Chapter 12

The hobbit was not aware of pain at first, only of the icy burning stiffness at the side of his face.  Consciousness returned slowly, unwilling to inhabit a freezing and exhausted body that had been repeatedly struck and kicked.  Frodo groaned and clenched his hands, then went still.

The goblin standing above the odd little creature knew it had regained awareness, but was not greatly concerned.  Watching the others amuse themselves with the Elf was far more entertaining than watching this small creature struggle in the snow.  When the little thing started scooping snow to itself and making snowballs, its captor snorted and did not trouble itself to interfere.  Snowballs against six of his kind, armed and armored?   He knocked it over casually, and grunted a laugh when it raised amazingly blue eyes to his and crawled slowly to its knees, its half-frozen hands reaching out to continue rolling snowballs.

Frodo froze when he heard Legolas cry out.  His head came up automatically, dark curls tumbling into his eyes, then by force of will he averted his gaze and returned it to the small spherical forms before him before he had seen more than a slender figure collapsed in the snow and the hulking forms surrounding it.  Legolas had told him not to look.  Don’t look, don’t look.  A second, softer cry brought an answering wail to his own throat and tears dripped onto the snowballs, freezing almost instantly.  Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look…

  * * * * *.

Tears also ran down the faces of the three who lay flat in the snow, sheltering behind a pile of it pushed before them.  Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli had an unobstructed view.  “Now, Aragorn,” growled the Dwarf, tears freezing into runnels of ice from his eyes.   “Why do we wait?  They are torturing him!”

“I see that, Gimli,” answered the Ranger.  “How would our throwing ourselves on their arrows aid Legolas?  We must have a diversion.”  Despite his calm voice, tears also ran freely from his deep eyes and at another cry from the Elf, he stopped his ears for the briefest of moments.

“Only you are an archer, Aragorn, though I can handle a bow at need.  We could take two down before they are aware of us.”  Boromir stretched at his length in the snow, shield laid aside so that its rise did not betray them.

“And they will kill their captives.  No, we must have a diversion.”

“Hush!  What is Frodo doing?”  Boromir dug at their concealing mound, patting down one side so that he could better see.

If his heart held anything else than grief and terror for his friends, Aragorn would have laughed.  The hobbit had gleaned snow from around him and was packing a snowball, which he added to the small pyramid before him.  From the stiffness of the little one’s movements, the Ranger could tell he was hurt.

“Surely he is not going to throw snowballs at them?”  The disbelief in the Dwarf’s voice echoed in the two Men’s eyes. 

Yet it seemed the ridiculous hobbit was going to do exactly that.  Frodo rocked back on his knees then struggled to his feet.  The goblin standing over him tossed him a contemptuous glance and returned its attention to the entertainment.

“Even as close as he is, what damage can he do?” groaned Boromir.

The Ranger closed his eyes, then forced them open and wiped away the tears.  “Be ready,” he whispered to the other two.  “Frodo might give us the moment’s distraction we need.  Boromir, ready your bow.  We might be able to down three.  Gimli, can you take one down throwing an axe?”

“No,” the Dwarf grunted.  “Too far.”

The Ranger nodded.  “Boromir, take the one nearest Legolas.  I will take the two next to it.  Then we will rush them and be close enough for sword and axe-work before they have time to arm.”

“The one standing guard on Frodo will kill him as soon as we are discovered,” murmured Boromir.

“Cannot one of you shoot that one first?” asked the Dwarf.

“No,” answered Aragorn softly.  ‘He is on the far side of the clearing.  We do not have a clear shot through the others.  Frodo must take his chances, I fear.”  He nocked arrow to bow and beside him, Boromir did the same.  “Be ready,” he added.

There was another cry from the Elf, this one noticeably weaker.  The rescuers dashed tears from their eyes and forced them open.

Three sets of eyes watched in disbelief as the hobbit stooped and gathered snowballs into his small hands.  The guard looked down on him and barked a snarling laugh.  The rescuers tensed.  They exploded from behind the mound of snow at the exact moment that the hobbit whirled and threw a barrage of snowballs into his guard’s face with all of his strength.  Instead of swatting the hobbit, the guard screamed - a high shrill shriek, and staggered backwards.  Blood blossomed through the snow on its face.

All activity around the Elf halted as the band turned towards the shrieking goblin.  It threw itself on the ground and was clawing at its face.  Its own claws gouged its flesh as it rolled, convulsing in the snow. 

The rescuers did not pause to ponder this mystery as the two Men fired.   Aragorn’s shaft took his target between the eyes and the ugly creature fell and was still.  Boromir’s arrow struck slightly too low, lodging itself in the goblin’s thigh.  It twirled in the snow and collapsed, hugging its leg and howling.  Before the others had time to react, Aragorn’s second arrow took another through the throat.  Then there was no more time for arrows.  With great shouts, the three leaped towards the carnage, bows thrown into the snow as they raised their swords.  Gimli was slower than the Men, but his thrown axe passed by them and took one in the chest, smashing its ribs and tearing through the heart.  The goblin fell backwards into the snow, its hairy paws scrabbling at the air before falling limply atop it.

The last, where was the last?

“Stop!” cried a hoarse, distorted voice.  The word was shouted in Westron but it came from the single remaining creature.  The rescuers paused, gasping for breath.  The largest of the band, a hideous black goblin with clawed hands and feet, crouched in the snow and held a knife to Legolas’ throat.  The Elf’s eyes were closed and he seemed mercifully unconscious.  The slender form was entirely limp, blood dotting the fair features. 

“Stop,” repeated the vile creature, “or the Elf be dead now.”  The three rescuers slowed, swords lowering as they realized the goblin would not allow them closer.  Aragorn cursed softly as he realized his bow lay behind him. 

“Does he live?” the Ranger answered the foul creature.  “If he is already dead, then so are you.” 

In answer the goblin shook the slender form.  Legolas’ head rolled on his shoulders and he moaned faintly. 

“Put down your swords.  And the Dwarf his axes.  Now!”

Having no option, the three complied.  With a glower, Gimli put down his battle-axe and unlatched the small axes carried across his belt, laying them tenderly in the snow.

“And the knives!”

These, too, were laid besides their larger cousins.  Aragorn’s hands slid caressingly over his long knife, his eyes on the goblin.  Seeing the look, it bared Legolas’ throat and drew the knife close above the fair skin.  A thin bead of blood welled from the shallow cut and ran red down the unprotected neck.  The long knife was laid among the others.

“Move back.”

They did.  Aragorn tried to fall farther back, to be in reach of his bow.  But the goblin was too alert; with a cant of its head, it told him to abandon the bow and move too far to the side to hope to retrieve it.

The foul creature nodded, triumph flashing in the black pits of its eyes.  It dropped the Elf’s head and those watching winced as it thunked down on the frozen earth.  “I have a knife,” it reminded them, “good throwing knife.  You come forward and I’ll throw.  Your Elf dies, then.  You understand?”

“We understand,” answered Aragorn.  “We will not try to stop you.”  Beside him, Gimli rumbled but would not countermand his leader’s order.

The creature backed away from the unmoving figure, knife held between its clawed fingers, ready to throw.  When it had retreated out of their reach, it stopped and snarled, fangs glinting.  “I think your Elf be dead, anyway,” it sneered softly and drew back its arm.

The two snowballs that crashed into its face should not have caused it to drop the knife and fall screaming into the frozen drifts, but they did.  As it tried to rise, two more gashed open its throat and cut again into its blood-streaked visage.  The goblin raised both clawed hands to its face, lashing from side to side as it fought to master itself.

Aragorn did not give it time.  With a warrior’s quickness, the Ranger leapt forward into the snow and caught up his sword.  Boromir followed a heartbeat behind, and Gimli behind him.  The foul creature died before it could utter another shriek.

“Boromir, Gimli, see to Legolas.  I will get Frodo.”  Aragorn sheathed his sword then ran to the small figure that stood swaying by the corpse of his guard.  As he reached the hobbit, Frodo dropped the final two snowballs he held in his hands and they shattered upon the ground, revealing the razor-sharp arrow points inserted into the snow.

* * * * *

“Will he be all right?”  The hobbit leaned anxiously over the Elf,  eyes worried and intent. 

“If you will move aside so that I may attend his hurts, Frodo.”  The Ranger smiled to soften the rebuke of his words, and Frodo grimaced at him then scooted back.

“Gimli, is the water hot yet?”  The rescuers had withdrawn a little from the bloodied snow of the small battle and now their first priority was examining the two hurt ones.  Boromir and Gimli had been obliged to take from the supplies of the small band what they needed to succor the captives; the black pot now held heating melt water and their blankets had been reclaimed and were now being used as cushioning and for warmth.  The orc-kind’s bedrolls would have further cut the cold, but they stank and none of the Company would endure them.

Aragorn worked quickly while Legolas remained unaware, washing the bruises and cleaning and closing the many small cuts and wounds.  The orc-kind had intended that their plaything last and provide them many hours of amusement, so had not inflicted the harm they might have, had they less time.  The worst damage was still the arrow-wound.  Aragorn complimented Frodo’s stitching of the wound and smiled to see the little one practically glow with the praise.

Frodo remained quiet, too stiff to move about overmuch.  The Ranger had pressed along the hobbit’s ribs and pronounced them unbroken, though painfully bruised.  The two blows to the head concerned him more; the hobbit admitted that his head ached but made light of it, saying that the pain kept his head from swelling too much at their praise for his cleverness.  At Boromir’s insistence, Frodo showed him where the stupid goblin had dismembered his arrows to use the points for their play, then forgotten them in the snow when the quarreling started.  The soldier had laughed, and slapped the hobbit gently across the back, one warrior’s congratulations to another.  Turning to help Gimli with the fire, he had not seen how the hobbit had stood for a long time looking at the corpse of the one he had killed, his throw driving the arrow-points deep into its eyes to its brain.   Then he had covered his eyes with his small hands and wept for it.

* TBC *