Chapter Ten

"Aragorn! Look at this!" Legolas’ soft voice echoed in the tunnel and the entire rescue party halted and crowded around the elf. "Careful!" Legolas said, motioning them back. "Something has happened here. See, the ground has been wiped clean in this place. Let Aragorn look."

The Ranger knelt on the edge of the cleared space. The ubiquitous rock-dust was absent here and the stone underneath glinted in the faint light of Gandalf’s staff. "Well done, Legolas. I did not see this. Gandalf, more light please." All were silent as Gandalf dipped his staff forward, the light on the tip brightening. The wizard held it low, cautious of blinding eyes grown accustomed to darkness.

"There are many places where the dust has been disturbed," Gimli observed, staring into the periphery of the light. "And I see…" He left their circle and the others saw him stoop and pick up something from the rocky floor. Returning, he held out an item for the Ranger’s inspection. "Food. Dried strips of meat. And other rubbish lies cast about."

"Food?" asked Pippin hopefully.

"Not such food as you would want, laddie," the dwarf answered gruffly. He cast the scrap back into the darkness and scrubbed his hands on his mail coat. Pippin’s gaze followed it regretfully but Sam understood. He murmured softly into the tweenager’s ear and Pippin blenched, then looked sick.

"What can you tell us, Aragorn?" Gandalf asked quietly.

Aragorn rose from his crouch. "There is little enough to tell. They rested here, for a short time. I can make out part of a footprint—an unshod footprint. A bare heel and hobbit toes."

"He was able ‘ta walk, then," Sam breathed. "They can’t have hurt him too badly."

Aragorn frowned at the cleared space. "This area has been deliberately wiped clean, not just used for a few minutes’ rest. It is the only such space. Gandalf, please bring your light to the edge?" The wizard complied, taking care to keep well back.

"Writing," Legolas breathed. "In the Common Tongue."

"Goblins don’t write," Gimli said. "That is, most don’t. And those that do use the Black Speech."

"Something has been rubbed out," Aragorn agreed. "I cannot make it out … ‘fell’? ‘Bell’?"

"Rivendell," stated the wizard flatly. None questioned his surety. Now Aragorn drew back and Gandalf moved over the space. He closed his eyes and the hand not holding his staff opened and spread over the cleared space. They hardly dared breathe as the wizard stood so for some time, his face strained. At last he lowered his hand and breathed deeply, the lines on his face easing.

"Frodo wrote us a message," Gandalf said. "He was trying to warn us of an impending goblin attack on Rivendell. The goblins must have found the message and destroyed it."

"Did they hurt him?" Pippin asked fearfully.

"No," the wizard said kindly. "I suspect that they have been given orders not to harm their prisoner."

"Attack Rivendell…" Aragorn repeated, his face white.

Strangely, Gandalf smiled. "Do not fear for your home, Estel. I think that Merry has made sure that Elrond will send riders to this place. They will see the unblocked tunnel, and investigate. Rivendell will be forewarned." The wizard leaned on his staff, musing. "Was that the reason for Merry’s thieving of my fireworks? To alert Imladris? But how would that young hobbit have known of the planned attack?" Gandalf’s brows drew down as he stared into the darkness, his usually piercing gaze abstracted. "So the fireworks were set off as a warning? A warning to Elrond which coincidentally saved us from slaughter? Perhaps I shall have to reconsider my intention of frying our Meriadoc like a sausage."

"Merry saved us?" Pippin trilled. "And setting off the fireworks warned Rivendell?" He laughed and capered in a small circle, unable to be still. "That’s my Merry!"

"I think Gandalf might want to discuss with him the proper amount of powder for blowing things up," Aragorn said with a smile. "Or not," he added when the wizard glared at him. "That might not be wise information for someone like Merry to possess…" Then his mien turned serious and he left off his teasing. "There is nothing more to be learned here. We should continue on." With lighter hearts, the Company hurried through the darkness.

Some time later, the Ranger turned at the dwarf’s hail and stepped to the side, waiting for Gimli to pull even with him. Gimli had taken the rear-guard position, claiming his superior dark-sight vision would be of more advantage there. Aragorn privately thought that the dwarf had chosen to place himself in the position of greatest peril, for the goblins would most likely attack them from behind.

Sam and Pippin passed them, Sam looking up at him anxiously in the dim light of Gandalf’s staff. They had solved the problem of Pippin’s abundance of energy by having Samwise clamp the tweenager’s arm in his and lock-step him through the tunnel. Even the young hobbit’s chemically induced verve could not compensate for greater size and strength, and Sam hung on to Pippin like grim death.

"Do you think it not strange that we have seen no goblins but that motley band?" Gimli asked as he fell into step beside the Ranger. His great battle-axe bobbed easily on the amored shoulder and Aragorn prudently took a half step to the side to avoid the massive weapon. Legolas drifted closer to them, though Aragorn knew that elvish hearing would carry their words to him effortlessly.

"Those openings above the tunnel must interconnect," the dwarf murmured, his eyes never ceasing to roam the darkness beyond their little oasis of light. "How else would those foul creatures move about over us?" Gimli reached out to rap the wall with his knuckles. "This is good stone. Hard bones of the earth. It could support much delving … many openings and tunnels. So many goblins must have a living space, a lair, somewhere. Surely they would carry news of our invasion and seek reinforcements. Why have we not been attacked again?"

"Why indeed?" asked Gandalf, turning around to join them. Sam pulled Pippin after him and the tweenager stood, vibrating with energy, his eyes wide in the darkness.

"They are afraid of us," Pippin contributed rapidly. "I would be, if I weren’t us. Afraid, I mean. And—"

"I am certain that is part of it," Aragorn said diplomatically as Sam put his hand over Pippin’s mouth. "But Gimli is right. They do not seem overmuch concerned with our presence. What could be so occupying their attention that we are allowed to walk through their stronghold unmolested?"

"Mr. Frodo," said Sam quietly.

Aragorn nodded. "I fear so. I fear they have discovered he carries the Ring. That would take precedence over anything else. A small group of intruders would be of little import should such a treasure be uncovered."

"What would they do?" asked Sam in that same hushed voice.

Aragorn looked to Gandalf, and it was the wizard that answered. "They would take it from him, certainly. Frodo could not prevent that. If he tries…" Gandalf fell silent and his face tightened. "It would depend on how fiercely Frodo defended his ownership of the Ring. We know the Enemy desires not only his possession, but the one who has kept it from him all these years. Sauron wishes to savor the taste of revenge."

"Those Black Riders tried ‘ta take him at the Ford," Sam murmured, his eyes turning inward to again see that dreadful pursuit. "I heard them. They said, ‘To Mordor we will take you’."

"It is difficult to extract revenge on a dead Ring-bearer," Gandalf said. "I think they will try to keep him alive."

"He might not wish to be taken alive to Sauron," said Legolas, his soft, clear voice sorrowful. "I would not, in his place. Perhaps he will choose to fight so fiercely that the yrch would have no choice but to kill him."

Pippin made a queer sound, half a whimper and half a sob. Aragorn reached over to stroke the top of his head gently. "Do not despair yet," he told all of them. "We know too little. Frodo is intelligent and resourceful. There is very little I would put past that hobbit—or any hobbit." This last was directed to Sam and Pippin. Sam looked at him consideringly and nodded, while Pippin knuckled tears from his eyes, then stood very straight, his expression determined.

"What do we do?" asked Sam. Pippin said nothing but nodded his head so quickly that the others’ necks hurt.

"We can do nothing more than what we already are," Gandalf said. "We continue the hunt. We must find Frodo."

"And when we do?" growled Gimli. He shifted his great axe to his other shoulder and the light flashed on its razor edge. "We cannot count on another fortuitous intervention to save us from hundreds, perhaps thousands of goblins. They will overwhelm us like an avalanche. We will be buried beneath them."

"We, too, are resourceful," Aragorn reminded him. "And intelligent. And perhaps lucky. But for now, we must walk, and at a faster pace than before. Let us go on."

* * *

Boromir examined both sides of several of the tags on the various pouches and ointments of the medical kit, hoping to find Westron printed on the backs. But the backs were blank. Clearly, the kits were for use by Aragorn or Gandalf, who knew the elvish language. He excavated to the bottom of the kit, hoping to find a list hidden under its contents, like the guide which came packed in the boxes of chocolates he presented to various young ladies of his father’s Court. He did not find a guide, or any kind of instructions. Catching the man’s distress, Bill shook his head and nosed Boromir’s hands. The soldier patted the pony absently and Bill whickered.

Keeping his back to Merry to hide the trembling in his hands, Boromir called casually over his shoulder, "Merry? Do you read Elvish?"

"I know a few words," the hobbit replied after a long moment of silence. His voice was soft and strained, tight with suppressed pain. "If I hear them, that is. I don’t know written Elvish." He was silent for a moment, running his tongue across cracking lips. "Why?"

Boromir closed his eyes and lied for all he was worth. "I see several remedies for … infection here. I am trying to decide which would be best."

"Oh." Merry’s reply sounded almost disinterested. Boromir turned around and looked at him in alarm, noting his friend had fallen nearly asleep—or unconscious. Merry had curled himself into a ball and now lay on his side, hands tucked under his head, cloak pulled over himself like a blanket. The hobbit sighed deeply and as Boromir watched, Merry’s eyes drifted shut and his face relaxed into sleep. Instinctively Boromir felt that Merry should not sleep. He dropped the useless kit back into the pannier and knelt swiftly by the hobbit’s side, raising his shoulders and pulling him half-upright against his chest.

"Merry! Stay awake, Merry." This demand was enforced by a hard shake when the hobbit did not respond.

Merry pried his eyes open and looked up at the soldier resentfully. "I’m tired," he slurred. "I want a nap. Just a little one…"

"No! Merry, you must not sleep! Merry!" Boromir pulled the hobbit up further, so that Merry was forced to sit upright. He swayed and would have toppled over had not Boromir been holding him. "Wake up, Merry," Boromir begged, hearing the note of panic in his own voice.

Merry blinked at him then closed his eyes, sagging against the soldier’s chest. "Big Folk are so noisy," the hobbit complained indistinctly. "Always shouting and stomping about…"

"Merry! Wake up!" Boromir bellowed in his ear, unintentionally confirming the hobbit’s assertion. Merry winced at the volume but did not open his eyes, sliding bonelessly down further.

Boromir dabbed helplessly at the perspiration on the hobbit’s face, and the warm wetness on his fingers generated an idea. Still kneeling, he lifted the small body and repositioned Merry so that the hobbit lay flat. Merry scrunched up his nose then began to snore softly. Quickly, Boromir uncorked his water bottle and dumped its icy contents directly into the hobbit’s face.

"Gaaack!" Merry choked as the water rushed into his nose and mouth. His eyes snapped open and to Boromir’s joy, fastened on his in pure outrage. "Are you trying to drown me?" the hobbit sputtered, bolting upright. "What did you do that for? It’s running down my back!" The last was uttered in a wail as Merry twisted frantically, hunching his shoulders to escape the freezing deluge.

"I’m sorry," Boromir apologized, "but you must not sleep. You must not sleep, Merry."

Merry glared at him as he wiggled out of his jacket, his cloak already tossed aside. As Boromir watched anxiously, the waistcoat followed the jacket and Merry was jerking his sodden shirt out of his breeches. "I’m soaked!" the hobbit accused him as he flapped water off his shirttails. "Why did you do that?"

"I had to," Boromir defended himself. "You were falling asleep and wouldn’t wake up."

"I wouldn’t wake up?" Merry’s eyes narrowed and Boromir’s heart sank. The hobbit stopped flapping and both his small hands moved to his throat. "Ow," he said absently. Then Merry was drawing his sword, and as Boromir watched curiously, the hobbit held the sword up and was angling it before his eyes, squinting as he stared into the shining metal. He adjusted it for some moments then very softly, said "Oh."

He is using the blade as a mirror, Boromir realized. Merry’s face had gone white as he examined the rampant inflammation of poison marring the skin of his throat. Carefully, he settled down on the cold earth, his knees drawn up before him as he continued to look into the reflection of the blade. Boromir could see that the red rash had grown, spreading farther to the sides. It had also deepened in color, now a more burnt-red than blood-red. Merry stared into the improvised mirror for some time. When he looked up at Boromir, his eyes were sick. Holding the sword carefully away from his body, he sagged back against the ground.

"’Infection’," the hobbit murmured. "That’s why you wanted the medical kit. It’s bad, isn’t it?"

"I don’t know," Boromir said helplessly, coming to kneel across from the hobbit and lay a hand on his shoulder. "I am not a healer, Merry, and know nothing of healer-craft beyond the treatment of battlefield injuries. How do you feel?"

Merry’s fingers lightly traced the river of redness and he swallowed painfully. "It burns," he whispered, "and I feel very sleepy."

"We must find Aragorn and Gandalf," Boromir told him. "They will know what to do. We can’t be that far behind them, Merry; we might even be ahead of them."

Merry’s hand trembled as he guided his sword back in its sheath, and Boromir caught his hand and steadied it. "Thank you," Merry said politely, then yawned. "I’m sorry, Boromir, but I’m just so sleepy. I’ll be fine after a brief rest, if I could just … have a nap."

"No naps," Boromir replied firmly. "I do not think you should sleep, Merry. It might be dangerous."

"You don’t know that," the hobbit argued with drooping eyes. "It might be … just what I need." He lay down again and yawned hugely.

"Merry," Boromir said in a firm voice, "Sit up this minute. We are leaving now. I will carry you, if I must." He reached out and gathered the hobbit up, ready to make good on his threat.

"You are being very unfair," the hobbit mumbled, leaning his still-dripping head against Boromir’s chest. "I just want … a little rest. Bill’s tired, too. He needs … a chance to graze. And a good rub-down … and some oats…"

"Are you hungry, Merry?" Boromir asked, seizing upon the remark about food and his growing knowledge of ever-hungry halfling appetites. "Pippin said not to eat all our supplies, but we could eat some of them! Have a good dinner, yes? Would you like a good dinner, Merry?" Boromir stopped, aware he was beginning to babble. "Merry! Wake up! Talk to me!"

"Not hungry…" the hobbit managed. "Not…"

Boromir felt a shudder pass through the hobbit’s body. Merry gasped, then cried out loudly, his face contorting into a rictus of pain. "Merry! Merry!" the man shouted. But the hobbit was limp in his grasp, and the hand held tight in Boromir’s loosened and fell free.

* TBC *