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Caught Between the Light and Dark  by Budgielover

Chapter Eleven

"I am glad I am not tall," Pippin was whispering earnestly, "if it makes Big People so slow. And they make so much noise when they walk! Aren’t you glad you are not a Big Person, Sam?" The young hobbit had talked—or actually, whispered—constantly since they had left the place where they had found the rubbed out remains of Frodo’s message. "Sam, would you please let go of my arm?" Pippin continued with a pout. "I want to go and talk to Gandalf."

"I think you’ve talked to Mr. Gandalf quite enough, sir," Sam replied grimly with a wary glance at the wizard’s back. "He was muttering to himself about ‘frogs’ again. Mr. Frodo wouldn’t never forgive me if I let you get turned into anything unnatural."

"Oh, Gandalf wouldn’t really," Pippin assured Sam blithely. "He always says that. He’s said that ever since I can remember. One time I—"

"Let us not put him to the test," Aragorn interceded gently, rescuing Pippin from Sam’s relentless grip with a hand on the tweenager’s shoulder. Sam surrendered custody gladly, dropping back a few steps to walk beside Legolas and shake some feeling back into his arm.

"Is your vision still blurry, Pippin?" the Ranger asked, maintaining his hold. The rescue party had soon discovered that one of them needed to physically anchor the young hobbit at all times, or Pippin tended to outdistance them. Aragorn was becoming concerned about the tweenager’s constant, overwhelming energy—the drug should have started to wear off by now. Yet Pippin was showing no inclination to slow down.

The youngster grinned up at him in the dim light of the staff that drifted over the wizard’s shoulder. "No, Strider. My headache is gone and I can see much better now, thank you. Watch this!" With alarming swiftness, Pippin slipped out from under Aragorn’s hand and picked up three small stones from amongst the ever-present rubble they traversed. Hands already in motion, he managed to juggle them in a high arc before one flew out of his over-enthusiastic toss and slammed into the top of Gimli’s helmet.

The dwarf staggered sideways and whirled around in a circle, glaring fiercely into the darkness, axe raised and at the ready. Bringing up the rear and not blessed with elven or hobbit hearing, he had missed the exchange at the head of the line. It was an entirely reasonable assumption that they were under attack.

"Oh! I am sorry, Gimli!" Pippin apologized, spinning and rushing around Sam and Legolas up to stare anxiously up into his victim’s face. "Are you hurt? I am so sorry!"

The dwarf growled something to himself and lowered his axe, blowing out a great breath that lifted the ends of his mustaches. "No, young hobbit, I am not hurt. I wish you would warn us if you intend to pelt us with rocks, however."

"No more juggling," Aragorn said firmly. With a martyred sigh, Pippin pocketed the remaining stones.

"Well, I didn’t mean to," the tweenager whispered peevishly as they resumed their march. "Nobody probably heard the noise, anyway. And it isn’t like we are walking very quietly, you know. You Big Folk sound like a herd of oliphaunts, tromping—"

"Mr. Pippin," Sam whispered when Pippin paused for a rare breath. "You got to be quiet. Please." Visibly steeling himself, he abandoned the sympathetic elf to recapture a flailing arm.

"I am being quiet," Pippin hissed back in injured tones. "Nobody is being more quiet than I am. Tooks are known for it. Being quiet, that is. Everyone says so. Well, maybe not Merry. Or Frodo. Or my mother. She says she hasn’t had a moment’s peace since I was born. I don’t know why she says that. Or my da—"

"Mr. Gandalf, sir!" Sam pleaded, desperate enough to risk frogdom and his master’s wrath.

"Pippin," Legolas intervened gently, "perhaps you should—"

The elf’s suggestion was cut off by a long wailing cry, a deep, guttural howl that rose in volume until it seemed the very air of the tunnel throbbed with it. The close walls of the underground passage magnified the sound, throwing it back upon itself, growing even louder. Legolas clapped his hands over his ears, an expression of pain on his face. Sam released Pippin to follow suit, and Pippin did also, dropping to his knees with a cry. Gimli grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes, his hands tight on his weapon. Only Aragorn and Gandalf did not react, other than to look at each other in horror.

"What was that?" Sam asked, scrubbing at his ears as the cry died away. "Was that a wolf? I’ve never heard a howl like that."

"It was a warg," Aragorn murmured, his face drawn in the faint light of the wizard’s staff. "A warg. What would such an evil thing be doing here? They do not belong in this part of the world."

"Their masters command them," Gandalf replied grimly. "Such ferocious beasts are valuable servants to the Enemy’s minions."

"For use in the attack upon Imladris?" Legolas asked, gazing keenly into the darkness as if he wished elven sight could pierce stone.

"There would be more howls than just the one, were that so," Gandalf replied. "They are pack animals and hunt and kill together. No … no, what we just heard was a hunting cry. That warg is hunting something."

"In a tunnel? What would a warg be hunting in a tunnel … oh," Pippin ended softly.

"Us," Gimli supplied. "They are trackers, after all." The dwarf stepped away from the others and swung his great axe in an experimental arc. The breeze from its passing stirred the rank air. "There is not much room for axe-work in this place."

"And not much space to fire an arrow," Legolas said. "For all their size, wargs are very fast and the heavy muscles of its forequarters guard the heart. Only an arrow in the eye or through the throat will bring it down." The elf paused, calculating. "I will have time for only one or two draws. Then it must be blade-work."

"Can you guess how far away it was?" Aragorn asked the owner of the Company’s most accurate pair of ears.

Legolas listened for a moment then shook his head. "No. Sound is distorted in this place. Yet I do not think it is very far. Close enough that a rush could put it in our midst without warning." The elf ran his slender hands down the length of his bowstring, then reached over his shoulder to position the hilt of his sword.

"We should meet it where there is more room to fight," Aragorn said. "We are limited by this close place, and these broken stones are not much cover. Let us find a better battleground."

"It will not be alone," Gandalf growled, his hand on his own elvish blade. "I think they will set it upon us and seek to destroy us while we are distracted by the larger threat. Perhaps they hope that it will kill or injure enough of us to make their job easier. We can expect a great many goblins to follow upon its heels."

"Sirs…" Sam murmured softly. Pippin saw that his friend had drawn Frodo’s Sting, and the graceful blade was brightening. Sam held it up and blue fire crawled along its length, flickering, tiny tongues of flame reaching out to caress Sam’s fingers. As the Company watched, that fire brightened until the blade was glowing.

With a musical chime, Gandalf drew his own elvish sword. Glamdring repeated Sting’s fire, many times greater and many times deadlier. "Prepare yourselves," the wizard murmured. "We—"

Another howl rose and drowned out the wizard’s words, closer now and more excited. It was followed by a series of wild barks, hoarse and deep. The beast sounded as if it had caught their scent, and eagerness and viciousness drove it on as well as the whips of its handlers.

* * *

Frodo heaved himself up another few inches, feeling the burn of overstrained muscles in his arms and chest and back. His body ached and yet felt numb at the same time. He could no longer feel the tips of his fingers, but warm rivulets of liquid ran down the back of his hands and into his palms and made his grip uncertain. Wedging his feet into a little shelf of rock, he locked his hands on a ledge and leaned against the piled stones, struggling to catch his breath.

The howl made that breath catch in his throat and he choked upon it. Panic rose in him, the terror of being pursued, the primal reaction of prey that knows the hunter is on its trail. His hands weakened and he slid down several feet, the rocks bruising him, finally stopping as his feet impacted a rocky lip that sent a stab of compression up his spine. Shuddering, he leaned forward and pressed his face against the rock, too frightened and weary to move.

He had been so close to the opening! The darkness still deceived him but he was very far above the uneven floor of the tunnel. The urge to put the Ring back on and look down battered at him, but he fought it. He wished heartily that he could see in the dark without the Ring’s traitorous aid. He could not guess how far away the howl had been, but it did not seem far. The animal’s nose would not be deceived by the Ring. Could such beasts climb?

Goblins certainly could. The warg had only to locate him, and its handlers would scale the rock after him. Or perhaps the Ringwraith had grown impatient with its slaves, and would ascend the rocks after him itself. He shuddered, and wondered if a fall from this height would kill him or merely cripple him. He would fling himself onto the rocks before he allowed that wicked thing to touch him.

In the silence marred only by his own panting and the pounding of his heart, a thin, shrill cry came to his ears. Like the last ray of sunlight in a darkening world, all of Frodo’s attention was abruptly focalized on that sound. Merry? Frodo would have known that voice anywhere, in any circumstances. That cry had come from his young cousin, he was certain of it. His cousin was close. And something was dreadfully wrong.

Merry needed him. Frodo tilted his head back on his neck and stared into the red-tinged slash of light above him. Merry needed him. New strength poured into exhausted limbs. The sun must be near setting for the light to be colored so. The brilliance brought tears of agony to his eyes after so long in the dark, but the light was his only point of reference in this black world. Heedless of the damage to his hands, Frodo grasped a rock and pulled himself up.

"Merry! Merry-lad! I’m coming!" The need for silence no longer important to him, Frodo dragged himself up and fell sprawling when he could climb no higher. He was at the top, a loose platform of flattened boulders heaped haphazardly against the wall. The opening blazed above him, larger now that he was close, a cut opening in the earth too regular to be natural. Bracing himself with an arm against the tunnel wall, Frodo reached upwards with the other, struggling to brush the ceiling with his fingers. Rock shifted under him as he strained upwards on his toes. The opening was out of his reach. He sagged against the wall and groaned.

"Frodo? Frodo?" The silhouette of a head appeared at the opening, casting him again into darkness as it cut off the light. Frodo shrank back, his hand on the hilt of the goblin’s dagger. "Frodo?" repeated the voice, "Is that you?"

"Boromir?" Frodo cried, his voice cracking with relief. Now he could see the flyaway strands of the Man’s hair, and recognize the curve of the great shield the soldier wore at his back. "Boromir! Yes, it’s me! What is wrong with Merry?"

"Frodo!" The disbelief in the soldier’s voice was understandable, but Frodo had no time for it. The light diminished again as Boromir leaned farther over the opening, supporting himself with one hand propped on the ground. With the failing light behind him, he could just see the pale oval of the hobbit’s face and two disembodied hands, oddly dark at the fingertips. "Are you all right? Where are the others?"

"I am alone. Can you help me out?"

Boromir lay down flat and reached an arm in. Frodo could see the waving appendage by the light filtering in between Boromir’s head and shoulder. He essayed a little jump but fell short and landed flat-footed, dislodging small stones that rattled down the piled rocks and bounced off larger ones, creating a small landslide of rock and dirt. It cascaded to the bottom, raising puffs of dust that settled slowly in the still air.

"No, don’t jump!" Boromir called to him, "You might fall!"

"Get me out," Frodo begged. "Merry needs me."

At a loss, Boromir sat up and rocked back on his knees. He looked helplessly at Merry, and was heartened to see the young hobbit’s eyes open and watching him. Merry had one hand at his throat, rubbing the source of the inflammation. He tried to speak, then coughed and shook his head. Pulling at his cloak, Merry grimaced at his friend and pointed to the vent. Boromir nodded to show he understood and laid himself flat to better communicate with Frodo.

"Frodo, use my cloak as a rope. Here it is… Catch hold and I’ll pull you up!" Frodo felt the material brush against his face and he caught it, but his damaged hands could not close on it. The cloth slipped through his fingers when he tried to clasp it. Desperate, he wound it around his forearm and tucked it against his body.

"I have it! Pull me up!" Pain ripped through him as the man lifted. Then he was falling, the cloak pulling free; he was not able to hold it. He no longer had the strength. He fell heavily on the rock and only saved himself from sliding off by an agile roll against the wall.

"I … I can’t," he groaned. "Boromir, I can’t. My hands are all bloody from climbing." Frodo rolled over and placed his back against the rock wall. "Please … let me rest for a moment. Tell me what is the matter with Merry. Why doesn’t he speak to me?"

Boromir glanced behind him at his friend. Merry had closed his eyes but opened them again at the sound of his name. "He is ill," Boromir said softly. "The others went after you, Frodo, but Merry and I had stayed on the cliff to await your return. A goblin scout caught us unawares. Caught me unawares," he added bitterly. "It scratched Merry … and it had poison on its claws."

"How bad—" Frodo began, but his words were interrupted. The hobbit fell silent, for the howl was very close. Then Frodo heard a scrabbling sound, as of claws on a stone floor, and heavy breaths came to his ears. Looking down, he could barely make out an enormous black shape moving below him, at the base of the rocks. The warg lifted its head and snarled, and the last sunbeam of the setting sun shone into the opening and dyed its fangs red.

* TBC *





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