Chapter Thirteen

As the Company neared the screams and hoots ahead of them, Legolas passed the hobbits on silent feet and laid his hand on Gandalf’s arm. The wizard stopped at once and the light of his staff dimmed even further. “What is happening?” he whispered.

“There is too much confusion to make out words,” Legolas murmured in reply. “But I believe the warg has run its prey to ground.” A heartbeat later, a howl echoed through the tunnel, the excitement in it evident to all.

“Not us,” Gimli grunted. “What then?”

“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, at the same moment Pippin said, “Frodo!”

Gandalf nodded. “Most probably.” The wizard smiled faintly through his eyes were strained. “If there is any commotion about, that hobbit seems to be at the centre of it. Shall we, my friends?”

“Gandalf and I will go first,” Aragorn instructed. “Legolas, you next. Take the warg down, if you can. Sam, you and Pippin are to stay between Legolas and Gimli. We will rush them, and hope that surprise will carry us through to Frodo. Guard each other’s backs.”

Despite their intention to rush the goblin horde, the Fellowship stopped dead at the sight before them. Forgotten in the chaos, lanterns lay abandoned on the rocky floor, their contents spilling out in an oily tide. Ahead of them, before the passage faded into darkness, they were able to see a great pile of broken stone rearing from the tunnel floor to almost the ceiling of the tunnel. A red-washed opening could be glimpsed above the top of the piled rock, and the Fellowship realized the day was dying. It was the first sunlight they had seen since early morning. Around the stony pile swarmed more goblin-folk than they could count, scuttling like insects along the base of the great stack of stone. Some were climbing on the pile, some were dancing about in excitement, some were trying to control a huge warg that scrabbled at its base, tearing away loose rocks and small boulders with its claws. None of them noticed the small group of quiet interlopers standing in the darkness, gaping at them in astonishment.

“So many…” Sam murmured, “There’s so many of them…”

“Quiet!” Gandalf ordered brusquely, and behind him, the Fellowship fell silent, Pippin’s latest question cut off with a little half-heard “eep!” Aragorn crept past the wizard on soundless feet and only the faint shifting of air in the close walls of the tunnel informed them that Legolas followed.

“What do you see?” asked Gandalf softly.

“Ahead of us the tunnel widens,” Legolas whispered. It seemed his eyes almost glowed as he glanced over his shoulder at them. “There are a great many yrch grouped around the pile of broken stone, climbing it. They seem … gleeful. The warg is throwing itself against the rocks, but I cannot see what excites it so. There is something else—” The elf fell silent. Then, “Ah, Elbereth,” he moaned faintly.

“What? What is it?” Gandalf thrust himself forward, the last flicker of light from his staff dimming entirely as he took in the guttering lamps dropped by the goblins.

Almost as if it hurt him to answer, Legolas whispered, “Nazgûl.”

“May the Valar preserve us,” murmured Gandalf, and heard his prayer echoed in elvish from two soft voices. Pippin pressed back against Sam, and Gimli lowered his axe for a moment to lay a hand on the tweenager’s small shoulder, finding that Pippin was trembling.

“Easy there, lads,” rumbled the dwarf.

“Do you see Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam, mastering his fear enough to ask.

Legolas shook his head. “No. Those creatures seek something, though. Some are near to the top. I think—”

All eyes were drawn upwards as the goblin nearest the top suddenly cried out, clapping a hand to its head. It wavered for a heartbeat, arms waving, and fell backwards off the stone pile. Then a small figure atop the stones was leaping to its feet and climbing aboard something that descended down to it from the opening above. There was a moment of blurred movement then the round platform was ascending out of the goblins’ reach, and their cries and curses were horrible to hear as they leaped fruitlessly after it.

“Oh, well done, Frodo!” Gandalf laughed.

“What was that?” asked Pippin, lacking elven, dwarven, or wizardly sight.

“Boromir has used his shield to pull Frodo out of the tunnel,” Legolas explained, his eyes shining in the darkness.

“He’s safe with Mr. Merry and Mr. Boromir, then?” asked Sam.

“For a few moments only,” Gimli growled. “These foul folk will be up after him as soon as they can find a way.”

Then one of the shadows at the base of the rocks moved. It seemed to straighten, growing impossibly taller as it came to the bottommost stones. The goblins cringed away from it and the warg also backed away, twisting its head and jerking at the reins that restrained it. The goblin holding it tightened its grip and the beast trembled, crouching on its belly and whining as the tall form passed it. “Go after it,” the Nazgûl hissed at its minions, its unseen eyes piercing the darkness as it stared upwards to the opening in the earth. “Bring me the halfling!”

The goblins resumed their efforts, snarling at each other, but none could leap high enough to follow the escaped Ring-bearer. “Stupid creatures,” the black form snarled. “Climb on each others’ shoulders! Lift each other up!”

Working together had apparently not occurred to the creatures, but they obeyed the Wraith’s instructions readily enough. Several had now reached the pinnacle and were pushing each other, fighting for room on the unsteady surface. The largest ones scrambled to their hands and knees, bracing themselves against the shifting stones as others mounted their shoulders, steadying themselves on the lower ones’ backs. A third tier rushed to climb the others.

“They are building a pyramid,” groaned Aragorn. “They will be after Frodo in moments.” And it was so. The pyramid of bodies rose until a goblin was able to kneel on the backs of the two below it and brace its hand against the ceiling of the tunnel. It pulled a sword from its belt, then reached out to steady a second climber on the uncertain footing. Others below them swarmed up the straining pyramid in eager anticipation.

“We must stop them!” hissed Aragorn. “Distract them! Give Frodo time to flee—”

“We will be slaughtered,” Gimli growled. “There are hundreds of them, not to mention the Ringwraith. It is certain death.” He paused a moment. “Right then, I’ll take the point.”

Legolas raised his bow and the others checked their weapons. Sam held Sting low, as Gandalf did Glamdring, so that the glowing elven blades would not forewarn their enemies. “Ready?” the wizard murmured. “Now—”

The music of a great horn cut through his words. Beautiful it was, lifting their hearts, reminding them of light and life beyond this dark place. The topmost goblins cringed, then in a flash, one thrust itself through the vent and the other followed. The unmistakable sound of sword-work met their ears, then something blocked the light above them for an instant. The headless body of a goblin plunged through the opening. A second followed it, crashing to land on the goblin pyramid. Those underneath could not take the impact and were driven to their bellies. Those swarming up them fell, sliding down the sides to the waiting jaws of the warg. Their screams and its growls drowned out Pippin’s incautious whimpers.

“Good old Boromir!” whispered Aragorn, the spilled lanterns of the goblins casting a baneful look to his stern, fierce face. The descending bodies had thrown the goblins into disarray; some were attempting to rebuild the pyramid, some were intent only on evading the ravening warg below them, some were seizing the opportunity to quietly desert. It was one of these, a cowardly, slinking creature, creeping silently away from the activity that stumbled upon them.

“Eeeeeeeeek!” The goblin squealed like a pig, its strident, high-pitched screech cutting through the shouts and snarls of the others like a hot knife through butter. It scrabbled backwards on all fours shrilling, “Intruders! Outsiders! Invaders!”

Aragorn leaped forward and ran the creature through its black heart, but the damage was done. The wet sucking sound his sword-point made withdrawing from the body fell into a pit of absolute silence.

“The Shire! The Shire!” Pippin’s loud shriek seemed to drill right through their eardrums. He leaped past Aragorn, sword raised before him. Sam snatched for his cloak but Pip was already out of reach, short legs churning. The others stood frozen by shock, then leaped after the youngling. Aragorn lunged for the tweenager but Pippin was moving too quickly. An elf-shaped blur shot past the man, outdistancing Sam and Aragorn easily. The elf caught the charging hobbit about the waist, lifting him and sprinting him back to the others. Pippin struggled in his arms, waving his sword about dangerously. “Let me go, Legolas! Put me down!”

Then the Company heard a sound they had never thought to hear in waking life, the hissing, choking snarls of a Ringwraith laughing. Pippin stopped fighting, his hands digging into Legolas’ arms. Legolas wrapped his arms around him then gently lowered him into Sam’s trembling embrace. The two hobbits hugged each other, their faces pallid with fear.

“Brave, is it?” The Ringwraith’s voice seemed to pierce their hearts and bleed out their strength. “My Master has plans for the other halfling, but mayhap He will let me keep you, ratling. You might amuse me … for as long as you last.” Pippin’s knees gave, and he sagged to the cold floor. Sam knelt against him, his arms around the tweenager. Pippin buried his head in Sam’s shoulder, trembling violently. The Wraith made that horrible sound again and Gandalf sighed, his eyes closing for a moment in pain.

Then the Nazgûl straightened, and it seemed to all that its unseen gaze fastened on the wizard for long moments. “Kill them,” it ordered with a dismissive wave of its mailed glove. Shrieking, the goblins surged forward, eager but well disciplined in their blood lust. The ones atop the tumbled stones resumed their efforts, but their attempts to follow Frodo seemed half-hearted, their attention on the impending slaughter below.

“Against the wall!” Gandalf commanded, “Keep it at your backs!” Pushing the hobbits before him, the wizard raised his sword and it glowed with fire. The goblins recognized it and slowed, whispers of “Beater! Beater!” hurtling among them. Legolas’ bow sang and the leading goblins staggered and fell, tripping those behind them. The hobbits were quick to pick up some of the ever-present stones about them, and if their missiles were delivered with force less deadly than the elf’s arrows, they were no less accurate.

The goblins had no desire to hurry; here was prey they would enjoy taunting. Some leaped forward and shook their weapons, shrilling war cries before sliding back out of reach. They were too close for bow-work now; with regret Legolas slung his bow over his back and drew his long sword from the sheath at his back; in the other hand he held one of his long, bone-handled knives. Gimli glared about him, axe raised, waiting for the first of the enemy to come to him.

“This is no battle,” Aragorn muttered. “We will be slaughtered, and then they will pursue Frodo. Gandalf, the lanterns!”

The wizard tore his gaze from the taunting horde and spared him a glance. “What of them?”

“Oil,” Aragorn whispered, his eyes lighting. “Light! Fire and light! Gandalf, can you set the lanterns’ oil aflame?”

For a heartbeat the wizard stood frozen, his eyes on the oil coating the goblins’ feet where they had waded unheeding through it. The viscous liquid had spilled out and covered much of the rock floor. It made footing treacherous, even for clawed feet. Gandalf seemed to gather himself, then his hands tightened on his staff and a ball of white fire blazed at its tip. The goblins hesitated and shielded their eyes, cringing back from the incandescent light. Gandalf tilted his staff and the flaming ball flew from it to the nearest lantern, which lay on its side, its contents oozing from it in a greasy wave.

The oil did not so much ignite as explode. A great tongue of white fire with a blue heart rose from the floor nearly to the tunnel ceiling, licking at the cold air. The sudden brightness was agonizing to dark-accustomed eyes. At the same moment an inferno of heat blasted out in all directions, crisping those with their feet in the oil. The hobbits saw these unfortunates writhe momentarily before they were consumed, their blackened bones crumbling like burnt tinder.

Sam reacted without thinking; blinking his eyes against the blue spots that danced in his vision, he stooped and gathered a stone and cast it with all of his strength towards one of the lanterns. The struck lantern wobbled, then tipped, falling on its side to add its contents to the seeping oil. In a second, Pippin was emulating him. Then Legolas was shooting, and lanterns shattered and tipped and burst into flame.

The goblins screamed and scrambled backwards, their blood lust forgotten in their terror and pain. One of the burning figures ran towards its folk; fire fed on it, devouring it, and the goblins fled before it, inadvertently kicking over more of the lanterns in their panic. The burning goblin shed fire as it went, spreading the conflagration, tongues of flame leaping from lantern to lantern, from goblin to goblin. Those above on the piled rocks abandoned their place of safety, leaping to the floor to escape the tunnel ahead of the fire.

All was chaos. Gandalf drew the Company’s eyes to him and waved his staff towards the rock pile. “Climb!” the wizard ordered them stridently. “Follow Frodo! Go!”

Again Pippin was a jump ahead of them. He leaped forward and ran, head down and half-blind from the fiery light. The burning, shrieking goblins had no attention to spare for a small, fleet figure that wove among them. The rest of the Fellowship stared, aghast for a moment, then raced after him in pursuit. The pile of stone was unguarded, untended. The warg crouched at the far side of the base, belly to the floor and ears laid flat. Its handler had fled with the others and it was directionless, too terrified to move. Its eyes followed the small figure but it only cringed, a high, shrill whimper in its throat. Pippin gained the rocks unscathed and launched himself onto the lower stones, beginning to climb.

Legolas reached the rocks next but instead of climbing, he whirled around and began firing, the twang of his bowstring swallowed by the roaring of the flames and the goblins’ screams. His first targets were those horrific figures that ran in mindless agony about the cavern; these pitiful creatures he killed as quickly and as mercifully as he could.

Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli, and Sam were less swift. Some of the goblins were now realizing what was happening, and a few of the braver ones dared to raise arms against them. These massed before the small group, snarling and slavering at them with pain-slitted eyes. They darted forward then retreated, disoriented and cowed by the light and Legolas’ rain of death. The air vent above was pulling the smoke upwards and the roiling smoke obscured and hindered all of them. Gandalf clamped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and dragged the hobbit past while Aragorn and Gimli defended them. Then Sam cried out and pulled Gandalf’s robe, directing the wizard’s eyes to the tall black form stalking towards them through the inferno.

The Nazgûl paid no heed to the flames, or to the burning, dying goblins screaming around it. Its sword in its mailed hands, it ignored the burning figures, side-stepping the pools of flaming oil.With senses they could not begin to understand, it avoided the flames and the stumbling, shrieking figures and walked towards them, grim purpose in its every step.

Sam saw Legolas fall back, his bow sagging in his grip. The Wraith’s very nearness seemed to cause the elf pain; he stumbled back and half-collapsed against the lower stones of the piled rock. Behind him, Sam heard the dwarf bellow, then a goblin’s high, shrill shriek as it died. Another burning figure tumbled before them, between he and Gandalf and the Black Rider, but none of them had eyes for it. It crashed into the rocks and fell into a twitching, smoldering ruin.

“You shall not pass.” The creature’s very voice raised the hair on Sam’s neck and he pressed back against the wizard. Fear caused his throat to close, as weariness and the stinking cold and the long unending dark had not. Sam felt the wizard’s hand ease on his shoulder, then pat him almost absently before gently pushing Sam behind him. Sam had the feeling this amused the Ringwraith, and that in itself terrified him.

“Aragorn, Gimli,” Gandalf said, and his voice carried in the tunnel. Sam realized that it was quiet in the tunnel; the snap and pop of the flames almost the only sounds. The majority of the goblins had fled, more afraid of burning alive now then being punished by the Wraith later. A few still writhed on the floor, dying by Gimli’s axe or Aragorn’s sword. The summoned pair came silently to the wizard’s side, breathing heavily, splattered with black blood. Legolas joined them, and Pippin slid down the few feet he had climbed to crowd next to Sam. Together they stood before the greatest and most terrible of the Enemy’s captains as it barred their escape from this place.

* TBC *