Chapter 8

With a final swipe of his watering eyes, the Dwarf sighed and rested his hands on his axe.  “Gandalf,” he said, “is there more to fear here than the malevolence of the mountain, and fell beasts and snow-creatures?  I have seen no worked stone or other signs of habitation, but …” the Dwarf seemed almost embarrassed to continue.  “But I feel … I feel that there is…”  Again he stopped and fumbled for words, his hands tightening on the axe that rested between his sturdy legs.  “Dwarves are not given to flights of fancy,” he said in almost a challenging voice, as if they debated that.  “But I feel that we are being watched with anger and with malice.  Perhaps I feel it from the bones of stone in this great peak, feel it funneling from the cold winds that rush through its caverns.  I only know I feel something, and it wishes us ill.”

“You surprise me, Gimli,” Gandalf replied, “though I would be the last to dissuade a Dwarf that he feels something on this pile of cold stone that we do not.  I, too, am aware of a tenseness in the air.  A waiting, perhaps?”

The Dwarf nodded, his beard bobbing against his thick chest.  Aragorn noticed that he had re-braided other parts of his beard to cover the gaps so gallantly sacrificed.  Wisely, he did not comment upon it.  Nevertheless, the Dwarf caught the direction of his gaze and his face reddened.

Gandalf let his eyes rove over the Company.  Boromir had done more than lift down the wood from the pony for the hobbits; he had arranged it, tented the kindling and started the fire.  Then he unpacked Sam’s heating kettle, filled it with snow and hung it up for him.  Now he was brushing down the pony, his face dark and strained-looking.  Sighing, the wizard moved closer to the Ranger and said softly, “Will you speak to him?  He is blaming himself.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I have already told him it was not his fault.”  They both watched as the soldier took Bill’s nosebag from Sam and refilled it, proceeding to feed the pony himself.  “Let us hope that Legolas returns with Frodo quickly.  And that he is unharmed.”

Both of them fell silent and joined Gimli in staring down the icy slope.  Flakes of snow began to swirl around them gently, kissing their clothes and warm flesh for a moment before melting.  The snow had formed a thin blanket on Aragorn’s shoulders when the Ranger suddenly reached up and brushed it off.  “What is taking so long?” he growled.  He took a half-step forward in the snow, as if that additional distance would reveal to him why the two had not returned.

Having no chores left to do, the three hobbits joined the Big Folk, clustering around them anxiously.  Alone, Boromir continued working on the pony, straightening the packs and checking for rubbing under the straps.  They watched him with worry in their eyes, glancing back and forth between themselves.

At last Gandalf released an explosive sigh.  “Aragorn, will you and Boromir go and see what has become of them?  The snow has already partially filled in the slide-marks.  It should not take them so long to return.”

Boromir immediately left Bill and started down the hill, striding past the others without a glance.  With a nod at Gandalf and Gimli and a smile of reassurance for the hobbits, Aragorn caught up with him and the two Men dwindled from the watchers’ sight.

* * * * *

It was not difficult for Aragorn and Boromir to follow the trail of Boromir’s shield; snow sprayed out on either side of the slide-marks.  The down slope side rode deeper than the following side; Frodo must have been leaning forward, keeping his balance but at the same time spurring the shield on to greater speed as his weight slid the slick metal over the snow.  Here and there, they could barely discern the light marks of the Elf’s boots; a heel or a toe print only, never a full boot-print.

Having to tramp through the deepening snow, Aragorn muttered a comment to himself about the ability of Elves in snow.  Boromir glanced at him and the Ranger was startled to see a gleam of humor in the hazel eyes.  The Ranger relaxed marginally.  After a few more strides, he ventured softly, “Do you feel better, then?”

Boromir nodded shortly.  “I was acting the fool.  My apologies.” 

“Apologies are not requested or needed.  I am glad you realize it was not your fault.”

The soldier grimaced.  “My father raised me to believe that everything is my fault … my responsibility.  To watch and weigh my every action.”  Boromir stared ahead of them, his brow lined as he spoke.  “My brother and I were trained early in the rule of men.  When so much weighs on your every decision, your every command, then you began to feel that you should have control over everything, and that any mishap that occurs is your ultimate fault.  It is a difficult lesson to overcome.”  The soldier sighed.  “So much weighs … so very, very much…”

Aragorn listened, his heart wrung with pity.  “Your father would be proud of you, Boromir.  By lending your strength to this Fellowship, you are contributing to the most important action on the face of this fair world.  If we are successful, not only will Gondor be freed of the Shadow, but all of Middle-earth.”

The soldier nodded, the wind whipping his hair into his face and hiding it from Aragorn.  “Aye … if we are successful.”

“There!”  Aragorn clasped Boromir’s arm and pointed.  Something dark lay in the snow before them.  Increasing their speed, they could see that the slide-trail ended at the dark object.  Around it, the snow was churned and confused.  Smaller things lay about it, on the crust of the glaring snow.  Drawing near, they could identify the dark form as the shield, one side buried into the snow as the other tipped up.  Aragorn reached it in two more strides and ripped it free of the snow, hoping irrationally that the hobbit sheltered beneath it. 

Wordlessly, he handed the shield to Boromir, who examined it and returned it to its accustomed place on his back.  Aragorn crouched in the snow and cautioned Boromir to take no further steps until he read what story the snow had to tell.  The Ranger pushed his hand into the snow and pulled out one of the lesser dark forms.  One of Legolas’ arrows, broken in half.  To the side, another.  Another.  A larger darkness lay under the snow.  Aragorn dug it out carefully.  It was Sting, Frodo’s elven sword.  There was dark blood on the tip, and it still glimmered with blue fire at the edges.  Aragorn sank into the snow and groaned.

“Aragorn, over here.”  The Ranger gathered himself and moved to where Boromir stood.  And here…  The Ranger knelt in the snow and gently brushed the edge of his hand over the fallen snow, seeking the darker stain underneath.  The frozen crystals were clumped together under the light layer of fallen snow.  Turning his hand over, the snow shone red and glinted in the fading sunlight.

* * * * *

Boromir wanted to follow the churned snow-trail immediately but Aragorn refused, insisting they return to the others.  “Splitting our strength is unwise with Orcs roaming about, my friend.  I cannot even tell how many there are; they have trampled and fouled the clean snow so.”  Gathering up Sting and all of Legolas’ arrows they could find, they examined them further as they ran back.  Two of the arrows had their tips broken off and the sharp tip of another was oddly blunted.  “The Orcs were armored.  That is why there are no bodies, only dark orc-blood in the snow.  Perhaps the weight of their mail will slow them.”  Beside him, Boromir nodded but concentrated on running.

Gandalf was still standing below the crest of the hill, where they had left him.  He waited until they drew up with him, then his swift hands took the small sword and the arrows, inspecting them as the two Men struggled to catch their breath, leaning over with their hands braced on their knees.  The Men had not brought any of the bloodied snow, but both knew by the wizard’s face that he knew blood had been spilled out on the white snow.

“Could you tell which was wounded?”  Gandalf was turning the elven sword over in his hands as he spoke.  No blue fire crawled along it now; the Orcs and their captives were too far away.  The hobbits had gathered beside him, silent but obviously frightened.

“No.”  The Ranger spoke for them both.  “I did find the marks of dragged feet briefly in the snow, until they lifted Legolas to carry him.  There was a bond between the drag-marks, so he was restrained.  I could not tell if he was conscious or not.  Frodo they would certainly have carried; he could not keep the pace in deep snow.  There was nothing to tell which bled, if not both.”

Puffing out a final cloud of white steam, Boromir asked, “Why would they cast away the sword?  It is a beautiful thing, of elven-make.  I would think any captor would covet it.”

The wizard wiped the sword clean and swaddled it in a blanket, the scabbard having been taken with its master.  “It is because it is of elven-make that they would discard it.  The hatred between Orcs and their goblin kin and the Elves runs deeper than our understanding and extends to all products of their craftsmanship.  We are fortunate that they did not damage Sting.  We can return it to Frodo intact,” the last was said with an eye to the anxious halflings that clustered about him.  “Sam, will you pack Sting on Bill?  Frodo will want it upon his return.”

Sam nodded and reached up to receive the sword, cradling it reverently.  Still staring at Sting, Gandalf continued.  “I think it is more likely that these are mountain-goblins than Orcs, such as the ones that accosted Bilbo and Thorin and myself in the mountains, so long ago.  Kin to the Orcs but smaller and weaker, but greater in their numbers and malice and viciousness.  They may not serve any master but themselves, being too remote to hold allegiance to an evil power that would accept their service.”  The wizard raised his eyes and regarded the sun, which was westering rapidly.  “Let us hope that they serve no master; it would mean they would hold their captives instead of sending them off to higher authority.”

“Where would they hold them?” asked Merry, his blue eyes searching the colorless landscape.  “We have passed no kind of building or shelter.”

“Deep inside the mountain itself,” came the rumbling reply of the Dwarf.  All eyes turned to Gimli as he continued.  “I know of the mountain-goblin folk; they have contested with my own people before.  They are burrowers, maggots in the flesh of the earth.  They might find a passage-way into the mountain, a natural cavern-system, and enlarge it to their own use.  While not builders, they are adapters, and clever at that … clever at raping the living earth of its beauty and perverting its gifts to their own ugly ends.”

It was a rare thing to see anger in the usually stolid Dwarf, and all the Company stared at him.  Gimli flushed.  “I would not see an Elf in their hands,” he continued softly.  “We must find them quickly.  These foul folk are known for the wicked games they play on helpless captives.”

Pippin hid his face in his hands and began to cry.

* TBC *