Chapter 3

Shagrat was waiting for her as Mornaundumë entered Cirith Ungol for the second time. That is, the orc was still there, and his pockets and arms were bulging with stolen loot, but he looked as though he might have just been about to leave.

'M'lady! Well I... I thought you were leaving...'

Mornaundumë said nothing. She stepped precariously over the bodies that were strewn all over the floor as she made her way instead to Shagrat. As she reached the orc captain, she suddenly drew her sword. Shagrat, dropping what stolen possessions he had resting in his arms, bolted for the exit, but he was too slow.

Sharply, Mornaundumë pulled her still ringing sword up to the orc's unprotected neck. He stopped dead still in his tracks. She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

'Really, you thought you would leave me so easily, when there is a Nazgûl waiting outside?'

Shagrat clenched, his eyes darting about wildly. Not allowing him to speak, Mornaundumë silenced him with a threatening tickle with her sword on his throat.

'You're not leaving yet, you maggot, I'm going to need your help. Your co-operation, you know what I mean? Eh?'

She gave Shagrat another warning tickle with her blade. Rivulets of black blood were now dripping freely from his throat. He nodded.

'Good. Now, that Nazgûl I mentioned earlier? He says he's come for the prisoner, the halfling prisoner, that you and your cursed boys lost...'

She spat at the ground by the orc's feet.

'But we haven't actually got the prisoner to deliver him, as you well know, so we're going to have to satisfy him in some other way, we're as good as dead if his trip out here proves pointless... I need to know what became of the prisoner's articles, his confiscated possessions. The 'pretty silver coat' I heard you mentioning earlier, where is it now?'

Mornaundumë lessened the pressure her blade had on his throat. Shagrat coughed on his own blood as he tried to speak.

'I don't... I wasn't... it was Gorbag, m'lady, curses the filthy rebel! He started it all. He tried to pinch that very same pretty shirt for himself, he did. But o ho! I got him in the end, I did. Stuck him like a pig...'

'Yes, all very interesting, captain, but not the answer I was looking for...'

'Nah! I was just getting to it! Anyways after I stuck him, there's the strange thing that happened, see? A halfling came charging at me, a rat with a bloody-handed elf light in his hand, if ever I saw one. Well, I didn't stop to think, no, the cruel stars of the terrible elf-countries hurt my poor eyes so... so I'

But Mornaundumë had silenced him again.

'You saw a halfling? The same one we had taken captive? Or... or a different halfling? Speak! If there are two of them running about loose in Mordor... that would explain some things!'

Caught up in her shock at Shagrat's statement, Mornaundumë forgot just how hard she was leaning her sword against his throat. Her hands, trembling with suppressed anxiety, began to lose purchase on the heavy hilt. Shagrat's eyes widened then, as he opened his mouth to try and answer her, he mumbled something feebly before his whole body began to convulse. Shaking, he gave one last horrible choking sound, retching black blood that splattered all over Mornaundumë's face and robes. Then he fell before her feet, eyes staring vacantly up to her, his throat slit. Mornaundumë dropped her own sword in disgust.

Cursing her clumsiness, she bent down and picked it up again, wiping it clean on the folds of her robes, and staring back angrily at the dead orc at her feet. He had just been about to tell her something equally important as the news of a second halfling, she was sure. More on the pretty silver shirt, and where it had gone after Gorbag and Shagrat had begun to fight over it. Her eyes wandered regretfully down the carcass, ... and then suddenly her gaze was caught.

The stolen loot, bundles of various sophisticated orc gear and implements, that Shagrat had prepared to make off with, had not been the only things he had hoped to get away with. Where it had been dropped at his feet, and now lay crushed beneath his body, Mornaundumë saw a bundle of rags, tied up like a sack. A sudden flash of silver had alerted her to its presence. Kicking the body aside, she stooped down quickly, picking the heavy bundle up. The dirty rags fell away in her hands and Mornaundumë found herself looking not only at the halfling's confiscated mithril coat, but also his grey elf cloak and Westernesse blade; the dagger that had been given to him by Tom Bombadil of the Old Forest. Mornaundumë closed her eyes, clutching the lifelines tightly to her chest. Now to face the fear again...

Outside, the Nazgûl waited, as quiet and unmoving as ever. He made it look as if no time had passed at all, Mornaundumë thought, as she made her way back silently down the steps, to the courtyard of Cirith Ungol. As she passed by her black horse that still stood tethered up, sweating and tossing his head wildly in fear at just feeling the Nazgûl's presence, she pitied the poor, brave beast. If only he understood how I feel now, she thought. Never taking her eyes of the Ringwraith, Mornaundumë advanced slowly forward. The Nazgûl's hooded head turned in her direction as he heard her soft footsteps.

'Woman... Thou hath returned...'

He took a step forward. Mornaundumë winced. The term the Nazgûl kept giving her was making her feel uncomfortable. Almost like she was... helpless prey before him. Mornaundumë did not like that thought at all.

'But thou have not brought me the halfling?' Red eyes flashed for an instant from under the hood, and the Ringwraith put his hand to his sword. Mornaundumë shuddered.

'I beg your pardon, my Lord but I... I cannot be held to blame for the prisoner's disappearance...'

'Thou art a commander of Minas Morgul! One of my house would dare lose such a valuable person, and speak to me thus?'

A terrible light flashed from under the folds of that hood this time, and Mornaundumë found herself being held to that gaze. Then the Nazgûl screamed. Mornaundumë fell to her knees, her hands clasped to her ears, and her own screams mingling with the piercing shriek that wrenched at her soul. Dimly above the blanket of paralyzing terror that was sweeping over her, she saw that the Nazgûl had drawn his sword, and lifting it up in a pincer-like movement, was striding resolutely toward her. Like Death himself, advancing; her executioner. She laid her hand on the bundle of rags holding their precious bundle within. With one last effort, she threw the bundle before her, its contents spewing out before her as she crouched on her knees, cradling her head.

The Nazgûl paused. Glancing at the halfling's possessions flung out before him, he slowly lowered his sword. If any mortal could have seen his true face now, they would have seen that he was smiling. With an almost regretful air, he sheathed his weapon then, reaching out an armoured hand, he roughly pulled up Mornaundumë's downcast face. He laughed at her barely concealed tears. Mornaundumë tried to look away but his hand held her chin firmly.

'Look at me woman. Look and see that thou hath been spared, look and see that thou have been blessed, see how thee hath escaped the unbearable finality of thine own death.'

Mornaundumë looked up confused, seeing nothing other than all-consuming darkness and bitter emptiness. Then, as a sudden coldness swept from her shoulder where he struck her, she understood. The Ringwraith held up the already dissolving Morgul blade before her eyes. Gasping, her eyes opening in shock, Mornaundumë raised her hand, pulling the wraith's hand away from her chin. She fell backwards, staggering she rose to her feet, her sword suddenly in her hand. But the Nazgûl had already turned, and was preparing to leave. With the halfling's cloak, dagger and coat back in the bundle of rags in his arms, he was striding unerringly back to his Fell Beast who crouched by, waiting.

Mornaundumë stumbled over to her horse; fumbling slightly with the knot she finally had the stallion loose. Dragging herself up into the saddle, she watched with growing dread, the Nazgûl, as he left with the prisoner's possessions for the Great Tower. Then, her vision starting to pitch strangely out of focus, Mornaundumë urged her horse, her one constant companion on. There was only one route for her to take now, if she wished to escape her fate.