Chapter Twenty-four

A new Menace – Part One -

   When the wanderer's mind cleared of the fog of unconsciousness, he was thrown into another: that of pain. He would have screamed, but pressed his lips tight to not give away the anguish he felt. This time his captors had not been negligent. Strider felt the collar tight around his neck, and he was not granted much movement. His arms were pulled behind his back, and since the chain had been shortened, his hands almost touched each other. The cuffs pressed on his wrists, so he could not turn them or push them higher to lighten their weight. While his consciousness reeled, he could not ignore the waves of pain rushing his body. He vaguely remembered the many foes stooping to him in the narrow gorge. He got aware of his captors nearby - their stench outran their chatter - and with his moaning he gave away that he had woken. He made an effort to open his eyes. Darkness, broken by a fire ten feet away, welcomed him as well as a horde of twenty Orcs gathering in a room that once had been a large kitchen. But that had been ages ago. Now only remnants of pottery, cooking pots and pans were left on some tables and shelves. Shreds were spilled over the ground, and some smaller creatures took pleasure in throwing the bigger parts against the walls, and listen to the shatter. Others hunched at the fire, chewing on dried meat, casting wicked glances at the captive.

   Strider swallowed the leaden taste of blood and the bitter one of defeat: there was no one now to help him, and whatever he did his enemies would not let him leave Moria alive.

   One of the Orcs realised Strider had woken, and grunted in his direction.

   Growling deep in his throat, the Orc-chieftain rose from amid his kinsmen. He was as tall as he was impressive with long, muscled limbs, broad mouth with sharp teeth, and claws at his large hands. He was clad in armour that once might have belonged to four different men; not one part of it fitted the other, but as a whole it protected his body and enlarged the threat he bore with his stance. He wore a bow and a quiver Strider recognized as made by Men. Unintentionally he asked himself how many strangers had spent their lives on the hands of the inexorable Orcs.

   The Orc-chieftain halted in front of the captive, stooped and bared his hideous, rat-like fangs.

   “Where is the treasure?” he asked in his husky voice, and those sitting close by turned their heads in anticipation. The Orc-chieftain, never trusting more than a handful of his fellows, made them avert their eyes because of his penetrating stare. The pack was not easy to control, he knew. “I heard the Men talk about it! You better talk!”

   “There is no treasure,” Strider managed to say, his voice but a breath. The foully stench of the creature saturated the air around him.

   “Poke him a little, Brúnak!” another creature chuckled in a high, whining tone, and continued chewing on something that looked like the sole of a boot. Saliva dripped from his small-lipped mouth. “He might need encouragement.”

   “Leave that to me, Vrug!” Brúnak immediately rebuked, and the other goblin shrank visibly at his place. The chieftain faced Strider again, but before he could add another threat, Hrunas and Gurim entered the hallway. Brúnak stood erect. With obvious reluctance about being interrupted he bowed to his leaders. “We brought him unspoiled as you ordered.”

   “He's awake then?” Gurim asked grimly. He made a short gesture with his hand, sending Brúnak to his minions. The Orc-chieftain narrowed his eyes, but his growl was unintelligible. Hrunas shot him a warning glare, then turned to their captive. After the encounter with Grima he tried to get back some of his self-confidence by threatening their captive. “You caused us much trouble, tark.” Gurim took the bloodied chin of his captive in his hand. Strider broke the grip. Gurim, angered by the obstinacy, grabbed him anew, forcing him to look up to him. “My fellows here only wait to rip you apart. So you better tell me about that treasure before I allow them to feast upon you!”

   “There is nothing you want.” Strider swallowed, his gaze fixed on the jewel at the Dunlending's jerkin. He wanted it back – as much as he wanted to be free – and he would not give in to the enemy's demand. If he was to die in these mines he would do it without giving away the Dwarves' hideout.

   “There is! And you’ll take us there!” He locked eyes with his prisoner, who stood firm to the unspoken threat. Grumbling in hardly understandable Westron, he turned to his companion. “Maybe a night without sleep will help return his memory.” Gurim straightened. “Keep him awake, Vrug! Don’t grant him any rest. You know what I mean.”

   Baring his teeth to a malicious grin Vrug nodded.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan plodded through the paths, bereft of hope to ever make it to a safe hideout. He gave a wide berth to all Orcs prowling the ways, and avoided by a hair's breadth to fall into a crevice gaping suddenly in front of him. His heart beat fast, and he needed a moment to compose himself. The swords and packs weighed him down, and sweat poured down his temples as he slowly, ever vigilant against his foes, crept near the hall again. He knew he must seek a way to free Strider from his captors, but the sheer number of enemies gathered in the one big room made his stamina dwindle. How should he be of any help if there were more Orcs around and about Strider than marching the tunnels? From what he had heard he knew that some Dwarves had been in the company of the wanderer, but - Daevan was furious about it - they had obviously abandoned their ally in a time of dire need. In Daevan rose the decision to not only free but avenge Strider, and it made him stronger, more determined to be the one, who helped Strider instead of seeking salvation by running away.

   His hands explored the rough walls, and he ventured into every little crevice hoping to find one big enough for him to squeeze in. It took him long, and when he finally thought about returning to the hollow he had hid in before, there was a crack in the stone, wide enough for him to explore. His heart lifted when he found it winding to the right. It was small, but sufficed his needs at the moment. Careful to avoid any loose pebbles he settled down, relieved of the weight and the imminent danger to be found by the Orcs.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider drifted in and out of the clear conscience of his misery. His dreams were bad, full of Orcs prowling and robbing, murdering and stabbing their jagged knives into the flesh of soldiers from Gondor. He heard the warriors’ cries of death. He saw them fall off horses, pierced by black-feathered arrows. He saw the dead bodies in their hundreds on the battlefields of Ithilien, and every dead man seemed to accuse him of his failures. And there was that heavy silence, weighing down on him, adding to his lasting feeling of inaptitude. Villages were burnt and plundered, and the Enemy's despicable minions scurried between the corpses, hunting the survivors of the fights. And they were sneering at their pursuers, who were powerless compared to the sheer number of Orcs roaming their lands.

   Blind fury then gripped him and though stabbing pain clutched his body he jerked up his head with all strength he could muster. A dull crack and a shriek of pain rewarded his effort. He forced open his bloodshot eyes to see Vrug cringing with anguish before him. The creature moved backwards and sat hard on the ground. Blood spilled from his curved nose. Other Orcs jeered, and their barking laughter echoed from the high walls. Strider's vision was blurred. He felt bad enough to sink back to unconsciousness, yet he was grimly content to see his foe writhe around, being a subject of mockery. Vrug bared his teeth and thrust his feet into the captive's belly. Strider coughed and shed blood on his trousers as he pulled up his legs in a vain effort to protect his maltreated body. Vrug cursed some words in his own foul tongue, and more cheering welled up. He made it on his feet again, only to kick Strider hard against the knee.

   “I give ya reward for that!” he spat, wiping the blood off his face with his hairy arm.

   “Aye, but not too much, you fool!” Brúnak warned, pulling Vrug back roughly. “He's to be questioned, not killed.”

   “I know that!” Vrug shook off the chieftain's hand.

   “Give him some of your draught. Hrunas will be back soon and must find him by his wits.”

   Grudgingly and murmuring curses to himself Vrug complied and unfastened a flask from his belt to open it. He knelt beside the captive and pulled him into a sitting position.

   “Open ya mouth, scum, or I'll make ya!”

   Strider's consciousness reeled. Vrug's last assault still sent waves of tormenting pain through him, and he wished to sink back into oblivion. But when the flask was pressed at his lips he gained some strength of will to turn his head. The liquid spilled over his jerkin, and Vrug cursed viciously. To the wanderer it was nothing more than the continuation of the terror, which had filled his dream. He smelt the reek about Vrug and felt his hot breath on his face as the beast tried once more to feed him. Some Orc draught poured into his mouth, and the moment Vrug thought to have won Strider spat it into his face.

   Gales of laughter erupted behind Vrug. All of the minions delighted themselves in watching Vrug struggle with the captive, who should be beaten enough to give up resistance. Some clapped their swarthy hands on their thighs, some threw rabbit bones at Vrug's fur-covered back, and above all their snarled pieces of advice could be heard.

   “Try again!” some shouted. “Make us laugh once more!”

   “Aye, get him to spit at you, you clumsy ape!”

   “Do it yourself! I won't waste any more of it!” Vrug stood, put the lid on his flask and left the kitchen while the roaring grew in volume behind him.

   Brúnak cheered the loudest, and when Vrug had disappeared, got up from his place.

   “Let me show ya maggots how it's done!” he exclaimed in their tongue, and out of their hilarity new expectation rose as the tall Orc took his flask to crouch beside the captive. Strider panted and looked up to the new threat with diminishing hope to win. The bitter and somewhat sour taste of the draught was still in his mouth, and he wished not to repeat it. The hideous face of Brúnak was in front of him, and yellow eyes shone with a cold gleam. Strider would have preferred to face a Balrog instead of that creature. “You better swallow, or this will be really tough,” he snarled in broken Westron, grabbing the chin of the captive tight, pressing the back of his head against the wall. Strider tried to break away, but Brúnak held fast, squeezing the already bruised flesh. The more the wanderer struggled the harder Brúnak gripped him. Strider tried to kick Brúnak, but could not summon enough strength to be effective. With his free hand the Orc-chieftain pressed the flask against Strider's lips. The liquid poured into the wanderer's mouth, and this time the Orc was fast enough and held the captive's lips shut to keep him from spitting. He waited with grim determination, locking eyes with the Man on the ground, conveying he would not let him get away. Strider held his breath, but finally he had to swallow the draught. His captor nodded with a crooked smile as he let go. “Good boy.” He turned to his minions, rising from his crouch. “See, it's done.” And with a barked laughter he added, “And he's still alive!”

   Strider coughed badly and choked on the liquid. The draught reached his stomach and was burning hot inside him. He wished not to know of what it consisted, but it kept him conscious, giving back some strength he had spent in the long and ugly fights. His mind cleared, and his senses returned. To the bitter taste of the drink that of defeat added: he would have to live through another attempt of his captors to question him.

-o-o-o-o-

   Hrunas sat aside. He held a water-skin in his hands, but was too enraged to even drink. He had far too little time to get through to the captive! They had beaten and poked him as long as he had been conscious, but he had not spoken. He had even tried to hit Gurim with his head when he had ventured too close! Hrunas had grinned, but the time of jesting had been short. He had to make the captive talk! When Grima returned to take the Man with him to Isengard, Hrunas would never get to know about any treasure. The sorcerer knew secret, dark, and ugly ways to make captives talk - so it was said - and then he would send the Uruk-hai with the White Hand to claim territory and plunder all that was left of the Dwarves' hoard. Hrunas shook his head, and once more his eyes found the tall captive. He had sunk to his right side. His eyes were shut, his face bloody, and he bled out of several wounds on his arms and legs. After he had attempted to kick Brúnak the Orc-chieftain had put irons around his ankles as well, but no manacle would break the captive's will. Hrunas knew. Gurim knew. Yet the search for his companion - a younger Man as he was told – had brought up naught. He had vanished somewhere in the mine. Maybe he had fallen into a cleft. Maybe he was lost in a tunnel leading deeper into the heart of the mountain, where no Orc would ever set foot because of the unknown monster dwelling there. Or maybe he had been killed in a rage, and the Orcs on patrol did not report it to avoid Hrunas' anger. It did not matter. The search for the Man, the beast, and the Dwarves went on. All Orcs on patrol had been threatened to find them and to not rest until they could deliver the intruders. Hrunas had little hope that one of them would be spotted.

   Still fuming with fury he could not quench, he drank and then returned to the captive. Gurim already waited.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan sat in the darkness only twenty feet away. He sat and bit his knuckles. From the ruins of the kitchen he heard Strider's muffled screams and knew the Dunlendings had returned to torment him once more. He heard the panting while his companion tried to fight the pain, and he heard the curses and questions of the Men in barely understandable Common Speech. Daevan wished for nothing more than strength and skill to step out and help his friend. But he lacked both and could not take up with ten or even more enemies at the same time. He remembered the night of the fight in his village. Strider had not only been their instructor, but had become their leader in those hours of preparation and fight. Daevan had seen Strider battle with three Orcs at the same time, and never had the fall of his sword be a miss.

   Daevan had no such skill or force. He crouched in the darkness and bit his time.

-o-o-o-o-