," he whispered reverently. "I promise."
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, letting his mind return to the ring for the first time since waking up. Part of him still could not believe that it was gone, but he could feel it. The weight on his shoulders had been so heavy for so long that now he felt almost like he was missing a limb, and in its place fluttered a feeble spark of relief and hope. The ring was gone – it was gone for good.
A little strength returned to him with that thought, and he opened his eyes once more, looking back at his companions. They were each so badly wounded, each so still in their slumber, and they had all sacrificed so much to get Frodo to the mountain. Now, it was his turn to look after them.
He glanced down over the edge of the ledge at the ruins below him, but this time, he forced himself to look past the twisted bodies and dark, jagged stone. Broken rods of iron and wood jotted out of the rock, and he was sure that some of it might be useful for splints or walking sticks. If he could just find something to use as a splint for his right leg, he might be able to move a bit faster, and be a little more use to his friends. His left leg was only scratched, after all. It was a risk, but he would not have to go far.
Carefully, Frodo drew a rune in the ash with his finger, a simple enough symbol to let them know that he was scouting, and nearby, and then he began to crawl to the edge of their ledge.
Toothy let out a sigh like a whine, and Frodo smiled weakly.
"Look after them," he murmured, and his voice felt rough as sandpaper and hurt to use, but Toothy bowed his head slightly. "I'll be back."
Though pain spasmed through his leg every single time that he moved, Frodo gritted his teeth and crawled over the edge the ledge. Soon, he was gasping for breath in the hot, dry air, and his head span and tears burnt in his eyes, but he forced himself down into the rubble. The broken stone shifted and jolted beneath his feet, but he managed to keep his balance, and in a couple of minutes he had a dark stick of wood almost as tall as he was. It made a decent enough stick to lean on, but one was not enough, not when there were four of them.
He used the stick to help rummage through the ruins, and he uncovered a couple of other rods of both wood and metal that would be good for the others. He also managed to grab a couple of shorter lengths of metal that had been twisted and warping in the collapsing of the tower, hoping that they might be able to fashion some sort of a splint from them for Nelly, though he doubted she would have the strength to walk anytime soon. After only a few minutes more, exhaustion was weighing on him like blanket of iron mail, and he was so thirsty that he would take a sip from a filthy puddle like a stray dog.
A flicker of disappointment sparked in his heart as he turned back towards his friends. He had not expected to find more, but that had not stopped him hoping for some food, or something to drink.
Serves you right for hoping for the impossible, he thought glumly, moving his pile of spoils higher up the rock. He shifted his weight onto his hands, ready to follow the gear, but as he did the stone beneath his left hand shifted, and then it collapsed entirely, plunging his hand down. His gasp of alarm quickly became a hiss of pain as something sharp sliced open the side of his palm, and he drew his hand back quickly.
Blood seeped through his fingers as they clamped over the wound, and Frodo pressed his fist against his mouth, breathing through the new pain as best he could.
As he breathed, however, he caught the smell of something unexpected – something that smelt an awful lot like bad rum. He leant forward, sniffing cautiously, and the smell grew stronger. He bit down on his lip, regretting it when the dry skin peeled away beneath his teeth, and considered his options.
Pulling aside rocks in so precarious position was almost definitely not a good idea – he could cause a rockslide, or trap himself, or make his injuries worse, but he was utterly desperate for a drink, and if there was rum beneath him, even spilt rum from a broken flagon, there was a chance that nearby it there may be some food.
In the distance, something screeched loudly, and Frodo shuddered, pulling the hood of his elven cloak up over his head and making up his mind. They needed to get out of here – sooner rather than later – but they were all in a terrible state, and they needed supplies. Who knew when they might get a chance like this again...
He shifted down to a position that felt a little more stable and braced his good leg and injured hand against the stone beneath him. Panting through the pain, Frodo began to dig through the rocks, wincing with every clatter they made as they tumbled down behind him.
As his little hole grew wider, Frodo found a shard of clay slicked with blood, and the rest of the flagon it had once been a part of. Sticky, half-dried rum covered everything around it, and Frodo dug deeper, until his hands came upon something unmistakably leather. From what he could see and feel, it seemed to be some sort of satchel or bag, but its corners were pinned beneath the rubble. He gritted his teeth and tugged, and it gave half an inch, and he pulled harder, his arms trembling with the effort, and then it gave way, and Frodo fell backwards.
He landed on his back, agony shooting up his spine and searing his injured leg, but he ignored the pain as best he could, sitting up and ripping open the bag.
And Frodo pressed his palm to his mouth, and sobbed.
It was clearly someone's getaway bag, packed with hastily wrapped parcels of food, and a pair of waterskins that quickly proved to be full, and in another pocket there were even herbs – herbs Frodo knew, herbs that could help stave off infection. Hope surged in his heart, and he ripped open the first waterskin, raising it to his lips and taking down the smallest dribble of water that he could bear.
Laughing breathlessly, he glanced back at the hole, but then he choked, and clutched the bag tightly.
Staring up at him was a pair of wide, green eyes, cold and lifeless – eyes that sat in the pale, dead face of a young man. Fear was wrought into the man's expression, and the top of his head had been crushed, and Frodo's gut churned. He knew that this man had been an enemy, that anyone willingly in Barad-dur had to be, but he could not help but wonder if the person before him had been tricked, or trapped – if he had truly been evil at heart.
Either way, he's dead now, he thought, and he swallowed, clutching the bag tighter to himself. He moved to sling it over his back, and then he paused, bowing his head to the young corpse.
"Thank you for helping me to look after my friends," he whispered, and then he turned, and began the clamber back to the others.
The return was even more difficult than descending, especially with the heavy, cumbersome bag, and the rods of metal and iron, but Frodo ignored the growing pain, and the glean of sweat, and the trembling of his aching muscles. Step by weary step, he climbed, until at last he could throw the make-shift walking sticks up onto the ledge, and the bag after it.
With a final grunt of effort, he hauled himself up onto the ledge, and for a moment all that he could do was lie panting on the ground. Toothy looked up and whined softly, and Frodo nodded, reaching out to shake Sam's uninjured shoulder.
"Sam," he murmured. "Wake up. Wake up – we need to go." Sam shivered and moaned, and as he stirred, Frodo turned to the others. "Come on," he called softly, gently poking Bróin's nose and stroking Nelly's hair until they grimaced, and squeezed their eyes shut tighter. "We've got to go. It's time to go home."
Behind them, Sam stumbled onto his feet, clutching at his wounded shoulder as he did. The colour drained from his face as he rose, and he swayed, grasping at a nearby rock to steady himself, and Frodo felt a fresh pang of fear.
"Are you alright, Sam?" he asked, but even as he said it, he knew it was a stupid question. Slowly, Sam raised his head, and he gave a small nod.
"I'm alright," he said, but Frodo could hear the pain tight in his voice. "Just… just tired. And thirsty."
"How's your shoulder?"
Sam closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, and guilt dealt Frodo a stab of its own.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he said. "I'm so sorry."
Sam looked up sharply and opened his mouth, but as he did Nelly let out a soft, whispering plea. "Water?"
"It's all gone," Sam said heavily, but Frodo dragged himself up into a sitting position and snatched the water from the new bag, holding it out towards her.
"Here you go," he said softly. "I found a little more."
Grasping the waterskin in her bloodied fingers, Nelly drank greedily for a moment, before passing it straight to Bróin, and lying back against the ground with a sigh. As she did, Sam stiffened, looking down at Frodo and the bag, and then at the sticks on the ground. "Where did you get that, Frodo? And how?"
"Scavenging."
Sam's eyebrows lowered. "Without waking us first?"
Frodo smiled slightly. "It's alright, Sam, I didn't go far."
"That doesn't matter." Sam's voice rose hotly, but as it did he winced, and then began to cough. Frodo offered him the other waterskin, but Sam glared at him, and pushed it away. "You can't walk, Frodo," he growled. "Anything could have happened - you could have been hurt, you could have been killed, and we wouldn't know where you were."
Frodo winced. "I'm sorry, but I had to do something-"
"You should've woken me up-"
"No, because then you would have gone instead!"
Sam's eyes bulged incredulously. "Yes, I would have, given that I'm the only one with a working pair of legs!"
"Exactly!" Frodo swallowed, tears burning in the corners of his eyes. "After everything I've done, everything I put you through, I – I couldn't bear to let you take a risk I could take myself, Sam. You – you protected me, and carried me, and now I have to try and protect you too. All of you. I – I nearly got all of you killed, and I – I have to try and fix that."
Sam recoiled, his mouth hanging open. "You… what?"
"We all… all knew what we were signing up for, Frodo," Bróin said weakly.
"He's right," said Sam, his voice cracking, and he dashed at the corners of his eyes. "He's right, Frodo, we, we did this together, but you – you did more than all of us! You destroyed the ring – you saved the world! You don't owe us, Frodo, you don't owe us anything- there's nothing to fix. We started this together, and we're going to make it home together – so no more secret scavenging missions, or trying to make up for things – you hear me?"
Guilt churned in Frodo's gut, and he lowered his eyes to his toes. "You didn't sign up for me failing. If I had done what I said I would do, if I had just thrown the ring into the fire, those orcs never would have caught you, never would have stabbed you, if-"
"And what would've happened to Nelly? You think that those orcs would've let her go? That they wouldn't've caught us all, killed us all? You saved us, Frodo." Sam's voice burnt with such fierce conviction that Frodo glanced up at him.
"But I – I…"
"Let's talk… bout this later…" moaned Bróin. "Nelly… Nell, you still breathing?"
Frodo looked quickly at Nelly, who gave a weak little smile and nodded. "Just… just about."
"Good," Bróin murmured, rubbing his eyes, but then he paused, and frowned, pressing his hand to his forehead. "I… I think my fever's broken."
Frodo looked up sharply. "What?" He reached across and pressed his fingers to Bróin's forehead, and then Frodo laughed breathlessly. "How do you feel?"
Bróin smiled grimly. "Oh, about a half mile from death's door, but… but better when I felt half a foot away…"
"Thank goodness," Nelly breathed, her voice breaking into a sob. "Thank the Valar…"
Even as the relief flooded through him, Frodo knew full well that Bróin was far from out of the woods. Even if the fever had broken, he was still sick, and he was weak – very weak, and Frodo tried to remember when was the last time that the dwarf had managed to stomach any food. It was difficult – Frodo could not really remember the last time that he had eaten, either.
"Let's have something to eat, and then we'll get out of here, alright?" he murmured. "What rations do we have left, Sam?"
"Not much – just one little loaf of lembas, enough for one, maybe two meals each. If we're strict," he said, glancing at the satchel. "Is… is there any food in there?"
Frodo nodded, holding the bag open for his friend to see. "And it doesn't look like orc food, either. I think it's a man's escape bag…" His stomach clenched, but he did not mention the green eyed corpse.
Sam rummaged through the bag for a moment, nodding thoughtfully. "You know, this isn't a bad find… I say we save the lembas a little longer – it seems to have kept so far. This stuff looks alright, but we don't know where it's from, it'd be good to keep the best till last, if we can."
"Whatever you think, Sam," Frodo agreed, glad that Sam did not seem about to snap at him again. Sam glanced at him for a moment, and then nodded. As Sam distributed a meagre breakfast between the others, and Frodo helped Bróin and Nelly prop themselves up against the warg's back. To his utter relief, they both ate hungrily, showing no sign of retching or vomiting, and a little spark returned to Nelly's eyes as she nibbled on the dried berries Sam had found.
When they had eaten, Frodo and Sam studied the potential splints he had managed to find, choosing the best one that they could find and binding it to Nelly's injured ankle as well as they could. As they worked, Nelly's teeth were gritted so hard that Frodo could hear them crunching, and the grip of her fists left red marks on Bróin's arm for hours, but she did not scream. She barely even whimpered.
Finally, it was over, and Sam and Frodo hoisted her up. She gave a soft cry of pain, but also managed to raise her left leg a little, making it easier for the boys to lift her onto Toothy's back. With a sigh, she slumped against the warg's neck and head, and Frodo climbed up behind her, taking the reins. Sam had offered to steer, but Frodo was worried that any sudden movements on Toothy's part might damage Sam's wounded shoulder.
As soon as he was settled, Frodo twisted around and reached out for Bróin, who hoisted himself up behind Frodo. Almost at once, the young dwarf slumped against Frodo's back. With as much of a smile as he could muster, Frodo reached around to pat Bróin's knee, and Bróin grabbed his hand, resting his head on Frodo's shoulder.
"C'mon, Sam," he mumbled. "Time t'go."
"Are you sure there's space?" said Sam uncertainly. "I mean, carrying all four of us'll be no mean feat, and I'm perfectly fine walking, I-"
Toothy gave a low, disgruntled growl, and Nelly let out a breathless sigh of a laugh.
"He's not a boat, Sam," she said, and though her voice was weak it was also light, and teasing, and Frodo was so relieved to hear the taunt in her tone that he could have kissed her.
Grumbling, Sam pulled himself up behind Bróin, and Toothy stood up, shaking his head. Then, the warg sprang forward, running down through the rubble and ruin and working his way east, but soon he began to slow as the piles of stone grew higher around them. Twisting tunnels wound through the rubble, forming a maze through the ruins, and fear crawled up Frodo's spine as the stone around them rose so high that they could not see what was ahead of them, or on either side.
They grew quiet, and he could feel Bróin's breath hot on the back of his neck. Nelly's hand wove around Frodo's arm, clinging on tightly, and Frodo's own heart was beating so fast it hurt. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who gave a weak smile, but as he did Toothy stopped, and then lowered himself down, creeping forwards with a low growl.
At once, Bróin grabbed Frodo's shoulder, and Frodo secured his own grip around Nelly's waist – if Toothy sprang into a sprint, someone might get thrown again. For now, though, the warg did not run. Instead, he slunk onwards, his hackles rising beneath them, and his lips pulling back over bared teeth. He stopped making any noise, though Frodo could feel the rumble of the growl in the warg's lungs and throat, and he pursed his own lips to stop them from shaking.
Slowly, they crept around the corner, and as soon as they saw what was beyond it, Frodo's gut clenched.
Pressed up against a wall of crumbling stone were around a dozen people, but from the filth that caked their skin and the angry wounds that marred their bodies, it was hard to tell what type of folk they were. Some could be elves, from the point of their ears, and there were the shorter, bulkier forms of dwarves amongst them, but each and every one of their heads was shaved right to the scalp. Though ragged stubble grew on many of their chins, there was not a beard in sight, and they were all clad in dark brown rags, with rings of iron were clasped around their wrists as they stood, shivering, against the stone.
And standing before them, with their backs to Frodo and the others, were three orcs – and each of them armed to the teeth.
"Where is he?" one of them hissed, nursing a wound on his shoulder. "What's taking so long? We need to get out of here, it's not safe, not safe!"
Another orc growled. "Quiet, Balcmeg. Even a white-skin could hear your squawking a mile off."
"And you're so much quieter, Lagduf?" hissed Balcmeg, and the largest of the three gave a sigh, turning towards the other two, and allowing Frodo a glimpse of his face.
Frodo's hand flew to his mouth in a desperate attempt to hide his own whimper, and Bróin's hand grew tight around his arm. Desperately, Frodo yanked on the reins, and Toothy instantly backed away behind the cover of the stone, but even there he could hear the cruel, cold voice of Shagrat, the commander of Cirith Ungol.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll both shut up," he snarled. "It's no skin off my teeth to hobble you both and leave you here, without so much as a bone to gnaw on. Quit your griping, and keep quiet."
Toothy turned his head sharply, and Frodo strained his ears, quickly catching the stomp of boots on shifting stone, and Balcmeg let out a low sigh.
"Finally…"
"Is that all?" drawled a man's voice, a moment later. "Surely there must be more stock left in the mines than that?"
"Unfortunately not, sir," said Shagrat. "This was all we could grab. When the tower came down the mines were destroyed, and all the exists blocked, but these'uns were out on rotation mending one of the outer guard rooms. I see you didn't have much more luck."
"I did not," said the man. "The farm was not far enough to escape the debris from Barad-dur – the nursery was utterly destroyed. These were all that was left – not great specimens, I grant you, but here we are – and it looks like they're in better shape than yours."
"Well, that should do us for now, in any case," said Shagrat. "This one here is failing-" There was the snap of a switch against skin, and a small grunt, "But we'll get a few feeds off him. Did you find any more lads?"
"I did not." The man's voice grew colder. "Most are dead, I deem, or soon to be dead. The men of the west will show no mercy when they scourge this land, and scourge it they will. I will not waste another moment looking for orcs to pull from the rubble. Let us go, as soon as the others return."
"As you wish, Lord."
"But where are we going?" whined Balcmeg. "Where is there left to go?"
"We go east," said the man calmly, "and if you do not stop snivelling, even the failing slave shall feast on your flesh. Is that quite clear?"
"Yes, yes, sir, yes sir," the orc whimpered, and Frodo could imagine the creature cringing backwards, away from the cruel-voiced man.
"Your utter lack of a spine has already been made known to me," the man said. "That you were not in Barad-dur when it fell was due to your fleeing the wrath of our Lord when he expressed his disappointment in the news of your failure. I know that you ran from the tower, and that the fact that you now draw breath is due to luck and cowardice, and not at all something which you deserve. Though, I suppose, to be crushed by thousands of tonnes of stone would be far too merciful a demise for you both."
There was a small, odd, choking noise, and then the other orc, Lagduf, spoke in a simpering. "But Shagrat, Shagrat fled too, my lord, we – we are but your faithful servants-"
"Faithful?" said the man, his voice as sharp as a razor. "So faithful you would throw your own commander to the wolves just like that? I know that Shagrat left Barad-dur, and I know that unlike you, he was ordered to – he was to return to his post. He has shown loyalty in lingering here in search of survivors. You have stayed out of fear. If you wish to keep your lives, you shall hold your tongues. Am I understood?"
"Yes, lord, yes, lord, yes," simpered Lagduf and Balcmeg, and Frodo shuddered at the thought of who might make orcs tremble, and who would be evil enough to hold rank over Shagrat.
They addressed him as Lord, but – no, no! It could not be Sauron, there was no way –
Sam leant over Bróin's shoulder to hiss frantically in Frodo's ear. "Back away, now! We need to get out of here!"
Frodo nodded dumbly, pulling on Toothy's reins. His mouth felt very dry. The warg huffed, and then tried to turn, but there was not enough space in the passage for him to manage it, and instead he began to walk backwards, achingly slowly.
And then his ears pricked up, and the warg froze.
"Hey!" roared a new voice, and Frodo gasped, twisting around to look over his shoulder. The passage behind them was blocked, blocked by at least half a dozen orcs, and at their head were two men and a woman, their faces contorted with a malicious rage.
"Go, forward, forward!" yelled Sam, and Toothy did spring forward, but one of the orcs from outside appeared at the entrance to the passage, raising its scimitar high.
Without missing a beat, Toothy seized the orc's head in his jaws, crushing its skull and screams alike in a mere moment. Snarling furiously, the warg sprang out into the open, bursting past the orcs and the cruel-voiced man, and sprinting for the next tunnel, but Shagrat and the other surviving orc stood before it. As soon as they drew close the Captain of Cirith-Ungol flicked his arm, and a whip cracked down over Toothy's nose – but it was not just the warg that it struck.
Frodo hissed as he felt the sting on his arm, but the pain was nothing compared to Nelly's scream as the whip slashed across the wound on her chest. At the sound, Toothy howled furiously, backing away from Shagrat until the wall of rubble behind them let them go no further.
A pack of orcs poured out of the tunnel from where they had been – but no – there were only six or seven of them. The rest of the crowd behind them were more prisoners – Frodo could see the black shackles around their necks and wrists and ankles, and they were clad in the same dark rags as the others.
Alongside the orcs were the woman and two men that he had seen in the tunnel, each crouched down into a position of attack, bearing swords and an axe that were in considerably better shape than the notched blades of the orcs. A few feet behind them stood another man, tall and cloaked in grey and black, wearing a great iron helmet that concealed most of his upper face, and sent a horrible chill down Frodo's spine.
They were cornered, and surrounded, and not one of them was in fighting shape.
"Stay back!" Sam yelled, his voice as fierce and furious as Toothy's. "If you let us pass, we won't hurt you!"
Shagrat barked out a laugh, and several of the men sneered, but the man in the helmet stepped forward, his eyes simmering with hatred and malice.
"Let me guess," he drawled, and Frodo knew at once that this was the 'lord' the orcs had been addressing. "The missing prisoners? I must say, Balcmeg, you made them sound much more threatening in your report. Frightened children in over their heads, that's all I see."
"Let us pass," growled Sam. "I won't be warning you again!"
The man turned away, flicking his hand lazily at the orcs. "Kill the warg, and bind the others. There is always a need for fresh meat."
"Now, you wait just a minute, you troll-faced ninny-hammer!" bellowed Sam, and his voice was so furious that the orcs hesitated, and the man paused, turning his helmeted head over his shoulder. "We won't be going anywhere with you, and you're not to touch our warg, either! We haven't come all this way just to get held up by a slug like you!"
Pride swelled in Frodo's heart as the man's face turned a furious pink beneath the helmet, and he turned slowly to face Sam and the others.
"That was not much of an insult, little halfling," he snarled softly, "but you will pay dearly for it. I am the Mouth of Sauron, the Lord of all the remains here, and I am going to savour flaying the skin from your bones."
Frodo stiffened, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword, but Sam laughed grimly.
"The Mouth of Sauron? Well, would you look at that – we missed a bit."
Nelly and Bróin gave weak little snorts of laughter, but Frodo's blood ran cold as the Mouth of Sauron's eyes grew wider beneath the helmet, and filled with a hatred and fury as intense as the volcano itself.
"What, exactly, do you mean by that, little mouse?" he snarled, and somehow he made the word 'mouse' sound like more of a threat than his talk of flaying.
"I mean that we destroyed your master's little trinket," Sam said darkly. "We brought down this tower – we destroyed the ring, and if you stand in our way, we'll bring down you, too."
For a long moment, no one moved. The Mouth of Sauron stared at Sam, with only shock to bridle the wild fury in his eyes, and before him the slack-jawed orcs did not even seem to be breathing.
With a wild shriek, the Mouth twisted around, slamming a knife into the chest of Balcmeg. Before the dead orc had even hit the floor, the man had stepped over him and seized Shagrat by the neck, thrusting him against the wall of rubble beside the row of prisoners.
"The Ring of Power was in your fortress, in the hands of your prisoners, and you did not have the wit to find it?" he roared.
"Of course not!" choked Shagrat, pawing at the man's hand with a wild fear in his eyes. "We only caught two of 'em – the black 'aired runt and the dwarf! One of the others must've had it, and that'd explain how they escaped, too! But we stripped 'em to the skin, my lord, both the ones we got, and all that we found was send to you."
With a snarl, the Mouth thrust Shagrat away, stalking through the line of orcs before him and pointing viciously at Frodo and the others. "You will pay for what you have done – you will pay with blood, and you will beg for death-" A stream of vicious black speech poured from his mouth, but as it did, an ear-splitting howl of rage tore the air apart, and Toothy threw himself onto his hind legs, sending all four riders tumbling onto a heap on the ground.
As they hit the ground, Frodo tightened his arm around Nelly, and she let out a guttural cry of pain, grabbing at his arm. Desperate, Frodo threw out his other arm behind him to try and cover Bróin, but Toothy charged forward, diving straight at the Mouth of Sauron.
At once, the orcs leapt before their pallid master, but Toothy tossed them all aside with a swipe of his claws, ripping through them all as if they were made of paper. Sam hurried to his feet, sword in hand, and Frodo rose beside him, leaning against the rock to take the weight from his leg, and raising his sword in his hand.
No orcs got past Toothy's guard, but one of the men slipped through, his face the picture of rage as he swung his sword down towards Sam. The hobbit ducked beneath the arc of the blade with ease, driving his own sword through the man's chest before Frodo could get a lick in, and he crumpled to the ground.
Toothy let out a shriek of pain and Frodo's heart leapt, and behind their warg he saw the cruel smirk of the Mouth of Sauron. With a cry of rage, he dropped his sword, grappling instead for a knife from his belt, and he drew his arm back. He stole half a second to breathe, and to take aim, and then he threw with all his might.
The blade sailed from his fingers and grazed past Toothy's ear, and thudded straight into the heart of the Mouth of Sauron. The man let out shocked, choking cry and staggered backwards, clutching at the blade, and Frodo gave a smirk of his own.
Fíli had taught him well.
With a howl, Toothy batted away the woman and the last two orcs with his paw, and as he did the Mouth of Sauron collapsed to his knees, raising his head to meet Frodo's eyes. Shock shone in the darkness of the man's gaze, and he fell face first to the ground, the thud of his helmet hitting the earth loud as a hammer strike.
The Mouth of Sauron was dead.