Chapter 11

Frodo curled on his side, aware of nothing more than the brilliant explosions of light behind his eyelids.  There was no pain yet where he had been kicked; it would come, thought the part of his mind that could think around the crushing pressure in his side.  Distantly, he heard the black goblin’s guttural laugh and heard it respond to something another called to it.  A great scaly paw descended and picked him up by the front of his jacket, sharp claws punching through the thick cloth, raising him from the Elf’s side and pulling him up to the snarling mouth of the foul creature.  “Stupid move, little thing,” the goblin hissed, its rank breath sickening the hobbit.  “I’ll take payment for that myself, when the others be done with you.”  Abruptly it threw the small figure back against the rock cliff face.  The hobbit slid down the slick wall and collapsed bonelessly by the Elf’s side.  Then the great black form was gone, stooping to pick up the blanket and add it to those stolen from the bundle Legolas had carried.

Gradually the hobbit became aware that Legolas was whispering his name desperately.  “Frodo!  Frodo!  Speak to me, little one!”

Slowly he uncurled himself and tried to respond.  The second time, he managed a breathy, “… all right … I am all right, Legolas.”

The Elf’s long arm slid around the hobbit and pulled him close.  Frodo stiffened, wary of touching the wounded side.  Legolas chuckled faintly.  “Do not fear you will hurt me, Frodo.  Elves are … very resilient.”  The long hand probed gently over where the hobbit had borne the kick.  “Did he … did he hurt you, Frodo?”

It was the hobbit’s turn to laugh, though weakly.  “I am wearing my mithrelcoat, Legolas, remember?”  Frodo closed his eyes and inhaled carefully, feeling the beginnings of a truly magnificent bruise along his ribs.  The creature’s claws had slashed through his cloak and jacket through to his waistcoat; cold air pressed against his skin like a shard of ice held to his side.

“Frodo,” said Legolas softly, “you must not risk yourself.  Even if you must watch each of the Company fall, you must not risk yourself, Ring-bearer.”  When the hobbit would have turned to him, the Elf shook his head and raised a shaking hand to the dark curls.  “You cannot stop what is going to happen, my friend.  You must be strong enough to survive it.”

The Elf watched as the beautiful periwinkle eyes grew even wider.  Legolas stroked the dark curls comfortingly, already calling to himself the reserves he would need to endure.  “Frodo, listen to me.  They will use me first.  The hatred between our peoples goes far into the past and they will not pass up this opportunity for revenge.  I will occupy their attention for as long as I can.  Perhaps the Company will find us before they decide to amuse themselves with you.”

“Frodo,” the Elf added gently, “do not watch if you can help it.”      

* * * * *

It required far too short a time for the small band to pack up and prepare themselves for the sport to come.  There was some arguing about means and methods; it seemed that each of the foul creatures had a favorite game it wanted to play.  Frodo’s stomach roiled as he watched them draw out various small knives and pinchers, iron spikes and sharp pickaxes.  Vaguely the hobbit recognized the iron spikes as crampons; Boromir had once described them in a tale of his ascent of an icy peak with his brother.  The spikes were used as steps, hammered into frozen stone and climbed upon.  The thought of what these foul folk might do with them sent him cringing back against the silent Elf.

The fire had been banked but now it was uncovered and re-kindled.  Some of the small band gathered around it and warmed themselves while others sorted through the picks and hooks and spikes, laying some of them on the hot coals.  The smell of heating metal began to drift through the encampment, filling the nose with a sharp scent like burned copper, of old blood and leather burning off the hand-grips.  While the tools heated, others of the band occupied themselves in scraping the snow from around the fire and folding and laying down the stolen blankets atop their bedrolls, preparing themselves comfortable padded seats for the entertainment. 

The orc-kind seemed to be truly inventive in devising their instruments of torture, even taking apart some of their black arrows to unfasten the small, razor-sharp tips.  The one doing this dropped them, forgotten, into the snow as it watched two of the goblins snap at each other then come to blows.    The snarling argument as to which would go first escalated.  The debate was settled in the most expedient way possible – the strongest was left standing.  Growling, it cowed the others and they crawled about its clawed feet like whipped dogs.

Head held high above its hunched back, it strutted over to the captives.  With a sinking heart, the hobbit saw the winner was the one who had kicked him, the one who spoke Westron.  It grinned at him with its fanged mouth, seeing his dismay.  Crouching next to the prisoners, it rested its clawed hands on its thighs.  Dark blood still ran from the black shining claws and dripped slowly onto the clean snow.  The ugly creature reached out one of its scaly fingers and slowly ran a claw under one of the immobile hobbit’s terrified eyes, leaving a blood-trail across the fair cheek.  “We play with the Elf first, little thing.  His pain be warm repayment for the persecution his kind be given mine.  Then your turn.  The two you cut be first, then I have claim.  If you last long enough, perhaps I be generous and let the others play with you also.”

The goblin motioned and two others came forward and stooped to lift the Elf.  Legolas was limp in their grasp, neither assisting or resisting.  His gaze was turning inward, building for himself a sylvan meadow in the green forest of his home, where no evil came and no pain could intrude.  He concentrated on filling the glade with music, seeking to shut out each avenue of the senses and send his waking mind far from what was coming.

The goblin noticed the Elf’s passivity and snarled a command at the two who borne him.  They halted and turned the quiet form between them towards the winner of the prizes.  “No you don’t, Elf,” the goblin said almost gently, cupping Legolas’ face in its clawed hands.  One drew back to slash across the fair features and recall the Elf back before he could escape. 

Frodo did not know what Legolas was doing but he recognized that the foul creature was readying a backhanded blow.  Gritting his teeth, the hobbit launched himself from a seated position into a flying kick and struck with all of his strength, twisting in mid-air and driving his hard hobbit-foot onto the goblin’s knee.  The crack! was audible even over the goblin’s bellow.  It collapsed into the snow, hugging its leg to its chest, rocking from side to side as shriek after shriek tore from its lips.

The two guarding Legolas did not know whether to aid their leader or maintain their posts.  They watched, astonished, as the small thing whirled and leapt for the knife at one of the guard’s belts.  The little thing’s hands had managed to fasten on it and pull it free of its sheath before the guard reacted, sweeping down one huge hairy arm.  The blow caught the hobbit along the side of his face and left shoulder, knocking him off his feet and backwards into the snow.  The knife fell from nerveless fingers as Frodo fought to retain consciousness.  The left shoulder … not fully healed from the Morgul-blade’s wound that had nearly taken him in Rivendell. 

His left side lifeless, Frodo lurched forward on his knees and scrabbled in the snow with his right hand for the knife.  He had closed upon it when a great booted foot stepped on the blade.  He tugged futilely at it then slowly raised his eyes to the hulking, sneering form of one of their captors.  The one whose knee he had cracked was silent now, still on the ground and still cradling the injured leg.  He stared at the hobbit with undisguised hatred in the black pits of his eyes.  “For that,” the goblin snarled, “you be first.”

The one who had stepped on the knife dragged the struggling hobbit to the center of the rough circle where the others waited eagerly.  Rising with difficulty, the black goblin limped after.  Legolas was pulled along and dropped to a seated position with his back against a snow-covered rock.  The support was all that kept the Elf upright; even were he free, the lack of blood flow to his limbs caused by the tight bindings would have paralyzed him.

But now another argument ensued.  Though he did not speak their vile tongue, the Elf understood that the black goblin’s assumption of leadership had been damaged by his injury.  Like jackals, the others sensed weakness.  They did not want to wait idly by while he took his revenge on the little thing, not when so much more satisfying prey was at hand.   This the Elf discerned from the many malevolent looks sent him, and the waving of bright knives.  They were almost slavering with eagerness.  Legolas prepared himself to enter his place of peace again, the detaching part of his mind admiring the glint of the moon’s glow on the sharp blades.

Faced with surrendering either his leadership or his priority, the black goblin flicked a clawed hand at the Elf and slumped gracelessly to the ground.  Legolas was pulled from the rock and made to kneel in the center of the circle.  It was difficult to balance with his ankles and wrists tied.  Hearing a strangled cry, he looked up to see the Ringbearer fighting with all of his small strength, trying to twist himself free of the goblin who stood behind him holding his wrists behind his back, the other huge hand on his shoulder.  He had actually managed to drag the goblin holding him forward several feet.  The Elf shook his head marginally and knew that Frodo saw, but the hobbit did not cease his struggles.  Frodo shouted, a wordless cry of rage and fear, and the Elf returned his awareness for a moment to wonder at the volume of sound from so small a one.  A moment later, all choice was taken from the hobbit as a heavy fist descended directly on the curly head.  Frodo slumped into the snow, his small hands clutching, and then was still.

‘Now it begins,’ thought the Elf.   ‘I am glad he will not see.  O Elbereth, let not our Quest end here.’

* TBC *