A/N: I think the story warrants its rating here.

Chapter 10: Crime and Punishment

Sam lay quietly on the rocky ground, sucking on a cut on his lower lip.  Garan had given it to him a few hours ago, and though it had long ceased to sting, he could not seem to leave it alone.  His face was turned toward the shadowy lumps that marked sleeping Men and dogs.  Two of the Men were awake and standing on opposite sides of the camp.  The one nearest Sam was Erich, and he knew that the one guarding Legolas was Jakov, although he could not see the Man’s face.  He had overheard Garan assigning guard duty.  Brund and Hoddis would take over for Erich and Jakov, and after that, Daerid and Dorlic would be roused.

Erich was pacing back and forth, only occasionally glancing in Sam’s direction.  Sam kept a close watch on him, closing his eyes whenever it looked like the Man was going to turn his way.  He did not want Erich to know that he was awake and trying to escape from his bonds.  The movements of his hands behind his back made no noise and were not visible in the darkness, not to the eyes of a Man who expected no trouble in the first place, but Sam did not want to take the chance of the fire’s embers being reflected in his eyes.  The bodies of the sleepers did not entirely block his sight of the coals.

Sam had not made much progress on the knots; it seemed that Brund knew what he was about.  Sam still thought there had to be a secret to undoing them though he had not been able to puzzle it out yet.  The bonds had been tied very tightly this time, leaving him little room for maneuvering.  The fatigue he felt was probably hindering him, too.  The aches in his limbs felt like more than mere tiredness after a long day’s march, and the sore throat he had found upon waking that morning had since blossomed into something rather painful.  If only his fingers were longer!  He wondered if Legolas was still awake on the far side of the camp, trying his own knots.  He certainly had long fingers; perhaps he would have better fortune.

Sam hoped that Legolas was not fretting too much over the blows that Garan had dealt him.  He was bruised all over, and the treatment had not been gentle, but he had had worse.  His trip down the river had left him more battered than anything Garan had yet done.  At least his bruises from that adventure had begun to lose some of their tenderness before Garan had started adding more.  But he would not be so lucky again; Garan seemed to be getting the idea that he was not being forceful enough.  Sam still thought that he could endure more than Legolas gave him credit for, but he was hardly eager to test his limits.

The conversation between Garan and Dorlic regarding Saruman had been enough to convince Sam of the need to escape – immediately – and the evening’s events had only heightened his sense of urgency.  He was confused and more than a little bit frightened by what Garan had done, and he still did not entirely understand what had happened.  The Man had alluded to other ‘resources’ before, but this was the first time that he had made himself plain.  Garan had pushed Sam’s head to one side, and Sam’s eyes had fallen upon Legolas, tied hand and foot, pressed to the earth by Dorlic’s knee.  Vannil, the rat-faced fellow, had been standing over them both with his sword drawn.  In that moment, Sam had been certain that Garan meant to harm Legolas, and harm him badly.  He had made some kind of panicked, verbal protest, though he could not remember what he had said.  And then Garan had seized him roughly by the chin and forced him to look him in the eye. 

The only way Sam could think of to describe what had happened was that it was as if all of his senses had been instantly sharpened.  He had been able to see individual strands of Garan’s hair twisting about in the cold breeze even though it was far too dark for that to be possible.  He had smelled the stale odor of old sweat on Garan, and the bitter taste of the blood on his lip had been magnified tenfold.  He had become aware of his sweaty shirt sticking to his chest and coarse fibers from the ropes pricking his wrists.  And Garan’s voice had boomed inside his head somehow, echoing off his skull.  You cannot hide from me, it had said, though Garan’s lips had never moved.  Sam knew that they had not even though his eyes had been transfixed by the Man’s own.  Dark as the night, they had burned terribly, and Sam had been seized with the fear that his enemy could see his thoughts.  He had strained to look away, to turn his eyes to something else, but the air seemed to have turned to stone around him.

And just like that, Garan’s fingers had left his face and the spell had been broken.  Sam had lain there on the ground, staring up at the suddenly dull sky above him.  His body had felt light after its sudden release from the force that had paralyzed it.  Garan had become veiled in shadow once more, but Sam had still been able to see the look of satisfaction on his face.  “There.  I think you begin to see,” he had said.

Sam did begin to see.  Legolas had been right; Garan was a sorcerer, or something like one.  What had happened to him was not natural.  Garan speaking inside his head without ever moving his lips was more than enough to tell him that, even without the heightened sensations he had felt.

Sam had been very quiet after Garan released him.  He had not tried to resist when he was carried off to one side of the camp and tied there, and he had neither looked at his guard nor spoken to him.  He had not even been aware of the cold.  The only other feeling he had noted was relief that Legolas had not been impaled on Vannil’s sword.

Thoughts of Legolas turned Sam’s memory back to the breathless conversation they had had that night, just before Garan had dragged them apart again.  He remembered the anger he had felt at Legolas’ suggestion that he should flee – alone.  His affront had only increased when he realized why Legolas wanted him to go; the Elf thought he would betray Frodo if Garan were given enough opportunities to try and wrest information from him.  Sam had been dumbfounded by Legolas’ obtuseness; he could more easily sprout wings and fly away than betray his master.  But then Legolas had taken that very point and used it against him.

Legolas’ question about where his loyalties lay had caught Sam unaware, and while he was still reeling, the Elf had knocked him flat with his talk of the Men’s cruelty.  Sam had already known full well that Garan intended to do him great injury, but his feelings about that had changed by the time Legolas finished speaking.  He didn’t think that Legolas would lie or frighten him just to get him to agree to run.  Sam almost wished that Legolas had lied to him; that would surely have been better than knowing that the Elf firmly believed every word that he was saying.  Stay and you will meet death, Samwise.  Somehow, the danger around Sam now seemed much more imminent and real.  He wished Legolas hadn’t laid matters out so starkly.

What am I going to do? Sam wondered desolately.  He hadn’t thought of wanting to stay with Legolas as choosing sides between him and Frodo, but somehow Legolas had made it seem like that was exactly what he was doing.  Could he really hold his tongue?  If Legolas had planted the seed of doubt in Sam’s mind, Garan had made it sprout and put forth leaves.  Assaults upon his body he thought he could handle; he could make the choice whether to hold his tongue and let it continue or to talk and make it stop.  But if Garan could see inside his mind, could he hide his thoughts?  Would he have any choice at all, or would everything he knew simply be taken from him?  Sam did have a small hope that the Man couldn’t simply read his mind; if he could, then he probably would have done so long ago.  Yet the thought did not give him much comfort, tied up and surrounded by enemies as he was.

Sam’s encounter with Garan had disturbed him enough that he was now willing to consider Legolas’ point of view on escaping.  But if he did find a way to escape – and used it – what would happen to his companion?  Legolas had been badly shaken upon hearing what Garan and Dorlic had said to each other.  Sam had been hardly less sickened when Legolas finally explained the riddle to him.  How anyone could want to do such a thing to an Elf, he could not imagine.  Sam could not conceive of an Elf ever doing anything truly wicked, and for them to be turned into instruments of the Enemy against their will….  It did not bear thinking of.

Sam doggedly continued to pluck at the knots with his fingertips while he weighed his options.  Garan would lose a good deal of leverage against one of his hostages if the other was beyond his reach, so Legolas might have a better chance of escaping if he vanished.  Yet Sam thought it unlikely that Legolas would be able to do it without help; he was very closely watched.  Even if he was gone and Legolas was free to start a fight, he probably wouldn’t win it.  One against nine out in the open seemed like long odds, and that wasn’t even counting the dogs.  And if Legolas couldn’t escape and wasn’t rescued, he would be lost to the dungeons of Isengard.  Sam knew that he couldn’t count on luck.  He would have to get free first and then find a way to help Legolas.

But how could I possibly help him? thought Sam.  He was too small and inexperienced with weapons to be able to fight the Men himself, and if he got away the watch on Legolas would only double.  He probably wouldn’t be able to sneak back to camp and untie him.  Perhaps if he found the rest of the Fellowship and brought them back…!  But that depended on finding the others in a timely fashion, which he might never do; and even if he did find them, a rescue attempt might be deemed too risky.

Sam reluctantly had to admit to himself that if he stayed he would only be buying time, for eventually Garan would decide to try hurting Legolas instead of hurting him.  If he left, the Men would have no one else to question but Legolas.  Garan had been exercising restraint in his own case, thinking that hobbits could not bear very rough treatment, but he would be brutal with an Elf.  Sam would have wagered all the sheep in the Shire that even Legolas wouldn’t be able to stay silent forever.

The whole mess all seemed to boil down to a few hard truths.  He and Legolas could remain together and wait for an opportunity to escape, but if that opportunity never came, they would both end up in Isengard.  Or he could escape alone and leave Legolas with a ghost of a chance of freeing himself.  Of course, Sam had to actually escape first.  He didn’t think he would manage to undo his bonds that night, but perhaps he could run the next time the cords were removed.  The Men would not be expecting it, and he could probably duck into the nearby trees before anyone could loose an arrow.  The dogs might present a problem, but if he ran fast and had enough of a headstart, he could run across his own trail a few times and confuse them.  It would be touch-and-go at the very least, but if he could evade his pursuers, he could continue heading away from the cliff’s edge afterwards – for a while, at least.  From what he could tell the sparse smattering of trees quickly became a forest.  He could hide among the trees – up one, if he could climb unseen – and wait until the Men moved on.  And after that… well, he didn’t know what he would do.  He would have to think about that when the time came.

With a start, Sam suddenly became aware that he had made his decision.  If the chance came, he was going to run.  The realization was painful.  Even though every other option he had considered was worse, he could not help feeling like a coward.  Legolas would certainly have approved of the plan, but that didn’t change the fact that Sam was going to abandon him to his fate.  He didn’t want to leave Legolas – he had promised! – but what could he do?  There was pain in Legolas’ future whether he escaped or not.  It seemed that the only way he could possibly help Legolas, Frodo, or himself now was by breaking his promise.

Tired and heartsick, Sam finally stilled his fingers.  He was getting nowhere, and he needed to rest if he was going to outrun the Men the next day.  He was quite sure that he was getting sick, and sickness would leave him slow and weak if it truly got hold of him.  He would have to escape on the very first try.  If he were caught he would very likely find himself wishing that he had never been born, and Garan would do something horrid to Legolas to punish him.

The only real problem with Sam’s plan was that he would have to leave at the instant an opportunity presented itself, and that meant not saying goodbye to Legolas.  Sam knew that Legolas would understand, but that knowledge did not give Sam any comfort, and understanding would not keep Legolas company after he had been forsaken.

Sam closed his eyes.  He had settled on what to do now, but he wished there had been another way, one that did not make him shed tears of regret.

------------------------------------

“Get up, Halfling.”

Sam’s eyes opened.  Blearily he noted a long pair of legs before him.  One was moving, pushing the toe of a boot insistently against his side.

“Up with you, or you’ll walk on an empty belly today.”

Sam inhaled slowly, remembering what he had decided the night before.  Not only was it morning, it was the day of his escape – hopefully.  He felt suddenly tense, as if the Men would be able to read his thoughts on his face.  Just act like yourself, he told himself, and they’ll not spare a second thought for you.

Sam hauled himself to a sitting position and promptly forgot his nerves.  It was not easy to sit up with his feet tied and his hands bound behind him, and on top of that, every inch of him was aching.  He winced when he swallowed, feeling how rough and constricted his throat had become.  If he had been back in the Shire, he would have tucked himself into bed with some hot broth and a whole pot of tea.

“You don’t look so well.”

Sam looked up at the owner of the legs.  It was Jakov, who was looking down at him in a considering fashion.  Sam gazed back as steadily as he could manage and fought the urge to cough.  It would not do to let anyone know how just how ill he really felt; Garan would pounce on him if he suspected.  “I’m all right,” he said, though his voice was hoarse.

Jakov shrugged and tossed the end of a loaf of bread and a waterskin into Sam’s lap.  “Eat quickly.  We’ll be leaving soon.”

Sam looked at the food and back at Jakov.  It was the simple truth that he could not possibly pick up either the bread or the waterskin with his hands still tied behind his back, but he was hesitant to speak.  What if the Man decided he was being cheeky and exacted a reprisal?  He wanted this morning to pass quietly; he wanted to be below everyone’s notice.  What was more, he needed his hands to be untied if he were going to escape.  He did not think he would get far with his hands bound behind him.  Why did Jakov have to make him ask?

“I can’t….  My hands,” Sam muttered.

Jakov blinked, not understanding; then it came to him, and he rolled his eyes.  “Very well.  I suppose it must be that way, since Garan insists that you eat.”  He crouched down and began fumbling with the cords.  “Myself, I would be just as happy to feed you less, even if it meant I had to carry you.  You don’t look like too heavy a burden.  We could put you up on the litter with Whit.”

Sam’s heart lurched.  Surely they wouldn’t!  He’d never get free if they decided to starve him.  He was already very hungry as it was; he’d had nothing even approaching a proper meal since being captured.

Sam could not suppress a shiver when a gust of wind raced over the clifftop and flattened his hair against one side of his head.  It was very cold where he sat, and the wind made it colder.  Cold seemed to have seeped into his bones.  He had missed the warmth and protection of Legolas’ body last night.

The ropes loosened about Sam’s wrists, but before he could move, Jakov enclosed one in each hand and drew them together in front of him.  Without delay he began wrapping the rope back in place.

“What are you doing?” Sam exclaimed.  The Men had never failed to untie his hands to allow him to eat before.

Jakov gave him a wry look.  “You can pick up food this way.  Find a way to manage it, for you’ll not be fed by any of us.”

Sam stared at Jakov, but the Man merely tied off his knot, quirked an eyebrow at him, and stood up.  He walked only a few paces away before crossing his arms and lounging on his heel.

Sam’s heart seemed to have sunk into his feet.  So that’s the way it’s going to be, he thought dejectedly.  Are they afraid I might run?  Jakov was not watching him at every moment, but his eyes flickered to him as often as they roamed the rest of the camp, and he was standing too close by for him not to notice any movement on Sam’s part.  His hands were going to remain tied – for the time being, at least.  And his feet were still tied, too.  Well, he might be able to get along with his hands still bound in front of him, but his feet would have to be loosed if he were going to get away, and it did not look like anyone was going to free his legs until it was time to leave.

Sam reached down toward the ground and plucked at the food.  It should not have been difficult to pick it up – all he had to do was spread his palms apart a little and wrap his fingers around the bit of bread – but his fingers were stiff with the cold and did not want to bend.  It took two failed tries before he was able to grasp the loaf between his hands.  He brought it swiftly to his mouth and bit in, too hungry to care that the bread was hard.  That it was bread was enough.

The wind was still gusting, alternately plastering Sam’s cloak against his body and sucking it away.  He was not surprised to see gray, low-hanging clouds covering the sky for as far as he could see.  The bitter tang in the air carried the promise of snow.  Sam wondered if the Men would bother to wrap him up in anything more than his cloak if it snowed that night.  If they did not, he would be in bad shape the next morning, if he woke up at all.  He didn’t think they would let him freeze to death, not when Garan was so keen to find out what he knew.  But Legolas, now – him the Men might decide to let shiver the night away.

Abruptly Sam realized that he was thinking as if he were still going to be present for another night in Garan’s company.   Of course he would be gone long before that if all went well.  He wished he had not thought about snow or what the Men would do to protect Legolas should it fall.  There was nothing he would be able to do about it, and dwelling on such thoughts only served to lay his spirit low.

The end of bread had vanished, so Sam took up the waterskin.  His fingers had thawed enough that he was able to uncork it while holding it between his knees.  He carefully gripped the skin in his fingers, raised it to his lips, and took a long drink.  The water was as cold as he already felt, but it was wet and very welcome.

Sam studied the Men while he waited for his mouth to warm enough for him to take another drink.  At the moment nearly everyone was busy breaking camp, a task which was very nearly complete.  The Men’s demeanors were subdued.  Gone were the jests that had been exchanged over roasted duck, but perhaps it was only the weather.  Sleeping outside in the cold did not make for good tempers.

Sam peered among the figures in search of Legolas, but he was nowhere to be seen.  He could see Erich standing still some distance away; perhaps he was performing the same duties as Jakov and was guarding his own prisoner.

“Are you finished yet?” Jakov said impatiently.

Hurriedly Sam took another drink, ignoring the headache that formed between his eyes.  Better to endure chill headaches than to lose the water due to lack of speed.

Sam had only gotten a few good swallows of water down when he heard a shouted order from Garan.  “Jakov!  Get the Halfling up!”

Sam tensed further when Jakov knelt by his side and began working at the knots that secured his ankles together.  He watched everything over the mouth of the skin, including Jakov.  No one seemed to be paying much attention to him.  Was this his chance?  Should he run as soon as his ankles were free?  Jakov would certainly shout as soon as he moved, and the forest was some fifty feet off yet.  He would only get one opportunity, after all, and he had to be sure that –

Jakov pulled the ropes away from Sam’s feet and immediately clamped one hand down on his arm.  When he stood up he hauled Sam to his feet as well.  The movement took Sam by surprise, who stumbled and nearly fell.  Disappointment and relief warred within him.  He had had no chance to run, but perhaps it was just as well that he had not.  He had not counted on his legs being so stiff.

When Jakov started forward Sam had no choice but stumble along beside him.  They had not gone five paces before Garan became visible, standing in the center of the bustling camp.  Sam felt a now-familiar stab of fear pass through him beneath the Man’s direct stare, and all feelings of relief evaporated.  Surely he was about to be questioned again.  Legolas had been right; the questioning was getting worse every time.  Those pitiless eyes held the promise of pain.

When he reached Garan’s side, Jakov jerked his arm and let go of his charge.  Sam, who had been completely unprepared for such a movement, tumbled to the ground.  For a moment he just lay there, wondering at the utter lack of compassion in these Men, and then a quiet voice swam to the surface of his thoughts.  At least be glad that you didn’t land on your hands, Samwise.  Your wrist could have been broken.

Garan seized Sam by the arm and pulled him back to his feet again.  Sam held his breath, preparing to be assailed with words or violence, but Garan’s attention was elsewhere.  “Is the Elf ready yet?”

“He’s ready,” said Brund’s deep voice.  Looking around, Sam saw that Brund was standing beneath the back end of the litter, holding up a pole in each hand.  Whit was already reclining on top, and Legolas stood at the front as usual.  His eyes softened when they fell on Sam, and his lips curved into the barest of smiles.  Sam did not smile back.  There was something different about Legolas, but he could not determine what.  Only when the Elf suddenly flexed his fingers did he see the change that he had been unable to pinpoint: Legolas’ hands had been lashed to the poles of the litter.  Sam’s heart sank even further.  The Men were worried that they would try to run.

“We will walk quickly today,” said Garan.  “I want to cover as much ground as possible before nightfall.”  He reached into his belt, pulled a dagger from its sheath, and gave Sam a pointed look.  “Stay close to me.”  Sam quickly looked away when the Man began running his thumb over the edge of the blade.

The group set off in much the same fashion as it had the day before.  Legolas walked in front with the litter, Brund right behind him at the other end of the poles.  Sam and Garan were at the back of the line.  Everyone in between had their bows strung and arrows nocked.  The Men did not seem much more at ease than they had been yesterday when Legolas’ hands had been free.

Even from the back of the line, it was Garan who set the pace.  As he had promised, it was brisk, and Sam found himself trotting to keep up.  It did not take long for the exertion to make him uncomfortably warm, and soon he was sweating and breathing hard.  He wished Garan would slow down but he was not about to ask.  For his part, Garan mostly ignored Sam, though he did look down at him from time.

Time seemed to crawl by.  Motion had loosened Sam’s legs, but the rest of him still ached.  Breathing was unpleasant; he had to suck in large gulps of air to keep moving, and the cold irritated his already sore throat.  Sam did not know exactly how sick he was, but he did know that he would be in a bad way if he had to keep up such a pace indefinitely.

The wind continued to blow fiercely, sending the low-hanging clouds scudding across the sky.  Eventually most of the Men put their bows away in favor of holding their cloaks close to their bodies, a task that required both hands.  Sam clutched his own cloak around him, but the wind often succeeded in tearing it out of his grasp and snapping it behind him.  His ears hurt from exposure to the cold gusts.

At long last, the snow that had been threatening to fall made its appearance.  What started as a few stray flakes quickly became a steady flurry.  Sam looked up at the angry clouds and shivered.  Back in the Shire, such a sky would have had everyone shut up in their hobbit-holes by the fire.

The snow was falling thick and fast when Sam, who was finding it increasingly difficult to pick his feet up off the ground in such rapid succession, suddenly tripped over a rock and went sprawling.  His yelp of surprise caught the attention of the Men in front of him, who stopped and turned to see what had happened.  Sam could only just hear some of them chuckling at his expense; the wind was stealing most of the sound away.

Hurriedly Sam moved to sit up.  Garan would be ordering him to his feet any moment; it would be better if he could avoid drawing the Man’s ire.  But now that his body was down, it did not want to move again.  Sam closed his eyes and lay where he was, panting.

“Get up,” said Garan.

Sam’s muscles, fatigued from illness and hard use, refused to comply.

“Up!”

Sam tried – and failed – again.

“He cannot!” Legolas’ voice said suddenly, cutting through the wind.  “You have pressed him too far!”

“He will rise if I tell him to rise,” Garan said.  He sounded very sure of himself, and Sam thought he might even be right.  Fear of reprisal was a powerful incentive, and Garan knew that he had his prisoners between the hammer and the anvil.

One last time Sam tried to do as Garan wished, but a sudden cramp in one of his legs thwarted him.  “I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth.  He turned his face toward the ground, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself for the blow that was surely coming.

The blow never came.  After a few moments Sam opened his eyes and looked up at Garan.  He did not like the look on the Man’s face; it seemed… predatory.

“Perhaps you truly cannot.  I have been pressing you hard, and yet you are not even flushed.  I should have been red as a sunset if I had been moving as you were.”  Abruptly Garan turned his face toward the rest of the Men.  “Get a fire going, you lot.  And keep an eye on the Elf.”

Sam turned his head enough to see the rest of the group.  Legolas was watching him, and he looked uneasy.

“A fire?” said Dorlic.  “Whatever for?  It is not even midday yet.”

Garan did not look as if he liked being questioned.  He compressed his lips and worked his jaw from side to side, but he answered nonetheless.  “It is the right time to stop.  I require a fire.  Build it.”

The Men threw dark glances at each other, but no one raised another complaint, and soon they were all moving to obey.  Legolas’ hands were untied from the litter but only while he was under guard by four Men, all with their swords drawn.  Whit was carried to a patch of rocky ground near the eaves of the forest and set down there, whereupon he began constructing a frame for the blaze with the fuel that his companions were collecting.

Hoddis and Daerid took Legolas aside and secured his hands and feet.  In his usual fashion, Garan ensured that he would give no trouble by holding a knife to Sam’s throat.  Perhaps it was simply the grim mood of the entire company, but neither Hoddis nor Daerid seemed to want to take any chances with Legolas.  The two conferred quietly between themselves, and Sam watched as the two pressed him upright against the trunk of a tree and tied him there.  They took up places near the tree, but not too near it, and watched everything around them with tight eyes.

Garan let his knife fall away from Sam’s throat after Legolas was bound, but he kept Sam seated at his feet and watched him closely.  He remained silent while the Men worked and simply ran his thumb along his blade – back and forth, back and forth.  Sam had fully expected Garan to assault him once Legolas was secured, and he grew nervous as the silence dragged on.  What was the Man waiting for?  Why did he want a fire?  Dark possibilities filled his mind, some too awful to think on for long.  His eyes scanned everything restlessly – the Men, the trees, Legolas, the small fire that Whit had managed to start despite the wind and accumulating snow.  He could feel his heart beating fast in his chest; the waiting was making him afraid.  He thought about running and discarded the thought.  Garan was nearly sitting on him; he would not get two steps before the Man fell upon him.  But Garan was about to hurt him again, as sure as the sun rose in the East.  Sam thought of running again.  If Garan would just look away for two seconds, then he could at least try to get away.

Sam was wound so tightly that he jumped when Garan abruptly said, “That’s big enough.”  The Men who were carrying more branches to the blaze set them down by the fire and left them there. 

“You seem to be stewing nicely,” said Garan, looking down at Sam.  “I have been gentle with you thus far, but now you are sick, tired, and afraid.”

A swift movement caught Sam’s eye, and his head swiveled to see Dorlic straightening up from the fire.  Sam wasn’t sure, but he thought he had seen the Man thrust something into the new coals.  Sweat broke out on his forehead.  Whatever it was that Garan had in mind for him, he didn’t want to know what it was.  The Man’s hand closed over his arm again, and he reflexively tried to pull away.

Garan’s laugh was harsh.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

Sam shied away again.  Garan’s face made his heart quail.

“Defiant to the end.  You have done better than I expected you would, but you cannot hold out forever.”

Sam pulled harder.  Garan’s grip was solid and tugging against it hurt his arm, but he didn’t care.

“You look cold, stunted one.  Would you like to warm up by the fire?”

“No,” Sam said anxiously.

Garan walked forward, and though Sam planted his feet and tried to resist, he was no match for the Man’s strength.

“Oh, yes,” said Garan.  His voice became a hiss.  “You are cold, and very hard, but I will soften you.”  A particularly fierce gust of wind blew into them, momentarily knocking them both sideways a step or two, but Garan merely continued dragging Sam toward the fire.

“Let me go!” said Sam, his voice rising in pitch.  He didn’t care whether everyone knew that he wanted to run, now; all he cared about was getting away.

Upon reaching the fire, Garan crouched down and forced Sam to the ground beside him.  Sam twisted and kicked, fighting with all his strength to throw the Man off.  His movements were so furious that Garan was forced to use both hands to hold him down.  He was only distantly aware of the other Men gathering around to watch.

“Stop struggling!” Garan’s full-armed slap momentarily stunned Sam but did little to subdue him.

“Please!” Sam cried.  “Let me go!  I don’t –”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know anything!” Garan snapped.  “And I don’t want to hear any more about Rivendell!”

“I can’t tell you anything!” Sam said desperately.  The lie came easily to his lips; it was just as well, for his mind wasn’t really on what he was saying.  Every shred of his attention was on his frenzied struggle.

“Hold him down!” Garan ordered, and the next thing Sam knew, Brund’s hands were pressing his shoulders against the ground.  Brund kept him in place much more effectively than Garan had, but fear kept him fighting.  When Garan reached for the fire and drew Dorlic’s sword out of the coals, fear turned to abject terror.  Legolas had been right; he hadn’t really understood what it would be like to know that he was about to be tortured.

Garan leaned over Sam, sword in hand.  His eyes pinned Sam down every bit as strongly as Brund’s hands.  The worst part of it was that all emotion had vanished from his face; he did not even look angry anymore.  He simply looked certain – certain that Sam would talk.

“One last time,” said Garan, speaking up to make himself heard over the wind.  “Where were you going when we found you?”

For a moment Sam hesitated, wondering if there was anything that he could tell the Man that would prevent what was about to happen.  To his horror, some small part of him was ready to tell Garan whatever he wanted to hear – anything – even though nothing had happened to him yet.  That part of him was begging him to loosen his tongue.

But I promised, thought Sam.  I promised I’d help Mr. Frodo see it through to the end.

Mr. Frodo.  Tears leaked from Sam’s eyes, tears of hopelessness and defeat.  He could not give Frodo up, not while he was still sane.  That certainty quashed the panicking voice, but it brought no peace with it.  There was no way out for him.

Sam could not make his lips form the denial.  He shook his head.

Garan’s face darkened.  His free hand shot out to grasp Sam’s face, and before Sam could even think about resisting, it was happening again.

Every detail of the world around him was sharper to his senses.  The sky seemed darker than before, the air colder.  He could see snowflakes collecting on the shoulders of the Men and hear the wind coursing through the trees.  He even thought he could hear bark creaking.  And on top of it all, Garan’s voice crashed home in his head.

“I tire of this.  I will break you before this hour is out!”

Garan lowered the flat of the sword toward Sam’s face.  “No!” Sam croaked.

“You will beg to tell me everything – every secret you ever heard whispered in a dark corner!”

The blade came closer.  Sam’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.  The wind wailed shrilly, making the trees groan.

“Do you bear a weapon?”

Sam was paralyzed.  He even forgot about Garan’s eyes for the sight of the runes etched along the length of the blade, growing ever larger as the sword came nearer.  He could feel heat on his face.

“I do not believe that you are alone here.  Halflings, I was told.  More than one.”

Pain suddenly flooded Sam’s head, but it did not come from the sword that still hovered just inches from his cheek.  It seemed to come from nowhere.  Sam clenched his teeth, but the pain grew until he finally wailed with despair.

Garan’s eyes flashed.  “Are there others like you?  Tell me!”

“Garan!”

The pain vanished as if it had never been and the world suddenly became dull again.  Sam sucked in a breath of shock and relief.  For a moment he lay stunned, too shaken to think, but then he recovered enough to realize that the sword was gone.  He looked at Garan in confusion, but the Man was not looking at him.  He was staring wide-eyed in the opposite direction of the cliff’s edge.  Sam turned his own head in the same direction.  What he saw made his mouth fall open.

The wind, stiffer than ever, was tossing the tops of the trees about like rag dolls – but that was not what caught Sam’s eye.  The trees were twisting – not just the limbs, but the trunks as well.  Stiff bark splintered and cracked, some of it flaking away.  Twigs broke off the branches and flew through the air.  And then Sam saw, to his absolute astonishment, that some of the trees were waving back and forth with rapidly increasing motion and distance.  The three dogs were crouched low against the ground and barking incessantly.

“The Elf!” Garan shouted.

Sam looked at Legolas, who he had quite forgotten amid his predicament.  He was still tied upright to the tree, one of the few that was not twisting and bending by the trunk, and his hair and cloak were being whipped about just like everyone else’s.  Unlike the others, however, he was not watching the uncanny scene before him.  His eyes were tightly shut, and he was straining as if he meant to meld himself with the bole of the tree.

“Take him down, you fools!  Get him away!”

Too stunned to react immediately, Daerid and Hoddis goggled at Garan for a moment before their bodies moved to obey his commands.  Their hands fumbled at the ropes.

“Cut him down!” Garan bellowed.  “Move, you spavined goats!”

Sam gaped.  Garan sounded almost afraid.  In fact, he seemed to think that….  No.  It was impossible.

Two voices suddenly floated up out of Sam’s memory: his own, and Frodo’s.

“How does he do that, I wonder?  Disappear among the trees, I mean.”

“He’s a Wood-Elf.  You’ll have to ask him – but I doubt that he will tell you any more than that.”

Was it possible, Sam wondered?  Could Legolas be making the trees move?

The ropes holding Legolas gave, and Daerid tugged his arm so hard that he fell to the ground and rolled away, well clear of the tree’s trunk.

The trees’ violent motions did not cease.  They creaked and groaned and bent back and forth with such displacement that it was truly unnerving.  A few of the Men had begun to back away, but most stood rooted to the ground in astonishment, including Garan.  Sam did not understand it, but it did seem as if the edge of the forest was trying to throw itself upon the ground.  Even individual branches were flailing, making the trees look almost like extraordinarily large underwater plants.  But the limbs were not pliable enough to withstand such motion, and some of them began to break off with loud snaps and cracks.  The Men ducked as a six-foot branch sailed over their heads.

Suddenly a cracking louder than any Sam had yet heard sounded.  Sam’s head jerked toward the source of the noise along with everyone else’s.  It sounded again, and then Sam saw one that of the trees had splintered several feet above its base.  Jagged strips of wood stuck out from the trunk like long teeth.  Sam could hardly believe it.  The trunk was breaking!

CRRRACK!

Sam stared.  Another!  Another tree was splitting!

The sound of tearing wood suddenly emanated from a third tree, and a fourth.  The Men began to back up in earnest.  The dogs’ tails dropped between their legs, and their barks turned to whines.

The sound of the first trunk finally breaking was louder than Sam expected, even with the wind whistling around him.  The tree began to fall, propelled forward by its momentum.  The Men were staggering backwards, fighting to get away.  The dogs yelped and leapt wildly about.  Sam felt Garan tugging at his arm, and suddenly he was being dragged over the ground.  Brund and Jakov were pulling Legolas along with them.

The tree struck home with a heavy thud.  Branches shattered, crushed against the ground.  Sam felt a rush of air sweep over him and saw that a second tree was already falling, followed by a third, and moments later, a fourth.

Sam’s pulse was racing to beat horses.  He gained his feet and stumbled backwards with the others, Garan’s hand still gripping his arm like a vise.  The Men were shouting and the dogs seemed to be going mad.  Branches were snapping, trunks were splintering, and the wind was beating at everything.  It sounded like an entire house collapsing amid a gale.

A cry amid the din caught Sam’s ear.  “Help!”  He turned to look and saw Whit hobbling along, well behind the rest of the group.  The Man winced every time he put weight on his splinted leg.  A tree crashed to the earth just ten feet away, but Whit kept going, his eyes as big as dinner plates.  “Someone help me!”

Erich turned and made as if to return, but Dorlic seized his arm.  “You’ll be crushed!” he shouted.

Another tree was falling, just as suddenly and swiftly as the others had done.  Toward limping Whit.

“Whit!” someone shouted.

Seeing the gaping expressions on his fellows, Whit looked behind him.  The sight of the toppling tree startled him, and he tripped and fell.

“Move, Whit!” someone else shrieked.

Whit was seated on the ground, facing the trees.  Sam could not see his face.  He scrabbled backwards on his hands, but the tree was falling too swiftly, and a moment later he was hidden from view.  The impact sounded no different from any of the others. 

By now the rest of the Men had backed up far enough to be just out of harm’s way, but they hurried on until there was a good fifteen feet between them and the nearest broken crown of limbs.  Sam, whose legs had failed him when Whit vanished, was dragged the rest of the way.

The Men halted.  For a moment they all stood still, listening to the sounds of the wind and creaking trees.  No more loud snaps were heard; indeed, the trees already seemed to be moving less, as though the removal of the Men – or violence done to one of their number – had pacified them.

“Whit!” Garan barked.  Sam glanced cautiously at him, not turning his head.  The Man was breathing hard and his face was pale.

“Whit!”

There was no answer.

“Where are the dogs?” Dorlic shouted.

Sam looked around.  The animals were nowhere to be seen.

“Think one’s down,” Brund replied, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the wind.  “Other two ran into the woods.”

“Wretched troll-spawn!” Garan swore.  “They must be recovered!”

“What about Whit?” said Vannil, sounding more than a little shaken.

“Hang Whit!” Garan thundered, and Vannil took a step backwards.  He was not the only Man to do so.  Sam stiffened within Garan’s grip.  The Man was angrier than he had ever seen him; he looked ready to do murder.

Abruptly Garan pulled Sam over to Hoddis and thrust his arm into the other Man’s hand.  Without a word he stalked to where Legolas stood between Brund and Jakov, each of whom had one of his arms in one hand and a dagger in the other.  No sooner had Garan reached them than he lashed out with a fist, striking Legolas in the stomach.  Legolas’ body folded slightly with the force of the blow.

“Down!” Garan snapped, and suddenly he, Brund, and Jakov were all forcing Legolas to the ground.  Sam struggled against Hoddis’ grip, instinctively wanting to put a stop to what they were doing, but Hoddis merely squatted on his heels and wrapped his other arm about Sam’s chest.

“Dorlic!” called Garan.

Dorlic scowled at the curt summons, but he came nonetheless.

“Dorlic does not much like your kind, Elf,” said Garan.  “That much I think you know by now.  What you may not know is that he has been asking me twice daily to put you into his hands.  He thinks I should have done for you long ago, and I am not afraid to say that I was in the wrong.”

Sam looked from Garan to Dorlic in growing horror.  Dorlic’s astonished smile reflected the thoughts of someone who had been granted a boon he had long desired but not expected to receive.

“Have your way with the Elf,” said Garan, taking care to make his voice carry.  “I do not care what you do to him so long as he is alive, able to walk, and in possession of all his limbs when I return.”

Nausea and terror assailed Sam, making him dizzy.  He stared forward at nothing with unfocused eyes, listening to Garan pronouncing sentence.  He knew he should not have been surprised to hear it – it had only been a matter of time, really – but just a little more of that time had been all he needed, and now it was too late.

Most of the Men greeted Garan’s pronouncement with pleasure.  Vannil hooted and slapped Dorlic on the back as if in anticipation of good sport.  Jakov, Brund, and Erich joined him in laughter.  Sam could feel Hoddis’ body shaking with mirth.  He wriggled in the Man’s arms, trying to catch a glimpse of Legolas’ face.

The only Men who did not seem pleased were Garan, Daerid, and surprisingly, Dorlic.  Daerid was staring at Garan with an expression of pure outrage, no doubt because he was to be denied his chance at revenge.  Dorlic looked flabbergasted; surprise had taken the smile from his face.  “Where are you going?” he said.

“To find those blasted dogs!” Garan spat.  He stood up, letting go of Legolas, and Vannil quickly knelt to take his place.  “Brund, Erich, Daerid, with me.  Hoddis will guard the Halfling.  The rest of you will stay and help Dorlic.”

“Leave me more men,” said Dorlic, seizing Garan’s arm.  “You do not need three to help –”

“Be satisfied,” Garan snarled.  “I could still change my mind.  And I do need three to help.  We need the dogs.”

“But why?”

“Am I the leader of this band, or are you?  Take care of the Elf, and leave the rest to me!”  And with that, Garan shook Dorlic off and strode toward the trees.

Brund, Erich, and Daerid stared uneasily at the edge of the forest and remained where they were.  It did not take Garan long to realize that they were not following; he had not gone six strides before he turned and gave them a look that could have knocked a bull off its legs.  “Come,” he said flatly.  The three Men exchanged another look, but they did as Garan commanded and began to follow him.  The trees showed no sign of renewing their attack, but Brund, Erich, and Daerid did not look certain that they would not.

Dorlic replaced Brund when the big Man let go of Legolas.  To Sam’s dismay, Dorlic seemed to forget all about his misgivings when his gaze fell on the Elf.  There was a definite light of anticipation in his eyes.  “Well,” he said, “I am not one to turn my nose away from the scent of perfume.”

Suddenly, Dorlic, Vannil, and Jakov all reared backwards.  Just as quickly they leaned forward again, all their attention on the ground.  Legolas was trying to break free of their hands. 

Sam struggled in Hoddis’ arms.  The Man was not paying much attention to him – he had begun shouting encouragement to his fellows – but he was still holding tightly to him.

Dorlic abruptly jerked backwards with an angry cry.  The moment his hands flew away from Legolas’ body, Jakov and Vannil found themselves thrown back.  Legolas twisted away and managed to rise to his knees before Jakov grasped a fallen branch in his hand and swung it around.  The branch caught Legolas in the head with a sickening crack, and the Men shouted in triumph as he collapsed back into their arms.

“You fight!” laughed Dorlic, his injury forgotten.  “I like the fighters; it’s all the more satisfying when they’re finally broken.”  He and the others bore down on Legolas, pressing him back to the ground.

But Legolas was not giving up.  Sam had lost sight of the Elf’s face again – it was blocked by Jakov’s body – but he could see his legs and feet twisting, trying to break free.  Dorlic, Jakov, and Vannil bobbed and jerked as they worked to hold him.

“I told you he’d give you to me,” Dorlic rasped.  “I know just what to do first.  I’ll take your eyes.”

Sam gasped.

“Should’ve done it long ago!  You’ll be no danger to us blind, will you?”  Dorlic’s voice hitched whenever his body was shaken about by Legolas’ struggles.  “You can still walk that way.”  He put all of the weight of his upper body on whatever part of Legolas he was holding down and reached, one-handed, for his dagger.  Sam wriggled furiously in Hoddis’ arms when the weapon flashed out of its sheath.

“And I won’t just take them,” said Dorlic.  “I’ll ruin your whole face.  I’ve never seen a scarred Elf before, but I’m sure it would be a sight to behold.  And if I trimmed down your pointy ears, I’ll wager that you’d look almost human.”

Words burst forth from Sam’s throat; he could not have stopped them if he had tried.  “No!  Leave him alone, you monsters!”

Vannil yelped and tore one of his hands away.  “He bit me!” he exclaimed, staring at his hand.  His eyes shifted back to Legolas, and his face reddened.  He balled his hand into a fist, raised it high, and brought it sweeping down.

“Stop it!” Sam screamed.  “You cowards!  Stop it!”

“Shut him up, Hoddis!” Dorlic bellowed.

One calloused hand clapped itself over Sam’s nose and mouth, muffling his cries of outrage.  Sam twisted hard, battling to get free.  The smell of sweat and leather suffused his nose.

Jakov jerked as one of Legolas’ violent movements nearly rocked him from his knees.  “Feisty bastard, aren’t you?” he growled.

“I’ll settle him,” said Dorlic, and hefted his knife.

Sam fought as hard as he could against Hoddis’ arms.  Desperation flooded him.  He could hardly believe that what he was seeing was actually happening; the whole scene seemed to have taken on an atmosphere of unreality.  Hoddis’ hand was suddenly removed from his mouth; the Man seemed to want to use both arms to hold him in place.

“Stop it!” Sam cried again.  “Don’t!  Please!”  He could not help pleading with them even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good.  There was no shred of mercy to be found in any of the Men.

Even with his hands and feet tied Legolas fought like a wild thing, but each time one of his captors wavered the other two were there to prevent him from breaking free entirely.  Dorlic’s look of satisfaction had been replaced by frustration, but he did not seem to want to put down his blade.

“We need help, Hoddis!” Jakov grunted as Legolas’ feet nearly caught him in the gut.

“I can’t just leave the Halfling free!” Hoddis retorted.

“Then incapacitate him, you fool!” Dorlic snarled, keeping his eyes on Legolas.  His hands were grasping furiously at whatever part of the Elf they could catch.

Hoddis’ arms opened so suddenly that Sam, who had still been struggling against his confinement, staggered and almost fell.  He spun around just in time to see Hoddis’ arm rushing toward his face at full speed.  Sam reflexively threw up his hands and snapped his eyes shut, but he could not stop the Man’s gauntlet from catching him full in the face.  He felt a disorienting lurch as his body fell sideways.  Sharp jolts shot through his shoulder and left temple as they struck the ground.

Sam’s head rang.  He was only half aware of the distant shouts of the Men; all sound seemed to have been diminished.  He only seemed able to concentrate on a few things: breathing in and out, the feel of the cold, gritty earth beneath his right palm, and the reverberating throb in his head.

Sam shortly overcame the ache and his own bewilderment enough to think once again.  He might have been knocked for a loop, but certain events were still transpiring just ten feet away from him.  Thinking about that made the voices of the Men grow clearer once again.  They were still shouting, saying things that conveyed a mixture of eagerness, anger, and even grudging respect for Legolas’ last-ditch efforts.  But they were determined to maim him somehow; that had not changed at all.

Open your eyes, Samwise! Sam told himself even as he squeezed his eyelids together even more tightly against the pounding in his skull.  There may be nothing you can do, but you’ve got to try!

Sam’s eyes opened, and he found that he lay facing the Men, all of them still grouped around Legolas and struggling to keep him down.  Dorlic was not holding his knife anymore, apparently having decided that Legolas was not restrained well enough for him to use it.  For now, he seemed fully occupied in holding the Elf against the ground.  Sam could see sweat on all four Men’s faces, and –

Sam stopped breathing.  The four Men.  Hoddis had gone.  Hoddis had left him entirely alone and unguarded; he was part of the circle around Legolas now, working just as hard as the others.  But there was something different about the Men now.  They were not jerking and weaving nearly as much as they had been before Hoddis had joined them.  With four of them bearing down on him, Legolas was losing the fight.  Jakov seemed to have at least one of his shoulders firmly pinned, and Vannil was using his fist freely.

For a long moment Sam simply lay where he was, staring wide-eyed at the Men.  None of them spared him so much as a glance, either believing him to be subdued or having forgotten him.  His chance to flee had finally come, but now that it was upon him, he found that it was next to impossible to move.  His body felt as heavy as lead.  If he moved, would the Men notice?

“Get his ankles!  His ankles!”

No, Sam thought, they won’t notice.  They were entirely focused on the prize before them.  He screwed up his courage, drew a deep breath, and sat up, never taking his eyes from the Men.  Not a single one of them looked around at him, not even Hoddis.

Ever so slowly, Sam stood and began creeping backwards on silent feet.  He feared moving too fast; the Men might have forgotten him, but quick movements where nothing should be stirring might catch their attention.  He kept his body hunched as he walked, trying to make himself as small as possible.  Fear oozed along his bones like chilled molasses.

Abruptly Sam’s foot came down on something cold and lumpy.  He was so surprised that he jumped and nearly fell over.  When he saw that it was only one of the Men’s snow-covered packs – he had stepped onto a small pile of them – his relief threatened to drive him to his knees.  For a moment he had been sure that he had backed right into Garan and his companions, returning from their hunt.  His heart was drumming a rhythm in his throat fit to drown out his headache.

He was a good thirty feet away from the Men now and they still had not noticed that he had moved at all.  The fallen trees were very close; a few steps, and he could start slipping away.  He could even take Legolas’ pack with him, if he could get it wedged between his chest and his bound hands.  It was easy to spot among the others, being fashioned of a different fabric.

Sam’s eyes twitched nervously toward the Men when Dorlic jerked backwards again.  “Bloody…!  Hold him down!” he barked.

Sam let out a long breath.  They still had not seen him.  He bent down and grasped at Legolas’ pack.

A sudden thought shot through Sam’s head.  There were other packs in front of him as well.  What if his Westernesse dagger was in one of them?  He could cut the bonds on his hands with it!

Cautiously, Sam began opening the packs one by one.  His hands trembled as they worked; he wished he dared to move faster.  He felt terribly exposed standing as he was.  If any of the Men looked up….

Sam threw back the flap of the last pack.  His heart leapt at the sight of the sight of the leather-wrapped handle of his dagger.  He planted a foot against the hilt to hold it down, bent over, placed his tied wrists beneath the sharp edge of the knife, and pulled.  The blade passed through the ropes as though they were made of butter.

With a new sense of urgency, Sam thrust his dagger back behind his belt.  Only then did he pick up Legolas’ pack and strap it to his back.  It was overlarge for his small size, but it was not heavy.  He could adjust it later after he had lost the Men.

If he was going to go, now was the time to do it – and yet he paused.  He could not help looking over at the Men again.  Whatever control they had lost a moment ago they seemed to have regained.  They were steadier on their knees now, and more than one of their expressions proclaimed victory.

I should go now, Sam thought heavily.  They’ll see me if I stay.

But he suddenly realized that it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t just leave, not now.  He had not considered that his best opportunity to escape might come because Legolas was being attacked.  He’d thought that that would happen after he was gone, when he wasn’t there to see or hear.  But it was happening now, and he could both see and hear it.

Sam stood still as a statue, casting his eyes this way and that, thinking too hard to really see anything that he looked at.  He was half the size of the Men, and there were four of them.  He couldn’t possibly stop what was about to happen.

Or could he?

Sam threw himself on the pack he had found his dagger in, no longer bothering to move slowly.  All that mattered now was finding them.  He didn’t think that Dorlic had moved them since he had put them away.  They had to be in the same pack; he had seen Dorlic take his dagger, too.

Sam did not hesitate for one moment when his search of the pack revealed the bone-white handles of Legolas’ knives.  They looked almost like swords in his smaller hands, but he did not mark the fact as he turned to face the Men.  They had Legolas pinned down again, and Dorlic had drawn his knife once more.

Sam’s lips twisted into a snarl.  He didn’t know why, but suddenly he wasn’t afraid anymore.  He was angry – angrier than he could ever remember being.  His ire had never been easily raised, but he had never in his life had so much cause for wrath.  His body felt strangely light, his fatigue forgotten.  The pack on his back seemed to weigh nothing at all.

Legolas made a strangled sound in his throat.  Sam did not know exactly when he started moving forward; the sight of the Men swiftly drawing nearer was all that told him that he was running.  A yell burst from his throat, his feet left the ground, and he threw himself at the nearest Man.