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As the Gentle Rain  by Lindelea

Chapter 11. Just past Dawn

Brant stirred and cursed softly. He was freezing cold and deucedly uncomfortable, his head was splitting, and he could not lift a hand to soothe at the ache. Perceiving that his hands were bound behind him, he stiffened. Had the Easterlings recaptured him? Were they even now about to do to him what he’d watched them do to that other poor devil the previous day?

He squeezed his eyes tight shut, hearing the taunting voices, the outbursts of laughter as the other prisoner’s screams grew weaker.

They’d known just enough Westron.

 ‘Eh, Man-of-the-West! Eh, you watch him sing, no? Don’t he sing a beauty? You learn, Man-of-the-West! Your turn, sing to morrow. Eh? Sleep well, Man-of-the-West! Dream good!’

But wait, it should not be freezing cold he felt, rather desert heat. He had waited until they slept, until even the sentry dozed, and worked his hands under his feet and up again, bringing them before him. He’d been able to reach the ropes with his teeth, and though it made his teeth ache he’d worried the knots until his hands were free. It was a matter of seconds to free his feet and slip into the shadows. He’d heard the hue and cry behind him, but no matter. He’d slipped away when he deserted the army of Gondor before the great battle against the Dark Lord. He’d eluded Kingsmen, Rangers and hunting Elves after the Grey Havens debacle. He’d evade these Easterlings as easily. He wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t let them catch him unawares again.

Cautiously he drew up his knees, worked his hands down, down, grunting softly as he forced them over the soles of his boots, and then, yes! His hands were before him and he could worry at the ropes. He was glad those fools of Easterlings had not learned from his earlier escape. He peered into the darkness, but there was no sound. Not even a watch fire burned. Perhaps they’d all gone off hunting more prey for their sport and left him here, thinking him secure in his bonds. He’d show them.

By the time he’d worked himself free a thin light was trying to steal past the shutters. He looked about the room, seeing a small mound of cloaks before the cold hearth, but no guards. He crept from room to room. No guards; they’d gone and left for some reason. Returning to the main room, he eased one set of shutters open to welcome the dawning light. He looked at the sparkling landscape outside. He must be mad to think the desert sands looked like snow. Still, it was cold in the room, terribly cold. He could see his breath. He could use one of those cloaks.

Under the cloaks he found three small figures, half the size of a Man. Not Easterlings, then. Something stirred in the back of his brain, and he hid himself once more.

 ‘But my friends!’ the Pilgrim exclaimed, bending to the hobbits. ‘We never had our feast last night! What a pity!’ None of the hobbits moved. Cold, they were, and scarcely breathing. ‘This will never do!’ he said, clucking with concern.

Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘First things first! We’ll build up the fire, o yes, that’s the first thing needed. Cannot have a feast without fire! Why, it wouldn’t be a roast without roasting, now would it?’

He frowned at finding the wet, cold ashes. The fire had not been banked, but thoroughly quenched with water. It would take time to build it up again, and more time to spark it to life. Still, his guests were waiting. ‘No matter!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘No worry! We’ll soon set things to rights!’

He scooped the nasty wet ashes to the side of the firebox and laid fresh wood in carefully. ‘Lots of kindling,’ he muttered to himself. ‘That’ll get it off to a good start, and quickly too!’ He raised his voice once more to reassure his guests. ‘We’ll have a roasting fire before you know it!’

They didn’t move; perhaps they hadn’t heard. He arose; he’d have to go into the other room to get the matches. Looking at the hobbits once more, he caught his breath. He’d not really seen the third one; there had been a rush of movement and then blinding pain.

 ‘You’re a pretty one,’ he breathed, falling to his knees before the pile. He reached out a trembling finger to stroke the jaw now pale and cool to the touch. ‘Why, they didn’t tell me they’d brought you along! O now,’ he said, his eyes brightening. ‘We’ll have quite a time, we will! We’ll put the roast on and dance to the music as they sing!’ He ran a hand over the soft, unresponsive body. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said appreciatively. ‘We’ll have a lovely time; we’ll dance, and feast, and then when all the meat is gone you’ll sing for me as well, won’t you, my lovely?’

But first things first. Sitting here here contemplating imminent delight would not get that fire going. He gave the soft, alluring body a promising caress and rose. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he vowed.

As he was in the sleeping room, humming a little tune as he rummaged for the matches (he hadn’t needed them in some days, for he was always careful to bank the fire) he heard the shouts of men outside.

Brant was instantly alert. The Easterlings! They’d found him! He eased one set of shutters open just a crack, peeping through. He had to find a way of escape, he had to, or die trying! They would not torture him to death; his would be a quick, clean death. He didn’t care what they did to his body afterwards.

***

Out in the yard a body of guardsmen of Gondor and Rohirrim were dismounting, tying their horses to the rails of the fence.

 ‘Missing rails,’ Eomer said to his son with a frown.

 ‘Only one was missing when we delivered the supplies,’ Elfwine said, puzzled. ‘He shouldn’t have had to chop them up for firewood; we delivered plenty.’

There was a shout from the small stables, meant for the care of sick or injured beasts, but a good shelter in a storm as well. ‘Their ponies! Two of them, at least!’

 ‘Only two,’ Elessar said bleakly. But which?

He lifted his voice to shout a greeting, but there was no answer.

 ‘No smoke coming from the chimney,’ Eomer said grimly. ‘That’s not a good sign. Perhaps they found shelter, but if they were too numbed with cold to start a fire...’

 ‘The Pilgrim ought to have helped them,’ Elfwine said.

 ‘What if he was caught out in the storm?’ his father replied. ‘You said he was a wanderer.’ He stopped talking as they entered, seeing the three hobbits lying together a little way from the hearth. ‘What in the name of...’ he said, striding forward.

Elessar pushed past him, falling to his knees. ‘Bandages,’ he said, and immediately moved to look at the injuries they covered. He sat back on his feet, looking up at the others. ‘Burns,’ he said grimly.

 ‘So they had a fire,’ Eomer said, ‘and I see one freshly laid on the hearth, but not burning.’ He bent to touch cool skin. ‘We need to get them warm.’

One of the Rohirrim quickly sparked the fire while another fetched blankets. Two of the guardsmen shed their mail, gathering Ferdi and Nell against the soft wool of their tunics and letting themselves be covered with layers of blankets, allowing the warmth of their bodies to begin to warm the chilled hobbits. Samwise had pulled Merry close, to be swaddled together in blankets in the same manner.

Elessar was going over the room, his face increasingly grim as he took in the remnant of fence pole with its blackened end, the scraps of cut rope, the blood on the floor.

Eomer caught sight of his expression and asked, ‘What is it?’

 ‘I don’t know exactly what happened here,’ Elessar said slowly, ‘but I don’t like what I see.’

 ‘What is it?’ Eomer said again.

Elessar looked up at him from his crouched position, dropping the piece of rope he held. ‘The pole, the ropes, the pattern of burns on their feet...’ he said. ‘The Easterlings have a particular method of torture... it is very effective when they wish to get information out of reluctant prisoner, but they use it sometimes for diversion rather than need.’

Eomer nodded. He’d heard of the Easterlings’ fondness for “diversion”. There was old pain reflected in Elessar’s face, old anger, and the king of Rohan remembered that the King of the West had travelled far, under many names and guises, in the years before his crowning. ‘So what do you think happened?’

Elessar rose and prowled the room, finding several shards of glass near the sofa. He sniffed these, then went to the table where a half-full wine bottle rested next to a burned-out candle. He picked up the bottle, sniffed it, took a cautious swig and spat the wine onto the floor. Flingsae, he said in disgust.

 ‘What’s that?’ Eomer said, taking the bottle from Elessar’s hand. He wasn’t about to drink it, but he took a cautious sniff.

 ‘Venom, from one of the great spiders that still roam the darkest places of the Wild,’ Elessar answered. ‘The Easterlings use it in hunting. They’ll taint a waterhole, wait for the creatures to drink and be made helpless, then they roast their prey alive. They say it enhances the flavour.*’

 ‘Methinks it is time to pay the Easterlings some attention, when next the season comes for kings to ride out to war,’ Eomer said.

 ‘You’re right,’ Elessar said. ‘I’ve been busy dealing with the Haradrim and left the Easterlings in peace for far too long.’

 ‘The Pilgrim, do you think?’ Elfwine said, coming back to the matter at hand.

 ‘Let us not jump to conclusions,’ his father said gravely. ‘We’ll see what the Holbytlan have to say when they waken.’

 'We still have to find out what's happened to Pippin,' Elessar whispered.

Eomer looked from the blackened pole to the brightly blazing fire and suppressed a sudden violent desire to be ill.

***

Brant watched and waited. He’d silently assumed the clothes and armour found under one of the beds, and when one of the men had poked his head into the sleeping room he’d stuck his head under the bed to make a show of searching, and had been left alone to continue his business. Now he watched through the shutters, until another of the men tied his horse to the fence and walked into the hut. This was his chance!

He slipped on the concealing helm and climbed out through a rear-facing window when the way was clear. He sauntered around the end of the house, untied the horse he’d just seen tied, and mounted.

 ‘Do you carry a message to Edoras?’ a guardsman hailed him.

He raised his arm in assent, wheeled the horse, touched his heels to its sides, and was off in the direction of Edoras at a gallop, urgent as any messenger. There were no shouts and no pursuit. He rode almost all the way to Edoras, slowing his horse to a ground-eating trot and skirting the city. Once beyond, he was free! They’d never take him again.

Pilgrim whispered in the back of his mind. What a pity! I’m starving.

Brant shook the fancies from his head. There was likely food in the saddlebags. He’d check when he was some distance from the city.

Pilgrim whispered again. ‘She was pretty, even if she wasn’t a young thing, young and tender.’ He licked his lips. ‘She’s mine, though. I’ve claimed her.’ When Brant didn’t answer, he said, a little testily, ‘I’ll find her again, take what’s mine. I made her a promise, you know.’ Brant still did not answer, lost in thought as he was. Pilgrim’s voice rose to a whispered scream. ‘I’ll find her again!’

 ‘You do that,’ Brant said absently, and moved his horse from a trot to a walk to rest the beast. There was a ways to go before they reached the White City, where he could lose himself for a time, lick his wounds, find a new identity and move on.

***  

*A/N: In our world, dogs are roasted alive in certain cultures, for the same reason given in the story. (Feeling a sudden need to call the Alsatian over for a hug)





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