Chapter 9

Frodo’s mind was working before he returned to full consciousness.  The darkness confused him at first … surely there was an hour of daylight left?  And then his position.  What was he doing upside down?  He felt dizzy and nauseated.  Everything whirled around him.  Had he slid off Boromir’s shield and damaged himself?

Gradually, he became aware that he was moving.  No, being moved.  He was slung over someone’s shoulder, securely wrapped in a blanket.  His arms were pinned to his sides by the heavy cloth, which he recognized as one of the Company’s spares.  Indignant at this handling, he wiggled and tried to complain, and found that there was a gag around his mouth.  Sam would never permit this.  Where was Sam?

Almost awake now, the hobbit twisted in his confining wrappings and bent his knees, kicking as hard as he could against the hard chest that bounced against his legs.  His knees bruised themselves painfully against plated mail and startled, he yelped.  In response, he heard a harsh, guttural laugh and the one who carried him called out something that he did not understand.  Frodo’s heart went cold within him.  No member of the Company had such an abrasive voice.

Instead of slowing and releasing him, the one who bore him increased his speed, jouncing the hobbit painfully on his shoulder.  Frodo’s head began to throb in time with the bouncing strides, and his nausea increased.  Listening, he could now hear the harsh breathing of many large bodies, the creak and rubbing of metal and the hiss and slide of leather.  His nostrils filled with the odor of sweat and hair and bodies long unwashed, and underneath that, a deeper musk; of lightless caverns and dust and old blood in pools left long undisturbed.  He would have covered his nose if he could, instead, he turned his head sideways and tried to bury his face in the shoulder of his own cloak.  He fought against being sick.

He began to have trouble breathing; it felt like all the blood in his body was rushing into his head, making his skull feel like it was exploding.  Miserable, he tried to tell his captor of his predicament, but his muffled pleas were ignored.  The pressure increased and increased, and the darkness grew weightier.  Unable to bear it, the hobbit passed out.

He was aware of nothing more until his face was pushed into an icy white powder which his blurring vision resolved into snow.  Choking, he pushed back against the rough hand that held his nape and was released.  It was utterly dark.  Unable to focus on anything in the flickering light of what must have been a small fire, he scrambled backwards, away from the bruising grasp.  Coarse laughter greeted this maneuver, the sound loud and malicious.  Frodo fetched up against the cool slickness of a sheer wall and could retreat no further. 

Trying to sidle away from the gleaming eyes of the sneering countenance before him, his way was blocked by something warm and yielding.  Legolas’ head fell forward and Frodo caught the sagging Elf in his small arms, keeping the reclining form from sliding flat to the floor.  Legolas was unconscious, his fair face marred by an ugly wound on the side of his temple.  His hands and feet were tied.  There was blood in the silk-like hair and more on his side.  Hugging the Elf, Frodo stared in horror as it covered his hand and dripped from his fingers.

The dirty creature before him laughed again at the shock on the hobbit’s face, then rose and returned to the fire to help himself to the contents of a boiling kettle hung over the blaze.  There were many more of them on the other side of the fire, how many he could not tell as all the firelight illuminated was a hairy paw here or a scaled, clawed foot there.  At least five other sets of eyes gleamed at him in the darkness, and the hobbit’s heart sank.

Their captors ate without offering their captives any, not that Frodo would have accepted the vile-smelling stew.  Left alone for the moment, Frodo struggled to reconstruct their capture.  His first action was to slide a hand slowly to his breast and press.  Yes, it was still there, burning with cold against his skin.  They had not found it.  The hobbit’s eyes closed in relief.

His second action was to look about.  The sheer wall he was pushed up against supported a rock overhang, not even a shallow cavern.  Open on three sides, the cold wind brushed over him and he shivered.  Breathing deeply, he tried to recall what had happened.  The wild ride on the shield he remembered … remembered the exhilaration of the cold wind rushing past his face as the shield spun then slid down the steep slope.  After understanding what was happening, Frodo had leaned into the slope and let himself enjoy the ride.  Shrieking with laughter, he had reveled in the speed until the shield came to an abrupt halt, caught against a rock, and spilled him off into the snow.  Picking himself up, Frodo had checked that the Ring was still securely around his throat and dusted himself off, mildly amazed at the places snow managed to get into.  He was not surprised to see the Elf running gracefully over to snow towards him some minutes later and smiled at Legolas sheepishly.

Legolas had returned the smile, his clear eyes dancing.  Shaking his blond head wordlessly, he had pulled out a blanket from the stack he carried in one arm and advanced towards the grinning hobbit.  The hilt of the thrown knife that struck his temple had been hurled faster than either of them could see.  Legolas had taken a step backwards, the blankets falling from his arms.  His slender hand had flown to his head as blood blossomed there, then he was slinging his great bow from his back, notching an arrow.  With eyes not completely unable to focus, he had fired at one of the many dark shapes that had risen from under the snow, where they had taken cover when alerted by the hobbit’s shrill cries of joy.

The arrow snapped, and Frodo comprehended that the dark shapes were armored.  Then events became confused for him as time seemed to compress.  He had raced to Legolas’ side, catching an arm to support him.  The Elf was fighting to retain consciousness, staggering, yet fitting arrow to bow and firing again and again, each arrow finding its mark yet unable to do damage.  Frodo drew Sting and brandished the elven sword at the advancing forms, trying to keep himself under Legolas and the Elf on his feet.  He had felt the impact through Legolas’ body when the black arrow had bitten deeply into the Elf’s side.       

Crying out in shock, Legolas slid to his knees, the bow falling from his nerveless grasp.  Bright blood was pouring from his side.  Frantic, Frodo had snatched at a fallen blanket and pushed it against the wound, feeling the Elf gasp then groan deeply.  Legolas fell sideways into the snow and Frodo followed him down, still pressing the blanket against the gushing wound.  Then the Elf had gone completely silent.

Frodo straddled the still figure as the dark forms advanced, Sting raised defiantly.  Four, five … six, he thought.  Too many.  Too many and too big.  Blue fire crawled along the small blade’s length and he spared it a glance, realizing for the first time that these were orc or goblin-kind.  The nearest one regarded him in contempt, a sneer on its ugly features as it hooked the Elf’s bow with a scaled hand and drew it away from the unconscious form.  Another reached forward and Frodo attacked, slashing with all of his strength.  Sting bit deeply into the unarmored forearm and the orc-thing stumbled back, a scream rising from its fanged lips.   

Another had come at them from behind and the hobbit twisted, driving his sword deep into that one’s meaty thigh.  It was larger than he, much larger, but it had shrieked and fallen back, pressing a clawed hand to the wound as dark blood poured from it to stain the clean snow.  Frodo saw that they had drawn back in a rough circle around he and Legolas, an odd respect dawning in their furious eyes.  Then something had smashed into his head and he had only a heartbeat to realize that he had been downed by the same trick that had taken the Elf, the hilt of a thrown knife.

Frodo placed a hand on his head and felt through the curly mat of dark hair.  There – ouch!  The skin had not broken but there was a sizeable knot.  He felt disoriented and sick, but was relatively unhurt.  Not so Legolas...  The Elf had not responded to his surreptitious tugs.  It was then that Frodo realized that his hands and feet were not tied.  Did they know, then, he would not abandon the Elf?

Moving very slowly so as not to draw attention to them, Frodo slid his hand into the Elf’s cloak and encountered the small square box of one of the Company’s first aid kits.  He had seen it outlined there when Legolas had turned to fire.  Small fingers opened the box and felt inside.  Soft linen … bandages, it felt like.  An ointment of some kind.  The sharp prick of a needle and next to it, a spool of smooth thread.  His hand closed over these items and pulled them out.

Still those clustered around the warmth of the fire ignored him.  Keeping a wary eye on their captors, Frodo warmed snow in his hands and used the water to wash the Elf’s wounds.  He had to rub gently where the blood had clotted and was grateful when the wounds did not begin to bleed again.  Washed, the wounds looked terrible, the dirty weapons used by the orc-kind resulting in inflammation.  The hobbit opened the ointment and examined it, unable to guess its purpose.  He smelled it and found it not unpleasant but without knowing its use, would not risk further harming the Elf.  The faint flickering light was insufficient to see if there was any corruption in the wound on Legolas’ side.  Praying there was not, Frodo squinted and threaded the needle, his stomach churning at what he was about to do.

Legolas’ soft suede tunic had been rent by the black arrow, opening a gash in the cloth some six inches long.  The wound itself was perhaps four inches long, but deep.  The lips of the wound were reddened.  Did these foul folk poison their arrows?  He could not think about that now.  He could not think that the needle and thread had not been cleaned in boiling water.  Thanking Elbereth that Legolas slept, Frodo set the needle to his fair skin and pushed.  The Elf’s body jerked as the needle pushed through the soft tissue.  Frodo gulped, trying to control his stomach.  He must do this.  The wound could not be left unsutured, it was too deep.  He drew the edges of the wound gently together then went back and sealed the stitch.  Refusing to think about what he was doing, the hobbit sewed the wound shut, cleaning away the tiny droplets of blood along the needle’s path. 

It was done, and he had not been sick.  Frodo felt a small surge of pride in his handiwork.  Sliding his hands up under the soft suede, he wrapped the linen bandages around the Elf’s slender chest and secured the roll with stitches.  Then he warmed more snow in his hands and poured the water down Legolas’ throat, guiding it so that it went down properly.  Finished with his ministrations, the hobbit tucked his freezing hands against his chest and raised his aching head, and found that they were evidently camping here for the night.  The dark forms he had only glimpsed before were arranging themselves around the captives, on the stack of blankets that Legolas had been carrying.  In the light of the rising moon, he could see that they better fitted Bilbo’s descriptions of mountain-goblins than their larger orc-cousins.  The moon glow was reflected back from the surrounding snow and threw into stark relief their hideous forms and features.

The increased light also allowed them to see him more clearly.  One rose from where it had been watching and advanced towards them.  Frodo shrank back against the wall, scooting up against the Elf’s silent form.  The great black goblin stopped and regarded them, then abruptly gave that harsh laugh again.  Hissing but understandable came the Westron words, “Wasted effort, thing.  It will die.  So will you, when we be done with you.  The two you marked await their chance.  Games, little thing.”  The dark form laughed and leaned down so that its rank smell choked the hobbit.  “You’ll not enjoy them.”  Then it was gone, taking the first watch among the barricade of bodies.  Frodo reached over and picked up the blanket he had been imprisoned in and covered the Elf with it, sliding his smaller body close and pulling the blanket over them both.

* TBC *