Chapter Fourteen

Sword raised, Boromir stood at the edge of the vent, ready for whatever nightmare creatures might emerge next. Black blood dripped from his blade and fell into the pit at his feet. The slanting light of the setting sun no longer illuminated anything in the tunnel below them; he could see nothing and only the hoots and shrieks of the goblins below were evidence of the horde that would soon follow the escaped Ring-bearer.

When no more goblins immediately came after the first two, Boromir dared to risk a glance over his shoulder. Frodo was crouching in front of Merry, an unfamiliar knife in his hand. Boromir remembered that the hobbit’s elven sword had been dropped in his abduction, and the little gardener now carried it for his master. Frodo looked strained and exhausted, scarcely better than the unconscious hobbit beside him. “Frodo!” Boromir called, “Are you well?”

“Yes,” came the shaky reply after a moment. “They never came near us. Or most parts of them didn’t.” The hobbit reached out and distastefully used the knife to push away one of the severed heads Boromir had struck from the goblins. It left a black, glistening trail as it rolled slowly down a slight incline. Frodo shuddered.

“How is Merry?”

Frodo leaned over the still form and peered into Merry’s sleeping face, then gently placed his fingers on his cousin’s throat, careful not to touch the inflamed cut. “He is better, I think. His heart beats strongly, and the perspiration is less. Elvish medicine works quickly.”

Frodo sank to the ground next to Merry as if his legs could no longer hold him up. “My poor little lad,” he whispered, stroking Merry’s hair tenderly back from his cousin’s sweating face. “My poor sweet little lad.” Boromir was surprised by the incongruity of the Ring-bearer’s murmured comfort; Merry stood scarcely less tall than Frodo and was broader through the shoulders. Then he thought of how he would feel to see his much-loved younger brother sorely hurt and suffering because of him, and he understood the Ring-bearer a little better in that moment.

Frodo’s head came up sharply. “Do you hear that?”

Boromir’s eyes shot back to the opening and he readied himself. He too was worn to exhaustion, and the heavy sword trembled in his hands. But no more goblins emerged to menace them. “Hear what?”

Frodo dragged himself to his feet and to Boromir’s side, staring warily down into the opening. “No more screaming.” Frodo inched closer to the gaping maw of the vent and tilted his head, listening. “Something has happened down there.”

“The Shire! The Shire!” The words were faint and distorted by the tunnel walls, but both recognized the shrill voice instantly. Frodo flung himself down and tried to peer into the hole and was immediately lifted by the scruff of his neck and almost thrown backwards.

“Are you mad?” Boromir hissed. “Would you make yourself easy prey for what lurks below? Stay back!”

“That was Pippin!” Frodo cried. “That was Pippin! Pippin’s down there!” He scrambled to his feet, trembling, striving to master himself. “The others must be down there, too!”

“Amongst legions of orcs,” Boromir groaned. His next words were drowned out by more shrill screams, but these were of a different nature. These were screams of fear and pain, and came not from human or hobbit or other Free Folk throats. Frodo threw himself down again and this time Boromir did not prevent him but dropped beside him, sword still in his hand. Light was flaring below them, little flickers of illumination that spread as they watched. Smoke rolled up and smote their faces, thick-smelling and oily. They coughed and covered their mouths and noses, peering down into a growing inferno. The lights were moving—running—and the two understood sickly that people were burning down there.

“Not Pippin,” Frodo breathed to Boromir. “That lad can scream like a banshee when he chooses. You can hear him three farms away.”

“Look!” Boromir pointed and they realized at that moment that they could see; the smoke was diminishing. The tunnel seemed almost empty; figures darted towards both exits but many of the forms did not move, lying still as the flames fed upon them. There were no new fires below them, but several smoldered and snapped still and these provided enough light to see … oh, Pippin! Frodo clutched Boromir’s surcoat, opening unnoticed several of the small cuts in his hands that climbing up the rocks had given him. And Gandalf and Aragorn and Legolas and Sam! Frodo gathered breath to shout, then choked and swallowed his cry as he saw Pippin hesitate, then slide down the pile of rock to join the others and stand facing…

Frodo made a soft whimpering sound as the pain hit him, the unreasoning terror. He rolled over onto his back, eyes staring upwards, momentarily blind. His hand was clenched around the burden he carried, and it burned him. Summoning all of his will, he rolled back onto his elbows, one hand still clamped around the Ring. Boromir looked at him in concern, his face pale beneath the stubble of beard.

“They cannot stand against that evil thing,” Boromir murmured softly. “We must distract it.”

Frodo closed his eyes. “Offer it what it wants. Boromir … if I go back down there, can you pull me back up? And the others?”

“You cannot go down there,” Boromir said reflexively, his heart quailing at the thought of the Ring-bearer bringing the One Ring near that creature’s grasp.

“It came within inches of the Ring on Weathertop,” Frodo murmured, seeming not to hear the soldier’s words. “It will forgo the murder of any number of enemies for a second chance. Nothing is more important to it than obtaining its master’s Ring.” Those brilliant eyes turned to the soldier. “Boromir, ready your shield. I am going to jump down and get it to come after me.”

“Frodo, I forbid—” Boromir began. He got no further.

Blue eyes glared into his with the intensity of the sun. “You will do as I bid you,” Frodo said softly but clearly. “You are sworn to the Fellowship, Boromir. You are sworn to me. You will obey my instructions.”

Boromir gaped. He had never heard this gentle, retiring hobbit speak so. Accustomed to following commands all of his life, he found himself moving to do as Frodo bade him. Frodo swung himself around and sat on the edge of the vent, feet dangling into darkness. “Boromir, take care of Merry. If this doesn’t work … please … take him back to the Shire. And Pippin and Sam. Tell Gandalf and Elrond and everyone … I’m sorry.” With that he pushed himself forward and dropped into the hole.

“Stay behind me,” Gandalf murmured to the others as he stepped forward, his face lined and weary. The wizard drove his staff into the rock beneath him and light blazed again on its tip. He did not look up as something dropped from the opening above and fought for balance on the topmost rock; it was the Ringwraith who froze in place. Then slowly, to Gandalf’s astonishment, its black hood turned away from them and stared upwards to the top of the piled stones.

A small, pinched face stared back. Frodo was crouching on his hands and knees, hands grasping the stone tightly, the bones of his knuckles straining against the pallid skin. But his expression was serene and determined as he looked into the black pit of the Nazgûl’s face. “I have what you want,” he called down to it. His voice was thin but it did not waver. “You have only to take it from me, and it will be yours.”

“Frodo,” Gandalf whispered. “No—”

Frodo stood up, steadying himself on the shifting rock. With one hand he reached inside his shirt and pulled out the silver chain that held the Ring. It dangled at the end of the chain, swinging above his breast, glittering in the light of the fires and the wizard’s staff. “Here it is. And here am I. You have orders to take me back as well, don’t you?” The hobbit’s voice trembled, then he continued, “You failed at Weathertop. You failed at the Ford of Bruinen. You failed on the north road from Rivendell.” He raised the chain higher and in an abrupt gesture, pulled it from his neck and held the Ring at the end of his outstretched arm. It swung from his fist, seeming almost to move of its own accord. “Well, here we are! Do you want us or not?”

The Ringwraith did not glance again at the dumbfounded group of lives who stood before it. Turning its back on them, it sheathed its long sword and placed its mailed gauntlets on the rock. With a heave upwards, it began to climb.

“You can’t mean ‘ta let that thing have him!” Sam shrilled, his voice high.

Aragorn clamped his hand on Gandalf’s arm. “No sword or arrow or axe will kill that evil creature, but we can perhaps drive it off with fire—”

“No,” said the wizard softly. The others looked at him in horror. Gandalf tore his gaze away from the small figure above and faced them. “Have you forgotten Boromir and Merry? Frodo escaped this place once with their help; he can do it again. I know him. I know that look on his face. He is planning something.”

The Ringwraith moved up the rock face slowly but surely, like a huge black cockroach scuttling up a wall. Frodo shifted to the side slightly and the black figure followed him as if it could not help itself, as if it were drawn after the hobbit like a moth to the candle-flame. Its unseen gaze never left Frodo, and if it even noticed when the hobbit stooped and gathered a handful of the loose stones that littered the rocks, it took no note of it.

Still holding out the Ring, Frodo edged back slightly and the Wraith moved to the side again. The fires were dying out around them, their fuel consumed. Frodo grit his teeth as he scraped his damaged hands with the stones he had caught up. Fresh blood began to seep over the old. He rolled the rocks from hand to hand, coating them with his blood.

One of the loose rocks under the Wraith shifted and it lost its hold, dropping several feet. Its mailed gloves and boots left white scars on the rock that shone faintly in the weak light. Frodo seized the moment of its distraction to leap to the far side of the rock pile and search the darkness below. Yes … he had not been mistaken. It was still there. Carefully he raised one of the blood-washed stones and cast it. It struck the side of the cowering warg and bounced off, rattling a few feet before the beast’s nose. The beast snarled then its ears came forward and it sniffed, catching the scent of the one it had been set upon. It rose from its crouch and trotted forward, lowering its hideous head to sniff at the stone. Then its long tongue came out and it licked the rock, savoring the taste of its prey’s blood.

Frodo fought down a whimper of relief as the huge, fanged head raised to look up. The awful head swung from side to side, nose in the air, seeking. He drew back his arm and cast another stone. This one slammed right into the warg’s ugly snout. The warg growled, shaking its head, the heavy muscles of its forequarters bunching under its pelt. It followed the scent to where the stone had slid to a stop on the first tier of stones, and it nosed the rock eagerly. Rearing up on its hind legs, it began pawing at the pile of tumbled stones. Frodo raced back to the other side and locked gazes with his friends below. Then he was raising his arm and making a casting motion, again and again, pointing to the advancing Nazgûl. They stared uncomprehendingly at him.

Whether through drug-enhanced thinking or simple knowledge of his kinsman, Pippin understood first. “You leave my cousin alone!” he shouted and before anyone could stop him, he had fished out one of his juggling-stones and was setting it to his sling. It sailed through the air and struck the black cloak; all could see the cloth indent before the little stone dropped harmlessly to join the thousand others on the pile. The Ringwraith paused for the briefest moment, then continued climbing.

Aragorn caught Pippin’s arm as the hobbit loaded a second stone but Gandalf shook his head, his gaze fastened on Frodo. “No! Let him! Sam, help Pippin. Legolas, shoot it. Shoot it!” Rocks and arrows filled the air, then Gimli and Aragorn and Gandalf were helping too. The Ringwraith staggered under the barrage but it was stymied—it would not turn from its goal above to defend itself. The Company could not truly hurt it, but they could distract it.

Frodo darted back to the opposite side of the pile and carefully tossed down another bloody stone. The shouts of the Fellowship and the rattle of arrows and stones covered the warg’s eager whine. Not built for climbing, it could only scrabble at the rocks, tearing them out of their place with its huge claws and enormous strength.

Then the pile of tumbled stones shivered, as if by an earthquake. But no earthquake this; the underpinning layer of rocks had shifted. The goblins who had constructed this tunnel did not build for permanence; they had merely pushed the rock out of the way in the manner requiring the least effort. Gimli smiled into his beard as he understood the Ring-bearer’s plan. He abandoned the harassment effort and ran to the base of the pile. Stones dropped around him and rang on his helmet, adding to the general noise and confusion. Surveying the stones before him he dropped to his knees and locked his thick arms around a chosen rock, and began to pry it from its moorings.

With a grunt, the dwarf pulled the stone free. The entire pile shuddered. The Ringwraith hesitated and its black hood turned to look down on them. Then the warg snarled eagerly, and the pile shivered again as it dug out another rock and pushed it aside.

“Get back!” Gandalf roared. “Everyone, back! Frodo!”

Frodo waved at them and shouted something unintelligible. A dark object descended from the opening above and the hobbit climbed aboard it. “Boromir!” Frodo cried, “Now!” Then he was rising upwards. The Ringwraith lunged forward and sought to catch a dangling foot, but Frodo pulled it in and held on to Boromir’s cloak for dear life. The Wraith screamed in fury, slamming its fists against the rocks.

With a rumble like a groan of the earth, the entire pile of rocks began to collapse. Down it came, seeming to melt from the top like ice left too long in the sun. The topmost boulder on which Frodo had stood not a moment before tilted sideways and began to slide down the incline. Those underneath it tore loose and tumbled after. The Ringwraith twisted around and tried to leap off the steep side, but it was too near the top. A small but heavy stone bounced onto its black cloak and settled there, pinning the creature. The Company saw it grasp the cloth in both hands and jerk, trying desperately to win free. The cloak ripped and gave, but it was too late. They had a brief glimpse of tattered robes and a single mailed glove grasping at air before the avalanche thundered over it and a rising tide of dust obscured all.

* TBC *

A/N: Frodo’s third accusation of failure to the Nazgûl is from my “Recovery in Rivendell,” when the Wraith tried to invade the Last Homely House seeking the Ring-bearer.