7

The heat that day was of a different stock than most of its counterparts that plagued Mordor of late, refraining from being openly hostile and instead opting for an approach of a quiet sweating feel, perfectly comfortable except for the slight itch in the back and the armpits where the pools of putrid substance gathered in a vain attempt to cool the exhausted body. Normally, it was a mild annoyance in a dry climate such as this, where a carefully-placed breeze could make all the difference in the world, and a calculated sip of one's wineskin could relieve hours of suffering. But today was anything but normal.

Alethorn Garadvas moaned slightly, his thighs burning from the constant uphill torture brought on by his guide's brutal pace. There was no rest, however short, to lessen the impact of the all-prevailing heat, and no water within a hundred miles that could quench a fugitive's thirst. The tears that had once come streaming down his face were now gone, visible only by the crusted pathways of congealed dead skin they had left in their wake, and the omnipresent aura of despair that hung about the entire situation. Each step was a Herculean effort, each fork in the miles of dizzying switchbacks a home sickening wrench on the heart strings, the silent screams of a loved one lost the only audible sound above the constant droning of the mountain winds.

"For the last time, keep up lad!" cursed the gruff reminder of a plodding hell in front of him.

Alethorn declined to reply, his weary head bowed low, so that only his dust-choked hair was visible.

He started suddenly as a force grasped his upper arm hard, wrenching him close to his tormenter's hard eyes, "Look, kid, they find us, we die, simple as that. And if one or both of us is nothing but a charred pile of ash by the time we make it out of these gods-cursed hills, it'll be a hundred times better than what Jedvar Stenkillsson'll do to fulfill an oath-sworn revenge."

Alex simply stared back, his eyes glazed beyond recognition, drowning even in this arid land in the rivers of blood from and invisible wound.

His companion sighed, piercing grey eyes and a stubbeled face visible now that the hood was cast off, "I'll give it plain and simple to you," he said, the muscles on his forearm bulging as he yanked Alex ever closer, "she's dead, alright? Dead. I've seen people die, kid, many, many people, and I've seen'em die in every horrible way imaginable, and some unthinkable because if you do think of them, you'll never stop, and that's how you go mad, kid. You want to live? You forget about her. Everything, every moment. You forget about your old life and everything you've lost. And you pick your gods-damned feet off the ground and you move fast because your worthless life depends on it. Understand? She's. Fucking. Dead. Okay?"

Alex nodded, finally raising his eyes as the wind deadened, somehow, stopped in its tracks by the weight of the fatal words. His companion was turned already, back to the steady trudge away from the menace to the West, their pursuers only visible by the feint puff of dust drawing ever closer on across the miles of cracked, sunbaked plains.

This was the state in which they traveled, mile upon harrowing mile, the grief struck down upon Alethorn like a lead weight tied around his neck. The mountains passed only grudgingly, scarred canyons and burnt-out glens offering little but the menacing glare of the sun, and the occasional dry rasp of the wind stirring up the tumbleweeds below. Water was scarce as always in the hills, and they nourished themselves on anything they could find, Alex continually bewildered by his companion's apparent gift for producing food, or something closely resembling an edible substance, out of thin air. For days they plodded in silence, and it was only after a third succession of nights that Alethorn realized that he had no more tears left to give.

It was during one of those silent, mournful evenings that the question finally surfaced, wrought fresh from ten hours of ceaseless plodding and choking on the great clouds of dust that plagued the mountains, "Who are you?"

Alex's companion looked up for a moment before letting his eyes drift back down to where the fire should've been if they hadn't been worried about the smoke betraying them to their pursuers.

Alex shifted in position, letting a wisp of a smile show through the gloom for the first time in a week, "besides a man who values his privacy, I mean."

"Ah," he said, still looking down, "you do remember. However; I'm afraid you've asked the wrong question. A more accurate inquiry would be: 'who am I?'"

"As in…"

"To yourself," the figure said, leaning back on the rock he was sitting against, "there has to be some reason why we're here right now." He lifted his hands to the sky as if in prayer, twirling them around the night-blurred vision of a desolate mountain valley, frigid with the icy blasts spewed daily from Hellene's Gap to the North.

"She…" Alex started, a mental barrier thrown up as soon as he attempted to voice the begrieved name, "She said something about a Ring."

The figure frowned deeply; its hands clasped together, its sword seemingly just a tad more unsheathed than it had been only moments before.

"A Ring?" It said.

"She told me to save the Ring… something about destiny, something…"

It swore, punching the ground hard to release a faint plume of dust, "Morgoth…" It, Alex scratched that, forcing himself to think of the man standing before him as a he, muttered.

"Who?" Alex asked, perplexed.

"Nothing, kid, nothing at all," the figured sighed, "get some rest, we've got miles to make up tomorrow."

Alex shrugged, lying himself down on the cold, hard ground, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Too soon, however, dawn crept in to stir the dreamers, though what peace could be established by sleep was an uncertain realm these days, every night being haunted by the screaming phantoms of departed shades who clung to existence with their very last claws, imploring him to save them at all costs, begging on their skeletal knees but always being torn away into the black nothingness of death.

Days past, days spent running farther into the hills, following his mysterious guide blindly through the fields of devastation, taking round-about trails and treacherous precipices, all the while climbing deeper into the abyss of the ashen range that marked the border with the wide steppes of Rhun.

It was another several nights past when Alex was rudely awakened by a harsh shove to the shoulder, followed by a slap to the face like that of a rabid Mumakil in mid-rampage.

He sat bolt-upright, spluttering ferociously, his head spinning about the shallow vale in which they were encamped.

"Get up," a voice rasped, an invisible hand dragging him sideways across the scrape-inducing rubble beneath the sheltering embrace of a nearby boulder.

"Wha-?" Alex breathed, his eyes wild.

"Shut up and listen carefully," his guide whispered, his glinting dagger unsheathed and gripped tightly in his bone-white left hand, "They've caught up with us, fifteen men-at-arms from the squad that sacked your manor. I need you to run, but not until I tell you to… you alright?"

Alex nodded slowly, his breath quickening as the dreaded weight of pursuit was cast over him. He blinked into the shadows, only the faint cloaked outline of his companion visible amidst the darkness, his hood once again obscuring his face and limbs from view, so that he became a ghost, a terror of the night, silent but deadly.

"Okay. I'm going to cause a distraction, maybe light things up a little. When things get hot…" a white flash was visible from within the blackness, presumably the invisible menace had grinned, "run for the bushes."

He nodded once more, his arteries rioting as he gasped futile breaths, sweat oddly glistening across his forehead despite the bone-chilling cold.

"And take this," the shadow muttered, tossing him a silvery punch-dagger wrapped in a leather pack, "there's food in there, and a couple of other… useful items," he paused, coughing slightly, "once you get over that ridge, head directly down-river until you get to a small stand of trees in a bowl-shaped valley. From there, look for a tunnel about yeah-high," he motioned to about three feet, "crawl in. I don't care how claustrophobic you are, your life depends on it.…" the figure frowned, scratching his chin, "can you swim?"

Alex shrugged, "sort of…"

"It'll have to do. When you enter the tunnel, there'll be a passage leaning down. Follow it, but keep your hand on the left hand wall. If anything comes up, always turn left," the shadow paused, giving Alex an odd clap on the back, a gesture that, in a different light, might have served to be reassuring, "you'll be fine." Then, it stepped backwards, melting into the impenetrable blackness that it wore like a glove, only the faint passage of a soft breeze betraying that it had ever stood underneath the rock.

A short while later, Alex was jolted out of position at the faint clopping of horse's hooves on polished ex-river rocks. A plethora of sounds washed over the hump-backed stone, echoing barely-audible whispers of conversation, barked orders and the slither of steel, a muffled groan as an unknown personage slid wearily from the saddle.

Then suddenly, there was a burst of flame, pluming extravagantly into the night sky, the frantic neighing of horses and curses from the pursuing party sounding as their mounts simultaneously bolted.

And so did Alex, running like he'd never run before, his head down, his arms pumping. He soon crested the ridge; spinning around almost out of habit as he gasped the cold mountain air.

Down in the vale, the Peacekeepers were fighting a battle against nothingness, whacking at bushes with swords, stumbling and tripping over themselves as the scurried into position. A small grass fire had started up, which had immediately taken advantage of the parched brush and spread at an alarming rate, forcing the men-at-arms into an ever-constricting circle.

Alex was forced backwards as a great, booming concussion sounded, audible not only to the ears, but a thumping force inside his chest as well. Off to the left of the now-roaring conflagration a flash rose into the night, a small spark visible amidst the darkness, followed by an earsplitting scream. Alex's jaw dropped, his mind's eye easily conjuring the image of his guide falling upon the poor gunner like an animal, ripping his throat out in bloody chunks as the man gasped and spluttered, slowly drowning in his own gore.

He froze for a moment, the image implanting itself in his brain, urging his legs on to faster feats, sending him tumbling down the sheer slope of the backside of ridge, kicking up a miniature rockslide of debris and loose pebbles on the way. He crash-landed in the thick briars sprouting at the foot of the ridge, rolling onto his feet, his breath ragged, not even pausing before crashing off through the scrub again.

Ahead drew the outline of a near-dry streambed, feeding gently into a mountain pond with less than half of its brackish water left floating, stunted cedars curling up from the river's edge on either side. Alex dove headlong into this tangled mass of thorns and brambles, not caring for the rips they tore in his own skin, head down, lungs afire, pushing endlessly for the vague safety of the described tunnel.

He paused, propping himself up against a wilting tree, his chest heaving desperately, his face red and tongue parched. He cursed to himself at the touch of the empty space where the pack once lay, but instantly forgot it's loss; it was somewhere back through the thicket, and he wasn't turning around. The ridge was a distant black-blue hump now, but still silhouetted against the faded stars by the angry red glare of the impromptu brushfire.

A seemingly random thought strayed across his exhausted mental pathways, growing in strength until it forced its way to the forefront of his mind, what if my guide is a hoax. True, the gruff man had deigned to save him, but he'd been holding out the whole trip, his wraithlike form only visible from time to time, pointing him ceaselessly in the right direction. But what if he was just another marauder on the path of murder? What if the "path to safety" was really a path to death? What if the tunnel turned out to be full of sulfurous fumes designed to kill?

Alex shook his head, forcing the troublesome worry away. If he'd wanted him dead, why bring him this far? Why not just let the horsemen kill him? And who was Alex to demand an assassin, the son of one of the shrewder Eastern Yeomen who'd been on the right side of the war?

Suddenly, out of the woods, a sound could be heard, a low thudding irregularity amongst the silence of the mountains. It drew steadily closer, padding as quietly as possible through the thick branches, ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Closer… closer…

Hoofbeats.

Alex jumped, flying by the seat of his pants into the sparse jungle, running madly away from the terrifying sound. A quick shout called from within the brush, followed by a chorus of others, and the menacing scrape of swords readied for battle. Apparently, the distraction had only worked for so long…

Silver flashes could be made just visible on either side, the resplendent armor of men carefully threading their big destriers through the closely-packed forest, Alex driving ever onward, slapping trees and whip- like branches out of his face, the shouts pushing him through even the worst of the cuts.

Suddenly, he was free, bursting out of the wood in a mad rush of adrenaline and burning muscles, sprinting up the rock-strewn heights of a gentle hill within the valley, a hill that seemed to last forever…

But the horsemen were close-behind, the thuds approaching fast as the spurred their mounts onward, picking up speed but still slowed as they dodged boulders and weaved around cave-ins.

He stumbled over the top edge of the slope, his boot catching on a slight protrusion, sliding heavily down the gravel-studded descent downwards towards a bowl-shaped depression. His heart leapt, only a few yards more as he staggered to the bottom , more rolling than anything else, desperately letting gravity do its work, not caring for the bruises and busts he acquired as he slammed into rocks on the deadly crawl.

Twelve demonic figures crested the ridge behind him, the great wings on their war-helms stretching out like the horns of the Enemy Melkor Himself, their swords naked in the silvery cast of the moonlight, raking their slavering mounts with kicks as the galloped madly down the slope.

Alex stumbled to his feet, dashing into a small stand of trees rooted in a miniscule patch of marshy ground that had accumulated at the foot of the depression. He crashed through a ring of bushes and waterside plants into a small pool at the center of the stand, his eye instantly fixating on a rabbit-sized opening near the water's edge.

Without a thought, Alex dove for the entrance, wriggling his way past an ensnaring web of rushes' roots into the tight but still livable confines of a downward-sloping tunnel.

He slammed to the ground, quite ready to vomit, his lungs burning, his chest heaving, his hands clenching and unclenching sporadically; his entire body shaking with pure terror.

Outside could be heard the harsh bark of a commander's order, a few braying protests as a cavalryman yanked hard on the reigns. There were dozen crashing thuds, the heavy sounds of men in armor dismounting after a long ride. Footsteps rang around the magnifying walls of the stuffy chamber, each menacing step like the sound of a lance-point being driven into its victim's skull.

Alex shuddered, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. He had to move fast.

"Sir," a voice called from outside, "have a look at this."

Alex froze. They'd found the entrance! He turned, jogging silently down the passage before squeezing himself sideways through a tight crevice at its end. He'd never liked dark spaces; even his father's library had set him a bit off, but down here was a living hell. Walls pressed in on every side, like the cupped hands of a giant intent on crushing him. Darkness suffocated everything, its oily tendrils wrenching the very air out of his lungs as his chest tightened with fear. He pushed himself onward, shutting his mouth against the silent invaders, desperately blocking out the all-intrusive fear, trying but failing to reserve his ragged gasps for regaining his breath after the exhausting run.

A harsh clanking could be heard farther back along the tunnel, muttered cursing punctuating the overall rolling rhythm of armor being beaten up by a stalwart rock or two.

Silence prevailed over the scene, the only noise the rough footsteps of the men-at-arms and the occasional whispered oath as someone once again tangled with a not-to-be-moved pebble. Alex padded along as silently as he could, trying desperately to slow his breathing, squeezing through the ever-narrowing paths of the tunnel ahead.

Suddenly, the passage widened, so that he was free to move his arms in any direction and stand up to his full height. He exhaled silently with relief, the trembling fear subsiding… if only for a moment.

But still, the all-pervading gloom suppressed everything, and he soon found himself treading through an unknown stretch of rubble, the walls receding far off to either side. He let out a low whimper, the fear creeping back into him. He hunched his shoulders on instinct, the absence of sound letting his mind create it, those same channels of fear now filling with the raucous calling of ravenous beasts, the inhuman screams of a dying Matilda, the crackling of a village set afire…

He soon brushed against a rock face to his right… a wall! His fingers instantly latching onto the rough surface with the desperation of a free-floating barnacle in search of a boat. What had the guide said? He thought, always stick to the left.

Behind him came the soft treading of footfalls drawing closer, his mind setting once again into a quiet determination. Up ahead, the tunnel narrowed: a good place to evade men in armor. I'm fine, he thought, as long as I keep my hand on the wall. And it was true: the rough surface of the cavern's edge did provide a strange sort of comfort, a guiding light through the eternal invisibility. He clenched his jaw firmly against the encroaching claustrophobia, resolving to press on and escape his pursuer's whatever it took as his palm brushed quietly against a soft, stick substance.

His brow furrowed. A what? It was strange in consistency, coating the entire new section of wall, reaching overhead in great white strands and ensnaring loops below. It was threaded, itchy, almost like… almost like…

A Spider's Web…

Suddenly, there was a brief chatter from above, a harsh clacking of bone on bone, answered instantly by a chittering reply from a horde of beasts, eight legs apiece scuttling across the hard ceiling; mandibled mouth's clacking in unison.

Alex froze. From down the passage, there rose a blood-curdling scream, a thousand furry arachnids launching themselves from the ceiling, from the walls, latching onto anything, pummeling through armor with quick, sickening crunches. Howls of lacerating pain lanced through the night as they crunched down on bone and flesh, ripping the faces off their victims, tearing out their eyes in their frantic fury.

From around the bend staggered a wailing shape, clutching his blood-splattered eyes, crashing into the left-hand wall as the three-foot wide children of Shelob swarmed over his prone form. Alex crouched to the ground, the spiders piling up on top of him, raking his sobbing body with their viscous hooked claws.

The pursuing party floundered around the bend, hacking at their attackers with bloody swords as they were overrun with spiders, tearing at their armor, ripping at the exposed parts of their flesh. Men-at arms went down horribly screaming, their brestplates punctured in a dozen different places, their intestines consumed instantly as the ravenous beasts burst their bellies like a King's Day sausage with too much filling.

Alex desperately whacked at his tormentors, batting them off as he bled in a hundred different places, his obscured vision swimming, his vulnerable stomach protected only as long his was prostrated on the ground, screaming unintelligibly in great, sobbing gasps.

A roaring soldier stormed into him, throwing off chomping arachnids with great, sweeping slices of his glistening sword. Alex threw himself to his feet, sprinting along the dim passageway, desperately fleeing the slaughter behind him as the soldier went down from a thousand cuts, one of the spiders finally crushing his exposed neck with a mighty snap of its mandibles.

Alex slammed to the ground, a hungry beast grabbing with terrible strength onto his exposed leg, pulling him ever nearer. He whipped around, beating the thing around the head, ripping the menace apart with his bare hands, scrabbling across the chamber, gasping for breath, his eyes wild, his body bleeding horribly.

He stumbled around a bend in the tunnel, panting desperately, nearly mad from the incessant keening of his invisible foes. He could do nothing but run on, watched all the while by a ledge full of hungry eyes that glared down from above, the sound of desperate sprinting feet hard behind him. And behind that, there came only the evil clacking of thousands of still-hungry monsters.

He burst into a great, black cavern, tripping unceremoniously onto the rough floor, frothing at the mouth as he attempted to drag himself onto his feet, but failing, his arm snagged on more of the sticky, white substance.

He screamed louder, filling the dank air with his terror as he was ensnared with webs, webs that wrapped around him, lifting him ever upwards into the dark, coiling about him like a python ready to strike, the silent feet of the industrious predators beating rapidly across his quivering flesh.

He struggled wildly, ripping his arms to and fro, tearing off webs wherever they appeared. But the more he fought, the more the traps tightened, finally closing over his eyes, his face, his head, binding his arms behind him and stuffing his mouth with material as he continued his futile wailing.

Finished with its work, an almost irritated-looking beast crept down from above, brandishing the keen edge of a menacing sting. Alex only thrashed harder, even more desperate for escape, sobbing as his death loomed ever closer. But his protests were quickly silenced by a short, efficient jab of the sting, strait to the heart.