Chapter Twenty-two

Captured – Part One -

   Two of the dark-skinned Uruks were ordered to carry the beaten Man down. His head hung lifelessly, and blood was all over his face. Hrunas followed, shoving Orcs aside here and there to release his frustration. He watched the limp figure of the tall intruder. His garments were smeared with blood, and he had stopped moving. Hrunas found no words to express his fury, but he had announced that heads would roll for the disregard of his order. At the end of the stairs, Gurim stood waiting. He grimaced at the sight of their bloodied enemy, then stooped to look at him as the Uruks lowered the Man. Hrunas joined him, snorting with still blazing anger.

   “That lot's not worth a chip of ore! Fools! Can't even listen!”

   Gurim scrutinized the body and then grinned maliciously.

   “You're the fool, Hrunas! He's alive.”

   “Ah, but he's not,” said Hrunas, shaking his head.

   Gurim did not heed him. He pressed a hand on the Man's chest. Then he looked up to Hrunas.

   “Hum, to me it feels like his heart's still beating.” He turned to the waiting Uruks. “Chain him in the next path and bring water. We'll wake him up!” While the creatures lifted Strider up grudgingly, Gurim stood next to Hrunas, his eyes sparkling the cold fire of greed. “What about the Dwarves?”

   “Sharas went in the chamber with two others.” Hrunas growled deep in his throat. He did not like the look of Gurim, and for all the time they had been together, had feared his attack. There were more bad tidings to report and he did not like them either. “Naught they say. Naught of the Dwarves and naught of gold or precious stones!”

   “Darn! Where did they go? There's only one way out, is there not?”

   “There's a second door all right, but it's locked.” Hrunas cursed viciously. “Blocked by some spell or what I cannot say. There's no handle, no slit to open, nothing at all!”

   Gurim's gaze followed the Uruks and their captive.

   “He'll know.”

   “Aye. I will make him talk like that shrieking thing.”

   “Hum, that skinny beast wanted to talk, Hrunas. He won't.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan had not understood all of the conversation Hrunas and Gurim had held. The fact alone that one had laughed and then ordered the other to shackle the captive would have made him jump for joy if he had dared to move at all. Impatiently he waited until the horde had moved back to their quarters. The men remained behind, and Daevan realised from what he had heard that they thought Strider to know about the secrets of the chamber of the Dwarves. He held his breath. Though Strider was alive, he would face the wrath of the Men as well as of the Orcs.

   Daevan had watched the creatures, which were bigger and fiercer than Orcs, carry his friend into a side way not far from the stairs. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he should dare attack those beings, but he thought his strength would not match those strong-necked warriors. Their heads alone were half again as large as his own, not to mention their broad shoulders and leather-covered chests. Without the means to free his friend by force of arms, he needed time to explore the immediate surroundings, and while the Men walked up the stairs to have a look for themselves, Daevan left his hideout. He was filled with fear for Strider, and that in the end the warrior would die, if he could not help him fast enough. Yet the young man had to remain on alert, and when he moved he listened to the slightest sound, ready to defend himself.

   He ventured into a crevice, which gaped ten paces wide and led upward in a modest slope. Bracing himself to meet with yet another dead end, he crawled into it. The air was warm and stifling, and Daevan felt centipedes and bugs under his bare hands or scurrying away from him. The way inclined to his right. He scratched his palms and forehead in the darkness as he clambered slowly, avoiding any sound, further into the natural cleft. Suddenly he heard voices; one belonged to an Orc, the other to anUruk. Daevan halted. They sounded quite near! Carefully he felt his way forward until his hands reached the rim of yet another cleft. He could not reach for the other side, but when he dared to look down, he saw the faint flicker of torchlight. Through his exhaustion, Daevan smiled with joy. Though the cleft appeared to plunge far deeper than the path, where Strider was imprisoned, he now had the chance to save his companion.

   He listened to the few words exchanged, and then waited a while longer as the voices faded. Daevan readjusted his pack and turned to climb down the smaller cleft, hoping there would be an exit to the path wide enough for him to fit through.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Great Warrior stirred. His moaning seemed unnaturally loud in the quietness of the deeply buried cavern. No one was in sight. No one came looking; only the stones were listening to his moaning and, finally, a word uttered by him, but they gave no sign of heeding his elvish cries. He made an effort to sit up at the spot where he had been lying, and again the pain in his body could not be ignored. He felt as if he was being hit by a battering ram, but he knew the reason was less exalted. The smell of Orcs was in the air, a foul stench from those creatures Morgoth once created.

   Breathing shallowly, the wanderer waited until the dizziness diminished, and his mind became clear. He had heard a chain rattling, and when he moved again, he felt something heavy around his neck, choking him, and he coughed. He tried to raise his hands, only to find out that they were shackled behind his back. He released a deep breath, hanging his head. The leaden taste of blood was in his mouth, and the left side of his face was swollen badly. The thought that he had escaped from the frying pan to end in the fire, crossed his mind, but this was not the time for jesting. He could see nothing. His captors had brought him deeper into the mines, but left him without a torch. He set his jaw, listening to the faint conversations in the distance. Moving forward he soon found out that the collar around his neck was fastened by a rattling chain above him at the wall, so his efforts concentrated on moving his hands in front of him. He did not get far, and broke off the attempt the moment the sound of heavy boots drew near. Guided by torchlight, a group of goblins appeared from the path yonder. Strider strained his eyes and realised there were two tall and broadly built Men among the Orcs. Under long, unkempt hair and thick eyebrows, dark eyes shone in the glow, and their mouths opened to a menacing smile, hardly visible among their wild beards. They halted in front of him, prodding their hands on their waists, staring down on him.

   “You're up finally,” the first one said in Westron, which bore a rumbling accent, revealing him as a Dunlending. “I told you, Hrunas, he's tough.” His boot connected with the captive's thigh. “And now he'll spit out how we get behind that chamber of those stinking Dwarves!”

   Strider breathed deeply as he looked up at his captors. The leaders were both Dunlendings, and having fought for the Rohirrim, he knew these unrefined hillmen were not known for compassion. If they did not get what they wanted, he would not live for long.

   Hrunas cocked his head and bared two rows of bad teeth.

   “We need to find the others, Gurim, quickly. Don't waste time with this one now.” He spat on the ground and lifted his gloved hand to the hilt of his short sword. “He's secured and won't go anywhere. Let's move on!”

   Gurim wiped his big hands on the front of his leather jerkin. Like the rest of his garments, it was dark brown and old, but contrary to the shreds the goblins wore, his clothes fitted him, and his weapons added to his impressive appearance. Besides a sword, he carried an unstrung bow over his left shoulder, a quiver, and on his belt hung a dagger in a long-worn scabbard.

   “That lad can't get out. And we’ll get the Dwarves too. We'll find them soon enough.” He grabbed the torch from the Orc standing by and stooped to Strider. “You'll tell us first where the treasure is.”

   The wanderer kept his surprise in check.

   “I do not know of any treasure,” Strider replied, staring at the Dunlending, whose eyes were like pieces of coal set afire. “Whatever was left here is long gone, plundered by those creatures in your company.”

   “Nay, it is not.” He waved the torch before Strider's face, and his voice dropped to a growl. “We were told you know of one… precious. And you'll better deliver it.”

   “I cannot give you what I do not possess.”

   Once more, the torch almost brushed Strider's face. He moved backwards, but the rough wall was behind him. He felt the heat in his face, but abruptly the torch was drawn back.

   “You'll tell us soon enough.” He turned to the Orcs, straightening to his full height. “What did he carry, Brúnak? Bring it all! Now!”

   “Only this.” Reluctantly the Orc – taller than the rest of his kin – stepped forward and put Strider's belongings on the ground. His right hand held fast to the cloak, but on Gurim's sharp command he let go. Gurim handed the torch to Hrunas to have a closer look.

   Greedily Gurim rummaged through the pack, watched by the Orcs and Hrunas, who held the torch to cast light. But the Men did not find anything of value. Disgusted at the smell of herbs and disappointed to be left empty-handed, Gurim threw it down the path forcefully. “Nothing!” The pack slid down the rough ground to drop into a crevice. Strider followed it with his eyes, knowing it was lost. He cursed silently, pressed his lips tightly together, and turned to his captors again. Hrunas shot him a knowing glare while Gurim took up the black sheath. “And what's this? That's your weapon?” Gurim laughed aloud as he drew the sword. The blade was broken one foot below the hilt. “That serves for naught!” he exclaimed. “It's of no use anymore.” The sword and its sheath followed the pack down the path. Clanking it disappeared in the crevice. Strider gasped, but composed himself when the blade hit somewhere just below the surface and remained still. He stared at the crevice, trying to hide his dread from his enemies. “Well, that's better.” Gurim nodded to himself and unsheathed the second sword Strider had carried. “A fine blade.” He smacked his lips as his hand travelled its shining length. “Well kept, not notched. Aye, that'll do.”

   “I take it.” Gurim's head swivelled around and he locked eyes with Hrunas. “You already have a fitting blade. I don't.”

   “You can have mine.” Gurim's hand clutched the hilt, unwilling to let go.

   Hrunas stepped forward menacingly.

   “Keep yours. I'll take this one.”

   Gurim rose from his crouch to meet with Hrunas on the same level.

   “You won't oppose me, is that understood?” His growl would have impressed a cave troll, and Hrunas shrank visibly. “I decide what to do and who gets anything. And it's not your turn now.”

   Around them, the Orcs growled. Some of them followed Gurim, the others Hrunas, and they would have fought if Hrunas had not – after a long stare – complied to take Gurim's old sword. Girding it, he stared at the ground to cover his thoughts of having revenge for this humiliation.

   “This is settled,” Gurim concluded loudly, contented to have his way. With less interest than before, he searched the rest of Strider's belongings. Within the rolled up cloak he found the star with the jewel in its centre. Thoughtfully he held it up. A light of its own seemed to glow in it. “And what have we here?” He turned to his prisoner, grinning. “And you say you know of no treasure, you tark?”

   Hrunas quickly took the brooch.

   “Silver and a precious stone?” He tried his teeth on it, but the metal was hard. “A fine start. Where is the rest of the hoard?” Suddenly greed shone in his eyes as he stooped to Strider. “I know there's one! The Dwarves would not be here if there was nothing! They already searched for it! Is it behind that door? Name the place! Now!”

   “He will.” Gurim shoved the rest aside, pulled out his dagger, and held the tip to his prisoner's throat in a fluent motion. “Tell us where it is!”

   Strider lifted his chin, trying to evade the imminent threat. His look was adamant.

   “I can tell you no more than I already did.”

   “You will.” The dagger left a scratch on the prisoner's throat. Gurim inhaled deeply, then stood. “We'll find this little nuisance, and then make him talk.” He turned toward an Uruk, waiting with his head bowed. “You take ten Orcs with you and get me those Dwarves!” The Uruk nodded curtly and left.

   “And you there, Lúruth, watch over him!” Hrunas announced, with a nod to one of the Orcs standing in the first row. “And don't dare leave your place!” With that he turned. Gurim demanded the jewel back for himself, then called the rest of the goblins to follow him. That moment a tall Orc, coming from the path beyond, shoved aside two of his minions then halted in front of Gurim and Hrunas. He was clad differently than the rest of his race, and he had an attitude about him unfitting for goblins. “What do you want?” Hrunas snarled.

   “My master sends his command,” the creature hissed in mocked obedience. “He waits at the Gate and tells you to meet him.”

   “I am on a hunt. Tell him…”

   “He will not wait,” the Orc interrupted, his yellow eyes ablaze. “You bring them, he said. And bring them quickly.”

   Hrunas nodded grudgingly. Gurim jumped first over the narrow cleft in the way, and together they vanished twenty feet further down the path at a flight of stairs.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan cursed silently. He had ventured down the cleft without seeing where he placed his foot, but he had been fortunate that the conversation was loud enough to cover the noise he had made. He had waited out of sight for his chance. If he had dared to venture further down he would have seen Strider lying on the ground just twenty paces away. He lowered himself once more and was suddenly stuck. He could not move forward! Some sharp-edged stone held his pack, and the cleft had become too narrow to manoeuvre. Daevan cursed again. He had to be ready to climb out the moment the horde was out of sight, and now he was worried that he would give himself away. Slowly, holding his breath, he moved upward again.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider exhaled, secretly testing the shackles, which held his hands behind his back. If there was any chance to escape, he must do it while the horde was gone. He did not have any hope that the Dwarves would save him. Though bound by a vow, they had escaped alone. Strider felt betrayed, a feeling not new to him, yet stinging like a rod. Hoping that his young companion had found his way back safely, he could rely only on himself.

   Lúruth stared at him. Because of the torchlight from a holder above at the wall, he squinted, and his face was a mockery of humanity. The leather skin, the almost bald head, the long nose and pointy ears would have wanted him to never look at himself in a mirror if he knew of the Elves, whom Morgoth had once imprisoned to create the race of the Orcs out of their image. The Evil that Morgoth had poured into their minds now served Sauron and his allies, and the foul race had multiplied in the darkness of Moria. Still they were not content. Sauron had yet to regain the sign of his power to declare victory over all of Middle-earth, and until then, the Orcs would not be free to roam the lands. They were still fought by the free folks, by Rohirrim and Gondorians, and many a goblin had already died. Only at night, they crawled out of their hiding. Lúruth yearned for the open space of the Dimrill Dale when only stars shone. He yearned to prowl the forests and eat what animals he could slay with his clawed hands. He had not participated in the feast, and his stomach was empty. The stinking food he had been given over the last few days he despised. Yet, he would not dare rebel against Hrunas. The Man had once smote an Orc in front of him just as a reminder of who was in charge, and Lúruth had not forgotten that moment.

   Still, he felt no need to stand beside a captive, who was too weak and shackled to get away. The Uruks had fastened the handcuffs and the iron collar, and they all had hardly been able to hide their disappointment that this Man was not for eating. The smell of human flesh was tempting. Lúruth smacked his lips, and – sniffing the air – he decided to take the torch out of its holder and go find some more suitable food for his rumbling stomach. The stench of the prisoner’s pack was still in the air, and he wanted to get rid of it. Casting a last glance at the man sitting on the ground, he went away.

   Immediately Strider tested the chains between the shackles. They would hold any attempt to break them, but seemed long enough to allow some movement. He sat up straight, and pulled the chain down his back. The strain on his wrists increased, but since his captors had taken away his cloak and long coat, he had more space to manoeuvre. Slowly he pulled the shackles through under his legs. He was sweating heavily as the strain on his wrists became intolerable. Then it was done, and he held his hands in front of him. Biting his lips to remain silent, he carefully shoved the shackles higher to ease the pain.

   He tested the collar around his neck. It was closed by a lock, and he had no means to open it. His hands groped for the length of the chain and its attachment to the wall. He pressed his back against the stone to slowly straighten. Strangely enough, the chain had been hooked on the torch holder high above him, but was not secured by another lock. Strider smiled into the darkness as he loosened the chain and weighed it in his hands. He was free – at least to move again and leave this place – but he had to be fast. He did not know when the horde would return. Still he would dare try to get back the shards of Narsil and his pack, if it could by any means be achieved.

   All of a sudden, and appearing out of thin air so it seemed, the small Orc with a torch in his clawed hand rounded the corner and stood rooted to the ground when the light hit the tall man he had thought to be a prisoner. He shrieked and grabbed his curved sword, but Strider was much faster. He wound the chain around the creature’s neck and pulled tight. The Orc’s hand never reached the hilt, and when the body slackened, Strider made sure he was dead before taking away the chain. Panting he searched the Orc for the key, but when he found none he took up the scimitar and the torch. He was alone at the moment, so he carefully moved to the crevice to look down. A few feet below the surface was a ledge. From thereon the crevice went down beyond his sight. Neither his pack nor the sword were to be seen. Frustrated, Strider hung his head.

   Noise could be heard in the distance. Strider stood listening. His heirloom was lost, but he could not help it. With the torch in his right, and the length of the chain in the other hand he moved on.

-o-o-o-o-

   The young fisherman would have shouted if he had dared to. For a moment, he had seen Strider’s head appear in the cleft, but then the sound of enemies marching down the path had made him rethink his options. Then the moment was over and Strider gone. Daevan sighed. He had freed himself by now and climbed down the crevice a second time. The way was dark once more, and when he reached its bottom and groped for a step to clamber the path yonder he found something he had not hoped to put his hand on.

-o-o-o-o-