Chapter 10

“How great of a lead do you think they have?” asked Boromir, squatting in the snow with his hands on his knees.  Though the soldier prided himself that he had some skill at tracking, he no longer questioned the superiority of Aragorn’s abilities.  That one crouched next to him, hands reaching out to gather up the frozen blood at the site of the brief battle and sift the new-fallen snow through his gloved fingers, his dark eyes remote as he stared into the deepening darkness.

Twilight had fallen while the Company hastily decamped and followed the two Men back to the place where Frodo and Legolas had been taken.  Yet that made the trail of churned snow easier to see; the bright moon threw each shadow and indentation into sharp relief, black against white, with no conciliatory gray between.  Once again, Aragorn had argued against splitting of the Company and Gandalf had agreed, and now all stood upon the snowy mound where Boromir’s errant shield had come to rest upon a protruding rock, bearing an excited and laughing hobbit.  The blood looked black in the moonlight, and the Ranger was glad for the hobbits’ sakes that the scene was less colored than when he first saw it.

“We came upon this place some perhaps an hour after the strap broke,” Aragorn answered at last.  “Add to that the hour it took for us to return, gather the Company, and arrive back here.  The goblins are moving faster than we, even with the two that seem to be wounded.  One of the foul creature’s trail staggers in the snow, another has blood-drops along it for as far as I followed.  Frodo at least accounted well for himself, from the dark blood on Sting.  I cannot tell what damage Legolas did from the broken and blunted arrows.”  The Ranger rose and dropped the handful of bloodied snow, already frozen into a misshaped clump of ice.  “Pity they wore armor; the snow would tell a different story then.”  Finally he addressed himself to Boromir’s question.  “I would guess, at a running pace carrying two prisoners, they are perhaps a league and a half to two leagues ahead of us.”

“Then we must split the Company, will we or no,” responded the wizard heavily.  “The hobbits and Bill cannot hold such a pace in this deep snow.”  Standing near and stroking the pony’s nose as he held Bill’s rein, Sam bristled but could not deny the truth of those words.  Hobbits were not made for swiftness.  Gandalf glanced at the insulted hobbit and continued, “Aragorn, can you tell how many there are?”

The Ranger nodded.  “I followed their trail for a short way as they spaced themselves on the march.  I make it six, including the two that are hurt.  Two carry Legolas and one Frodo –“

“How can you tell?” interrupted Merry.

“The boot prints of those carrying burdens are much deeper than the others, Merry.  The two carrying Legolas run in step with each other, their distance apart always the same.  The claw prints of the one carrying Frodo shows a much deeper imprint on the left stride than the right.”

“Oh,” murmured Merry, absorbing this information.  Aragorn could almost see it being stored away in that one’s quicksilver mind.

“The next question is, do they know of us?”  This from Gimli, who stood resting his hands on the head of his axe.  Next to the hobbits, he was the least swift in snow.   Yet the Dwarf was a valiant and deadly warrior, and his strength and battle-skills would be needed in a rescue.  “If they feared the possibility of a rescue, they would hurry on back to their black holes.  Did they not … perhaps they would rest and make camp for the night.  We would have some chance of catching them.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Yes, it is so.  Legolas would not speak of the rest of the Fellowship, being wise in the ways of orc-kind.  Frodo…” the Ranger paused and regarded the other three hobbits.  Merry and Pippin stood pressed close to Sam, their faces drawn.  Merry had bracketed Pippin between him and Sam, with the heat of the pony behind him.  The Ranger wondered for a moment if the two even knew how they protected the young one, or if it was simply instinctive with their kind.  “Merry,” he continued, “would Frodo know not to speak to his captors of us?”

Merry considered it.  Such situations did not arise in the Shire and the halflings had no experiences from which to draw.  Watching thoughts chase across that small mobile face, Aragorn envied them their peaceful, safe lives that he and the Dúnadain had labored to ensure, and regretted all the more that these little folk could not have continued such happily ignorant lives. 

“I do not think he would alert them,” Merry said at last.  “He would follow Legolas’ lead and say nothing.  I remember old Bilbo telling us tales of his capture by the goblins in the mountains, and we learned from that.” 

“That’s right, sir,” added Sam, a little of the fear and grief lifting from his features.  “Mr. Bilbo’d sit in his chair and we’d gather around him by the fire, me an’ Mr. Frodo an’ Mr. Merry an’ Master Pippin – he was jus’ a little scrap then - and the rain would patter outside…”  Looking at them, the freezing cold forgotten for a moment, lost in happy memories and away from this bitter place, Aragorn was again sorry that such evil times had come to them all.

Gimli cleared his throat gently, breaking into their thoughts.  “Since we must choose one of the two options, let us then say that the evil creatures will  take their ease.  If they do not fear pursuit, this is likely.”  The Dwarf dropped his voice but knew the little ones could still hear.  “After they have rested, they will be eager to play with their new toys.”

Gandalf nodded decisively.  “Then you and Aragorn and Boromir will go.  The hobbits and I will seek a more sheltered place, close to here, and await your return.  Wordlessly, the wizard reached into Bill’s pack and pulled out the square form of a second first-aid kit, which he handed to Aragorn.  “Hurry,” he urged them.

“Do not fear,” Boromir assured the hobbits softly.  “We will bring them back very shortly.”

The three sprang away to follow the snow-trail, becoming indistinct dark forms silhouetted against the white expanse.  “That’s what Legolas said,” murmured Pippin very softly, and buried his face against his cousin’s chest.

* * * * *    

Far away in the deepening cold, Frodo awoke when the warm body he had fitted himself against moved.  Quickly the hobbit unwound himself from the blanket and leaned over the Elf’s face, covering his mouth with a small hand as Legolas fought to wake.  The Elf’s face was very cold.  “Shush, shush,” whispered the hobbit, raising terrified eyes to the gross, snoring forms around them.  “Legolas, you must be silent.”

Painfully, the Elf’s eyes opened.  Frodo had never seen them less than clear and to see them clouded with agony wrung his heart.  Legolas inhaled deeply then shuddered as the pain of the arrow-wound tore at his side.  Yet the Elf made no sound.  His eyes opened again and swept around him, turning his head slightly to take in the sheer wall behind them to the sleeping forms of their goblin captors about them. 

The one on watch had been aware of the Elf’s awakening, and as Legolas’ eyes met his, the ugly creature sneered at them and ran its tongue over its fanged lips in a suggestive manner.   Legolas tried to move and the hobbit saw realization dawn in his eyes that he was bound, hand and foot, helpless.  Frodo had tried to loosen the bonds and had succeeded slightly; they were no longer so cruelly tight.  But his cold-stiffened fingers could not undo the knots and even his small belt-knife had been taken from him.  Frodo slid his hands over Legolas’ and rubbed them briskly, imparting his own heat into the long, slender hands.  Then he leaned down and put his mouth next to the pointed ear.

“The moon has risen.  They took us an hour before sunset.  I think that the others should be coming soon.”  The last was said in little more than a breath that stirred the fine wisps of hair on Legolas’ temple.

Legolas nodded and struggled to find his voice.  Quickly Frodo gathered more snow in his hands and poured the half-melted slush into the Elf’s throat.   Legolas thanked him with a faint smile then his eyes narrowed.  “You are unhurt?  You are not bound?” he asked, his voice strained and barely audible even to the one crouched next to him.

“Nothing but a knock on the head,” Frodo whispered back.  He paused to tuck the Elf’s cloak more tightly about him and made certain that he was fully covered by the blanket, then cupped Legolas’ face in his warmed hands.  “And they did not tie me.”  The hobbit raised his pale face to the frozen emptiness.  “Even if I could get past the guards, where would I go?”

The Elf struggled to speak.  “Did … Did they search you?  Did they take it?”

“No.  No, other than taking our weapons, they have not examined us.  I suppose we look like we carry nothing of value.”

“Lazy, ill-trained, undisciplined…”  Legolas trailed off into his own language, his eyes closing again.

Frodo swallowed a smile and slid down again, pressing himself down to the Elf’s cold side.  “I will not complain.  Can you imagine the furor if they discovered my mithrel coat?  It might encourage them to search for other, more important things,” he added softly.

He was alerted to Legolas’ next comment by the expansion of the Elf’s chest.  “How bad is it?” Legolas asked, his soft voice light, as if it mattered not greatly to him. 

“Bad enough,” answered the hobbit, understanding immediately.  “One of their black arrows took you though the side.  It is not a large wound, but it is deep.  I cleaned it as best I could and sutured it.”

Surprise showed on Legolas’ fine features.  “You sutured it?”

The hobbit nodded then remembered the Elf could not see him with closed eyes.  “I found the first-aid kit in your cloak. I had learned some stitch-work from Aragorn, and more from Elrond in Rivendell.  You need not fear the stitches will give,” he said with some measure of pride, seeing no need to inform the Elf of his rebellious stomach during the procedure.  “I think the cold will help prevent infection and even may keep it from bleeding further.  So said the healers’ books I read in Rivendell.”  

So intent had they been in their quiet discussion that they did not notice the hulking form of the black goblin until it hovered over them.  “Awake, then?” it snarled, the Westron words distorted and foul on its lips.  Frodo gasped and pulled himself upright, crouching next to the recumbent form of the silent Elf.  Around the creature, the watch had given up its place and joined the other dark forms in rising and rubbing warmth back into their misshapen limbs, growling and snapping at each other like beasts.  The goblin straightened and stared into the clear night sky.  “We move out soon, back home.  There we share you, as we must.”  Frodo saw one corner of its ugly mouth twist and suddenly did not wish ‘share’ further defined for him.

“But first … you owe us, little whatever-you-be.  Half elven, you look.”  Frodo saw the creature eye his large, hairy feet, curiosity warring with malice on its hideous face.  Then it shrugged, uncaring.  “A little sport to warm us and repay us for the blood you shed, little thing.  The Elf will not last long in our games, I think.  Those slender bones break far too quickly.  See?”

In one swift movement, the creature drew back its clawed foot and kicked towards the Elf’s wounded side.  But the hobbit was quicker.  Frodo threw himself full-length aside Legolas’ body and took the kick, claws slashing along his ribs. 

* TBC *