Stories of Arda Home Page
About Us News Resources Login Become a member Help Search
swiss replica watches replica watches uk Replica Rolex DateJust Watches

The Forest Has Eyes  by Budgielover

Chapter Five

It took the three hobbits a very long time (by Merry’s reckoning) to retrace their steps and return to camp. Merry placed himself between Pippin and Sam and slung their arms over his shoulders. Both of them needed his help to stay on their feet. Pippin’s features were scrunched up in pain and Sam was having trouble keeping his balance. Seeing the hurting on their faces, both so dear to him, Merry regretted his obstinate demand to go with the others after Frodo and Legolas. He supported his friends as well as he could, repeating his reassurances that they were almost there.

Gimli saw them before they cleared the trees, and both the dwarf and Boromir ran to them. Boromir dropped to his knees before Pippin and gathered up the stumbling tweenager with surprising tenderness. As Boromir lifted him, Pippin threw his arms around the man’s neck and hid his face against the embroidered surcoat for a moment, trembling. Gimli steadied Sam with an armored shoulder under his arm and half-carried the protesting hobbit into camp. Merry trudged after them, more tired than he cared to admit.

Boromir set Pippin gently down near the fire and poured each of them a mug of hot tea. Gimli guided Sam to a place next to Pippin and wrapped a blanket around him the moment he was settled. Merry sank down on the end and found another blanket wrapped around him. "Not a word until you catch your breath and drink your tea," Boromir ordered, looking worriedly into their pale faces. Merry realized he was shivering. He was so exhausted from exertion and tension that he could barely hold his mug; the tea sloshed out and burned his hand. Gritting his teeth against the curse that rose to his lips (which would surely have earned him a reprimand from Frodo), he shook his hand frantically and blew on the burn. He forgot the pain when Sam started coughing so violently that Gimli pounded him solicitously on the back.

"All right there, Master Samwise?" Unable to reply to Gimli’s concerned query, Sam nodded, tears standing in his eyes. When the dwarf turned away to check on Pippin, Sam grimaced at his mug and shook his head at Merry, then seized Gimli’s moment of distraction to hastily pour his tea out onto the ground. Forewarned, Merry took one cautious sip, choked, then surreptitiously followed suit.

"Aggghhh!" Pippin hadn’t been as quick as Merry to follow Sam’s example. "Who brewed this tea?"

"I did, Master Pippin," the dwarf replied. "I have never made tea by myself before. Is it all right?"

"It is… It’s…" Pippin seemed to be having trouble finding the right words. With his elder cousin and friend staring at him, he could hardly prevaricate. "I’ve never tasted anything like it," he finally pronounced truthfully.

Gimli beamed. "Master Boromir said I put in too much tea, but I said what use would it be if it were too weak? Strong tea puts hair on your chest."

"Don’t want hair on my chest," muttered Sam, below the level of the Big Peoples’ hearing. Merry nodded in agreement but kept his face straight when Gimli turned back to him.

"Now," Boromir said, "what news of Frodo and Legolas? Why are Gandalf and Aragorn not with you?"

Sam and Pippin both looked at Merry. In terse, concise words, the young hobbit spelled out what had occurred when they had arrived at the clearing, and Aragorn’s instructions to them. Boromir and Gimli listened in silence, then looked at each other and without a word, began to break camp.

* * * * *

Merry had recovered his strength by the time Bill was loaded and the remaining Company ready to move out. He was able to lead them back to the small clearing. He should be able to, the hobbit reflected - he had been here twice today. Boromir was able to pick up the trail of those who had gone ahead of them – not Aragorn and Gandalf’s track, but the careless step of large men, and further on, the hoof-prints of many horses. Among the scuffling boot-marks and shuffle of hooves, the light step of the Ranger hardly registered, and scarcely was there any more sign of Gandalf’s boots.

Boromir, Gimli at his side, went immediately to the fallen tree, stepping over the splintered bark that crackled under their boots. Against the black and brown of the dead tree, a dried crimson smear still glistened on the snapped stub of the broken branch that had injured Legolas. Gimli looked at how far the red stain flowed down the trunk and shook his head, murmuring something to himself in his own language.

"I am not Aragorn’s equal at reading trail sign," Boromir said after examining the ground, "so it is well that the trail is so clear. They have a good lead on us and we cannot hope to draw even with them, burdened as we are and bringing the pack-pony. I suggest that perhaps two of the hobbits stay with Bill and our gear, and the others continue on." He looked anxiously at Pippin and Sam as he spoke, obviously uncertain of their ability to keep the pace.

"Mr. Strider said we were ‘ta stay together," Sam reminded him, rubbing his head. When he saw Boromir frowning at him, he realized what he was doing and abruptly stopped, returning the soldier’s gaze level-eyed. "I’m not staying here. Mr. Frodo needs me." When Boromir would have pursued the subject, Sam turned his back on him and began to determinedly unlace the fastenings of Bill’s panniers.

"I’m not staying either," Pippin put in resolutely. "I’m all right. Merry, I’m all right." The last was directed towards his cousin, who had just opened his mouth to second Boromir’s suggestion. Slowly Merry closed it and nodded, but his face was strained and worried.

"We follow, then," Boromir agreed. "Pippin, Samwise – you must tell me if you feel ill. We can always unburden the pony and you may ride."

"I’m fine," Pippin asserted stubbornly.

"So am I," agreed Sam. "And if you’ll just let me pack these mushrooms on Bill, we can be on our way." Piled in his arms were the butter-nuts, his emptied cloak trailing the ground. "I’m not leaving these behind," he said in reply to their raised eyebrows. "Not after Mr. Legolas got hurt getting them for us." Their faces somber now, Merry and Pippin hurried to help him stuff the bounty into Bill’s packs.

* * * * *

Gandalf leaned against a tree and gasped, holding himself upright with both hands on his staff. Perspiration ran in rivulets down his bearded face, merging with the dark grey stains at the throat and chest of his robes and under his arms. He waved away Aragorn’s offer of support with an annoyed air and the Ranger went back to examining the deserted campsite. Drawing in a great gulp of air, the wizard released it in a gust.

"Time was," Gandalf growled, "when I could have run all day with the fleetness of an Elf. Time was…" He blotted his face with a sleeve, still muttering under his breath. When he had recovered somewhat, he looked up at the silently waiting Ranger. "Well? How far ahead are they now?"

Wisely, Aragorn limited himself to responding only to Gandalf’s question. "They did not build a fire nor take the time to more than eat and water the horses. From the freshness of the horses’ droppings … I put them at no more than two hours before us. They must go single-file through these trees, and that slows them."

Gandalf nodded, his deep eyes on the surrounding Wilds. "There is a change in the mood of the forest. Do you feel it?"

The Ranger looked about them warily. "I feel it. I was hoping it was my imagination. There is a sullen anger in the air. Revenge … the desire for blood. I think the trees are waking up, my friend."

The wizard made a soft sound of agreement and his hands tightened on his staff. "Let us hope that when they do, they remember that we are their friends, my friend."

* * * * *

Ahead of the two that followed like hounds on their trail, Legolas also was aware of the change in the woods. He felt their fury like a heaviness in the air, like the pressure of a thunderstorm before the first lightning bolt strikes. Trees are slow to anger but they harbor their rage for eons until like their sap, it flows through them and becomes a part of them as does the rain and the soil. Now the trees were becoming aware that one of the revered folk, one of those who had gifted them with thought and voice, was captive and injured in their midst. And those that had hurt him rode among them, unaware and unwary.

Fueling their anger too was the evil the smallest one carried at his breast. While the forest recognized that this small one was also a prisoner of the wicked men, the black evil he bore sang to them of burning and destroying and hatred of all the living things. The trees whispered among themselves, rubbing their spiny limbs along each other’s trunks, remembering and hating. In accord, the trees joined their wills and exerted their power. Slowly, without any of the men noticing, they began to alter the path the riders followed.

If he concentrated, Legolas could almost catch the hissing, slurring words that passed among the trees, sounds that would register on mortal ears as the wind passing through piney boughs. Revenge, the woods whispered. Retribution. These killed our kin and desecrated their bodies, fashioning from their limbs stakes to maim and kill. Now they hurt one of the Wakeners. No more. No more. There must be justice…

A half-hour later, Harlan pulled his tired horse to a halt. "This isn’t right," Frodo heard him mutter. The hobbit stiffened as the man turned in the saddle, glaring about them at the woods. "We should have reached the tree line by now." The other two drew up their mounts, Legolas between them.

"Harlan," Lando began. "I don’t recognize none of this place. Are we lost?"

"Shut up," the leader replied.

Frodo took advantage of their hesitation. "May we get down? I wish to see to Legolas."

Harlan glanced at him in irritation then one-handed, seized the hobbit painfully under an arm and swung him to the ground. Frodo gritted his teeth against a cry of pain, then stood rubbing his shoulder while Lando and Billeh helped Legolas dismount. Before they could drop the Elf, Frodo instigated himself against Legolas’ good side and was able to guide him down to a resting position against the base of a tree. They waited in tense silence until the men stomped away to join the leader in voracious discussion of their route.

Legolas winced as their increasingly loud shouts pained his ears. The hunters were arguing amongst themselves, disagreeing over the direction they should be bearing. As if it would matter, Legolas thought. The trees are waking, foolish mortals, and all your plans will come to naught. He just hoped that Aragorn would find them before the forest attacked.

"Frodo," whispered Legolas, "can you reach inside my cloak? Take out for me the snow-deer antlers in my pouch. The ones from the deer we shot for the cookpot. And find for me a rock. Shale or quartz … any stone that will carry an edge."

The hobbit made no response but Legolas saw instant understanding in the blue eyes. While the men argued, snarling at each other like beasts, Frodo crouched at Legolas side and shielded the Elf’s actions with his body. Using his cloak to muffle the sound as much as possible, Legolas set stone to bone and began to sharpen the tips into a dagger.

* * * * *

The forest took little notice of the two that pursued the focus of their attention, other than to register the wizard’s presence. The man they ignored completely. He was, Aragorn thought, quite content to be ignored by the waking wood. Even as that conviction crossed his mind, Gandalf touched his sleeve and pointed ahead of them.

The two heard angry shouting in the distance, foolish warning to any that had ears. They were too far away to make out words, only blurred phrases that sounded harsh and shrill. Then there was an enormous crash and the earth quaked beneath them. Aragorn and Gandalf halted and dropped to the forest floor. When no further tumult ensued, they resumed their advance more cautiously, ghosting forward on silent feet. Touching the bark of the great forest behemoths in passing, the two felt the rage burning deep within. Aragorn looked at Gandalf, and saw fear mirrored there on the lined face.

* * * * *

The hunters had made the mistake of gathering underneath one of the great giants of the forest, a hoary old spruce so ancient that many of the lower branches were bare and dead. The mounts were tied to smaller trees with the pack animals behind them. Any horseman, Legolas thought with contempt, would have known something was wrong by the animals’ head-tossing and jerking at their leads. The first and only warning they had was a creak. Harlan, involved in shouting imprecations at his men, glared about them blankly. Then, with careful precision, the spruce dropped a branch longer and larger than a man.

Harlan broke off his profanation between one syllable and the next and threw himself to the side. Lando made the mistake of looking up. He had only a moment to scream. His cry was abruptly cut short, ending in a snapping crunch that ceased before the shocked bystanders could register what had just happened.

Frodo reacted instinctively, leaping his to feet in preparation for fleeing. But Legolas’ hand clamped around the hobbit’s arm. "Be very still, Ring-bearer," the Elf commanded quietly. "Do not draw their attention to you. Either our captors or the trees." The downed man cried out again, a choking wail that ended in a bubbling cough. Frodo sank down by Legolas’ side and buried his head against the Elf’s shoulder.

Harlan swore, a foul exclamation that amused Legolas immensely. Billeh stared in dumbfounded disbelief at the single dirty boot that extended out from under the enormous limb. Nothing else of Lando could be seen, but the soil began to darken beneath the branch.

"Get the Elf up, Billeh," ordered Harlan. He strode over to Legolas and snatched up Frodo, swinging the hobbit aboard his trembling horse. Frodo almost lost his balance and went over the other side, but the man caught him cruelly by the shoulder and jerked him upright. Leaving Frodo on the mount, he returned to help Billeh none-too-gently get Legolas back on his horse. Eyes white-rimmed with senses more accurate than the men’s, the horse shook its head and Harlan clouted it brutally on the forehead. The animal shied and half-reared, tearing the reins out of Billeh’s hands. Legolas seized his opportunity and kicked with all his strength into the horse’s ribs. Terrified and overwrought, the animal leaped forward, forcing Harlan to duck aside or be trampled.

"Frodo! Noro lim!" shouted Legolas. "Ride!"

Frodo tried, snatching up the reins and lashing them against the horse’s neck. With speed that Legolas scarcely would have credited the man, Harlan leaped forward and caught the animal’s ear, forcing its head down. The poor beast squealed, an equine shriek of pain that set the Elf’s teeth on edge. Harlan’s other hand reached for Frodo to drag him from the saddle.

Frodo sawed on the rein, pulling the animal sideways. Harlan snarled an inarticulate oath and moved closer, both hands extended. With every ounce of his strength, Frodo kicked him. The hobbit’s heel caught Harlan under the chin and the man’s head snapped back on his neck. His arms flew up and he stumbled back, falling. Frodo yowled triumphantly and urged the horse towards Legolas.

Then the hobbit was dragged backwards off the mount, the sudden terror on his face catapulting Legolas forward. For a moment the two horses tangled, kicking legs and slashing hooves, then the riderless horse bolted. Intending to use his horse the ride the man down, Legolas kneed it forward.

"Hold, Elf! Hold or I’ll cut his throat!"

Frodo dangled stiffly in Billeh’s grasp, the hobbit’s hands locked around one of the man’s arms imprisoning him around the waist while the man’s other hand held a knife to his neck. Legolas froze, hands automatically sending his wishes to the horse. It halted, shaking violently, white froth dripping from its jaws.

Frodo’s shirt had been torn in the tussle, and the Ring gleamed on the end of its chain in full view. Legolas gasped. Put it away, Frodo, he mentally urged the hobbit. Hide it! Hide it! Frodo’s eyes widened, and as if the hobbit heard his silent plea, his small hand moved carefully to his throat and sought the silver chain. With the slightest of movements, he slid the Ring around and dropped it down the back of his shirt.

"All right! I surrender!" Legolas called, ignoring the silent denial in Frodo’s eyes. The hobbit held very still but the message of those great blue eyes was clear. Legolas ignored him and very slowly raised his hands, hiding the pain the movement cost him. He slid one leg across the horse’s back and dropped to the ground, using the animal to support himself.

Harlan was still on the ground, groaning feebly. The man dragged himself up on his elbows, and the look he directed the Ring-bearer was pure murder. Despite the knife at his throat, Frodo stared back, equal fury in his eyes.

"Why, you little bastard," whispered the man. He felt his chin gingerly, then worked his jaw side to side.

"Harlan?" Billeh was panting, the knife quivering dangerously at Frodo’s throat. "You all right?"

With an obvious effort, Harlan sat up. "I forgot about those hobbit-feet," he responded casually. "Stupid as they look, they can be right dangerous." The man coughed, then grimaced as he spat out a tooth. "You’ll pay for that, little master."

The man struggled to his feet but he did not move towards the hobbit. Instead, he turned to Legolas. "You," he said to the Elf. "Get back on that horse. Good to know you can do it yourself, heh? Always have heard that Elves heal quick." Rage burned unabated in his eyes as he swung back to Frodo. "I think Billeh-boy and I will have some fun finding out if that’s true of hobbits, as well.

"Tie the halfling’s hands and put him on the Elf’s horse," Harlan ordered, glancing at the other man. "Rope them both to the saddle. We ride hard, now." The leader looked once more at the fallen tree and the darkening earth beneath it, and shuddered. He turned to the pack-horses, his expression grim. "And cut the other nags loose. We don’t need them - not with the price this pretty prince’s father will pay."

"The pelts -" Billeh objected.

"Aren’t worth a Shire penny against the gold King Thranduil will give us. They’re slowing us. Cast them off."

"You cannot mean to release the horses with the skins and meat still tied to them," Legolas said softly. "Such will attract every predator within leagues. The poor beasts cannot defend themselves. At least relieve them of their burdens."

Harlan swung himself up on his horse. "Be glad I don’t tie the halfling on top of one of them. How would you like that, Mr. Underhill?" The man’s malevolent gaze moved to Frodo, who stared back expressionlessly. "There are wolves hereabouts. Maybe a cave-bear down from Caradhras’ slopes. Worse things, too." The man snarled, then winced. "Gag you and tie you, and it might make up for my hurtin’ jaw."

It took but moments for the second man to tie Frodo before Legolas. Then Billeh freed the horses. He slashed their leads, leaving the harnesses on their heads and the bits in their mouths. And their bloody burdens on their backs. Legolas’ heart was wrung for them but he could do nothing. Then Billeh shouted, clapping his hands and stamping his feet, spooking the already-frightened horses into bolting.

Harlan nodded shortly. "Billeh, take the Elf’s reins. We’re not stopping again till we’re out of this cursed forest." With a final glare at the two prisoners, Harlan kicked his horse into a walk without another glance at the dead man.

Behind them, the trees watched.

* TBC *





<< Back

Next >>

Leave Review
Home     Search     Chapter List