Chapter Twelve

"Frodo…" said Boromir softly. "We must get you up here. You must hurry. Too many times have I heard that howl from the walls of Minas Tirith. That was a—"

"Warg," the Ring-bearer whispered. "I know, Boromir. It is right below me."

He heard no reply and ventured to tear his eyes away from the vent and look below him. The warg was sniffing around the body of the goblin he had seen killed, licking at the cooling blood. As Frodo watched, the beast fastened on a limp arm and pulled, and the flesh departed the bone with a sickening "rriiiippp." It began to eat, whimpering in its eagerness.

"Stupid beast!" The crack of a whip sent the animal snarling back to cringe against a rock. A goblin emerged from the cavern-end of the tunnel, already drawing the whip back for another strike. "Eating, not hunting! Find the halfling, stupid beast!"

More goblins came behind the first, many of them. Frodo pressed himself against the rock, making himself as flat as he could, and peered over the edge. The setting sun washed everything in red, which horrible as it was, was somehow easier on his eyes than the white brilliance of the earlier light. By its bleeding illumination he saw the first goblin, the one with the whip, advance upon the cowering beast and shake out the length of braided leather, preparing to strike it again. Frodo saw that the animal’s sides were striped with red lashes, and foam dripped from its muzzle. It whined and crouched to the stone floor, ears laid back, fear momentarily overcoming its hunger.

"Why did it stop?" That voice froze the hobbit’s blood in his veins and made him clench his teeth as pain rocketed through his shoulder. The Ringwraith stalked into his view, its tattered robes heavy with blood. It moved somewhat slowly, and Frodo wondered if it had been injured when it was crushed, or if such a creature could be injured. He hoped so. He devoutly hoped so.

The foremost goblin bowed, trying to stay as far away from the Wraith as it could. "It feeds, my lord. You did not allow it to eat on your journey here, lord. It is starving."

"Stop it," the Wraith hissed. "It may feast on elf-flesh when the attack on Imladris is done. Set it back on the halfling’s trail."

The goblin advanced on the cowering beast and shoved something in its face. His heart lurching, Frodo recognized the ropes that had been used to bind him. The warg tried to move its head aside and sneak around the goblin for another mouthful of meat, and the handler slapped the ropes painfully across its muzzle. It snarled but subsided, sniffing at the ropes again.

Whining pitifully, it backed away from the goblin and set its nose to the rock floor. I knelt there, Frodo thought, when I took the dead goblin’s knife. It smells me.

The warg sniffed deeply, then snorted, circling around the corpse. "Make it hunt!" ordered the Wraith. "Find me the halfling!"

The goblin used Frodo’s ropes to whip the beast, lashing the strands against its already-bleeding sides. The animal jumped and snarled, showing patches of darkness in its mouth that were shreds of meat caught between its teeth. When the goblin raised its whip, the animal cowered and whined, but did not move out.

"It smells something, lord," the handler guessed, looking about them. Frodo held his breath, Don’t look up, don’t look up … he thought at it passionately. Above him, Boromir and Merry were utterly silent.

The goblin handler kicked disdainfully at the cooling body of its comrade, and as it did so, something flipped away from the scattered debris around the corpse and rolled away. The warg leaped for it but a snap of the whip sent it cowering to the floor. The object rolled to the feet of the Ringwraith, who stooped and picked it up.

My water bottle, thought Frodo. Oh no. No.  

It looked absurdly small in those scaled gloves as the Wraith turned it over in its mailed hands. Then the Nazgûl clamped both hands on it and bowed its head. Agony tore through Frodo and despite his resolution not to betray himself, his left arm jerked, convulsing, knocking against a small stone. It broke loose and tumbled down the rocks.

The Wraith lifted its hooded head and slowly pivoted to face the piled rocks. The goblins drew out of its path as it advanced to the base and slowly the black hood raised. Frodo shrank against the wall, but he could retreat no farther. Suddenly he was assailed by an overwhelming desire to put on the Ring. His hand had already grasped it when he became aware of what he was doing. "No," whispered the hobbit, forcing his fingers to drop the cold golden band. "I won’t. I won’t do it. You cannot make me."

The Wraith stood at the base of the rocks, motionless, and the black hood stared upwards. Even looking down with the light above him, Frodo could see no trace of human features in that black pit of a face. Slowly the Wraith lifted an arm and pointed wordlessly. Shrill hoots of excitement rose from the watching goblins as they milled around the base of the rocks, then they leaped upon the stone and began scaling the pile. They pushed at each other in their eagerness, pulling each other down, knives and cudgels already in their clawed hands.

"Boromir!" cried Frodo wildly, "get me out of here! They’re coming! Get me out!"

"Frodo," said the soldier quietly, "move aside. I am going to drop through the opening. I’ll lift you up to the surface. Then I want you and Merry to take the pony and leave this place as quickly as you can."

Frodo gaped up at him. "You won’t be able to get out," he said softly. Then louder, "No! There must be another way!"

"Move aside!" Boromir twisted around on the ground and dropped his knees into the opening. He could not see if the hobbit had moved, but there was no more time. He would have to almost throw Frodo through the opening, then delay pursuit as long as he could. "Goodbye, Merry," he whispered. "Tell Pippin to behave himself, will you? And if you ever come to Gondor, tell my father … tell my father…" Boromir shook his head. "Give him this." Boromir removed the fabled Horn of Gondor and laid it carefully on the grass beside the hobbit.

"Shield," croaked Merry, struggling to push himself up on his side. His arms gave out and Merry collapsed, but his gaze remained fixed on the soldier. "Shield," the hobbit repeated hoarsely. "Tie your cloak … lift him…"

In a flash, Boromir understood. He was so accustomed to carrying his great battle-shield that he did not notice it. He had removed it before shedding his cloak, the action so automatic that his mind had not registered it. Merry waved a hand at it feebly. "Cloak," he insisted.

Boromir shifted to his knees and pulled the shield before him, threading his cloak through the leather hand-grip on the inside surface. Pulling the knot tight, he leaned over the vent again. "Frodo, I am lowering my shield. I want you to get on it. Lock your arms around my cloak. You won’t have to hold on with your hands. I’ll pull you up."

"I understand." Frodo spoke without looking up at him, and Boromir saw the hobbit lay on his belly at the edge of the topmost boulder. Frodo pushed himself up and made a casting motion and the nearest goblin shrieked and clapped it hands to its head, losing its grip and sliding down the rocks to lie sprawled at the pile’s base. Familiar with the ability of hobbits to throw stones, Boromir almost laughed. Instead, he angled his great shield sideways and slid it through the air vent.

Frodo caught the edge of the shield as it descended and steadied it. It tipped as he tried to slide onto it and he only caught himself by wrapping an arm around the cloth. Long-forgotten memories of building a rope-and-plank swing for Pippin, many years ago, skimmed across his mind and he felt his heart lift. He looped his arms around the shield and hooked a leg around the cloak, maneuvering the cloak into the crooks of his arms. Inching closer the center, he found his balance and looked up into the shadowed face above him.

"I’m on!" he called. "Pull me up!" His words were nearly drowned out as the warg howled again, excited by all the activity around it. It reared up on its hind legs and clawed at the rocks, dislodging several stones, weakening that side of the pile. The goblins above it snatched for a firmer hold but the shifting of the stones caused one to slide down. It landed within the warg’s reach and was instantly savaged. It screamed horribly as it was torn to pieces.

"What—" Boromir began, his view blocked by the shield, then fell silent. "Frodo," he muttered, "Hold on." Boromir strained, the muscles under his surcoat bulging with the effort. Incredibly, the shield began to rise, swinging slightly side to side. Shouts rose below Frodo, and a knife flashed by his head to fall harmlessly to the side. Frodo hung on grimly. When the shield rose to the opening, Boromir hissed, "I will have to turn it sideways to slide you out. Can you hold?"

"I will," Frodo panted.

Again Boromir strained, tipping the shield and its passenger to slide through the vent. Frodo marveled at the man’s strength. The rock pressed into his back as he was pulled through and had he not been protected by his pack, the skin would have been torn from his body. He locked his arms around Boromir’s cloak and hung on for dear life.

"Ahhhh!" Boromir groaned as the hobbit was jerked free. Frodo’s strength gave out and he slid off the shield, rolling on his hands and knees onto the grass. He slid to a stop on his back, and gazed straight up in joy. Never had an approaching sunset looked more beautiful. The clouds were banded with color, golds and purples and blues, and even the winter grass beneath him smelled sweet. Boromir collapsed beside him, arms outstretched, breathing heavily. Before Boromir could regain his feet, the hobbit was already crawling to where Merry lay. Frodo cupped the beloved face in his hands.

"Hullo, Cousin," Merry said weakly, a smile on his face that was a ghost of his usual cheeky grin.

"What’s wrong, Merry dear?"

"Poison," Boromir said softly, crawling across from them. "A goblin scout attacked us as we rested, just after you were taken and the others followed. It scratched him. I was on guard … and I slept."

Frodo had no time for the man’s self-recrimination. Merry’s skin was very hot and rimmed with perspiration. He blinked at his cousin vaguely and did not respond to Frodo’s question.

Below them was bedlam. The most agile of the climbers had reached the small platform, struggling with each other and the uncertain footing to stand. "We must get away!" Boromir gasped. "Perhaps we can outrun them…"

"There are hundreds down there," Frodo murmured softly, his attention wholly on Merry’s face. "They will find another exit—the tunnel opens into a cavern, not so far away. Or they will find a way out of this opening. The sun is setting … daylight will not save us." Frodo passed a hand over his eyes, feeling tears prickle at his eyes. "So my quest fails before it actually began," he murmured. "It has all been for nothing."

A hand tugged at his jacket. "Frodo," Merry murmured, "I’m thirsty."

"Merry-lad… Give him some water, please, Boromir. I haven’t any." Boromir sat down and pulled the young hobbit against his chest, cradling him. Merry’s head sagged and Boromir lifted it, pulling off the hobbit’s water bottle.

Merry coughed as the water slid down his throat. Lifting his head, he thanked Boromir with a look. Then his dull gaze shifted to his cousin. "Frodo," he whispered. "I’m sick."

"I know, lad. We’ll have you fixed up in just a minute. You are going to be fine." Boromir looked at him blankly over Merry’s head, then carefully he slid his arms under Merry’s body and lifted him into the circle of his cousin’s arms. Frodo hugged him tight. Boromir rose to his feet and picked up the Horn, retying it to his belt. Then he undid his knotted cloak and let it drop, picked up his battle-shield, drew his sword and stood waiting.

"My throat hurts," Merry whispered, turning his face into Frodo’s chest. "And it is … hard to breathe."

"Shuush," Frodo begged him. "Don’t talk, dear heart. Let us help you. Boromir, would you—"

"They will be here in moments, Frodo." Nevertheless, he sheathed his sword to hand Frodo the medicinal kit. Frodo tore into it, his hands trembling and scarcely able to hold the little pouches and vials. His fingers had largely stopped bleeding but still small smears obscured the writing on the tags. Frodo held up each to the dying light and Boromir remembered what he had heard at some time—the Ring-bearer could read Elvish.

"No," Frodo muttered. "No … no … this … no!" In frustration he upended the box, scattering its contents on the ground where he could handle them more easily. "This one! Help me, Boromir!" Frodo held up a single corked vial. While Boromir tilted Merry’s head back and held his jaw open, Frodo poured it in.

The young hobbit struggled feebly but Frodo and Boromir kept him pinned. "Drink it, Merry-lad," Frodo urged. "It will make you better."

"Nasty," Merry complained indistinctly. "I’m sorry I … teased you about taking … Lord Elrond’s tonics, Frodo." Grimacing distastefully, Merry tucked his head under Frodo’s chin, curled up against him, and slept.

Frodo kissed his forehead tenderly then lowered his sleeping cousin’s head to rest on his knees. He eased off his pack and lifted Merry’s head, pillowing the matted curls on the pack gently. Struggling to his feet, Frodo stood uncertainly, the ground seeming to tip and throw him off balance in his weariness. He picked up Boromir’s discarded cloak and covered Merry with it, then stumbled to the soldier’s side. "I know we should try to escape," he whispered to the man, "but I can’t go any further."

"It does not matter, Frodo. What little lead we could gain on them would make no difference," Boromir told him resignedly, his gaze on the vent. Shouts and snarls sounded below them, closer and more eager. "Gandalf and the others cannot be far behind. Perhaps they will be in time to avenge us. They set after you almost immediately after you were taken at the tunnel mouth. I think I can guess what happened, but could you tell me?"

Frodo nodded and pulled his cloak more tightly about him. Leaning down, he brushed the hair out of Merry’s eyes, checking his face carefully. Satisfied, he straightened and rubbed a hand across his face wearily. "It happened so quickly. I was looking up at you all—"

A roar sounded below him, the shouting of many voices raised. Neither hobbit nor human could make out the words, but the very sound was ugly. And triumphant.

"They have found a way up," Boromir said quietly. Suddenly he turned and slapped the quietly dozing pony across the hindquarters. Bill neighed in shock and bolted, running to the cover of a small mound of boulders not far away. There the pony stopped and turned around, staring at them with eyes white-rimmed in surprise at this unexpected treatment. Boromir smiled. "He’ll run when the fighting starts. No need for the goblins to enjoy horse-meat and our supplies, too."

Frodo nodded. "Good luck, Bill," he wished the pony.

"That opening is too small for many of them to attack at once," Boromir muttered, striding around the vent. "I would say that no more than two could emerge together. I will take as many as I can. When they get past me, it will be up to you."

"I will defend us for as long as I can," Frodo said tiredly. "If it is within my power, they will take neither of us alive."

"I think that is wise," Boromir agreed softly. Then he raised his war-horn to his lips and blew a great blast. A grey-tinged head emerged from the vent, followed by a second. In the blink of an eye, the goblins were out and more pushed behind them. The soldier shot the hobbit a twisted smile over his shoulder. "Goodbye, my friend. May we meet again in a better place." Then with a roar that momentarily stunned the goblins, Boromir raised his sword and leapt towards them.

* TBC *