Chapter 9: Closer

Scur jumped up in shock and joy at the sound of his name from Frodo's lips.

"My name!" He crowed. "Little imp said my name!" Scur picked up Frodo like a rag doll and held him up at arms length “Didn't you imp? I taught ya well!”

Scur lifted his voice in a laugh that sounded like a nail being pulled from wood. Frodo didn't quite know what to make of suddenly being the focus of such unbounded joy. It embarrassed and humiliated him and he wished desperately to be put down, but could think of no sure way to extract himself from the degrading predicament.

“Imp? Imp!”

This time Scur was louder and more enthusiastic, shaking him and demanding a repeat performance. Frodo was at a loss. It was still an effort to concentrate but being swung around by a ham fisted man made it even harder to think. He didn't believe Scur would hurt him, deliberately, but the man was less than coordinated and Frodo feared being dropped. He hesitated for a moment, trying to work out if tossing this dog another bone would get him free or make matters worse.

“Scur,” he finally repeated, his voice flat and haunted though not entirely by design. The coarse face and bad teeth wavered before his eyes and he felt confused again. Some part of his mind that still understood things told him not to offer any more, and tried to pull him back to the sanctuary of the mists. This time he let them take him a little ways, until his eyes misted over and his body went limp. Now that he knew he could leave this cocoon of senselessness if he wished, he began to understand the safety of retreating into it.

Scur eyed this new development with concern

“Now, now, imp,” he said gently, setting Frodo down on the blanket and running his grimy hands through the hobbit’s hair. “Ye made such a good bit of progress. No need to go leaving your Scur that way. He won't hurt you. Now, say my name again to show you understand.”

Even through his self-induced haze, Frodo could hear that pathetic desperation in the man's voice—as if any joy and pride in the ugly man's pitiful life hinged upon Frodo's response. He focused his scattered thought but kept his appearance carefully schooled; vapid and unmoved.

“I think he might speak,” said Merry from behind him, “if you unbound his feet. He…" the hobbit paused, "doesn't like ropes.”

“What would you know?” snapped Scur. “He won't speak to you!”

“But he does speak to you,” said Merry patiently, then added, “miraculously. Truly it is a miracle, Scur. And if you can achieve one miracle under such conditions, think of what you can do if he's comfortable. If he thinks you trust him?”

“And have Grimbold on my arse?” laughed Scur coldly. “I think not, rat.”

“He would not find out. Why would I tell him anything?" asked Merry. “I just want my cousin to be well, to see you work your magic— it's more than anyone before has ever been able to do. All I want is to help my cousin. You can see how he hates to be bound. And he won't wander off. He's always stayed right where folks told him to, bless him. It's one thing he was able to learn." Merry sighed remorsefully. "Right now I doubt he's even leave with me if I was free; he won't even say my name, but he'll listen to you.”

“'Course he won't say your name! Got no good reason to.”

“I can see,” said Merry, biting his lip, but keeping his voice quiet and respectful, “that you care for him, more than the others-and now my cousin knows it as well. He trusts you, Scur, I have no doubt of it.”

Scur scowled at him without response.

Merry hitched up his shoulders and frowned as if uncomfortable. “I…I hurt him, kept him bound. That's why he won't speak to me." Merry shivered, then shook his head suddenly and looked up at Scur. "If you do the opposite, keep him unbound when you can, away from Grimbold’s eyes, I think you would be amazed at the results.”

Scur’s eyes widened as the idea gripped him. He tilted his head, listening harder.

“Then you could show the others what a special talent you have - and make no mistake, Scur ,” said Merry enthusiastically, now crabbing toward him. “You do have a miraculous skill! Miraculous! I have never seen anyone who could get him to warm to them so readily. The others will be astounded, but," Merry paused thoughtfully, "they are not ready to see what you can do. Not yet. It would not do to tell them of my cousin’s breakthrough here today. Not until you’re sure he will repeat it. You'd look a fool if he just sat there like he is now. But gain his trust, get him fully trained, and you will show them a miracle!”

Scur pursed his lips, trying to give a noncommittal grunt, but the seed had been planted, fertilized and well watered. He knelt down by his charge.

“Time for a good sleep, little one.” Scur drew his knife and Frodo flinched.

“Now, little imp, not to worry. Scur’s not gonna harm ye none. I was gonna untie ye as a matter-o-fact. Why not have a comfy night, I say?” He hesitated a minute, then a broad, yellow toothed smile crossed his face. He looked down at Frodo’s blank eyes hopefully. “Buuuut I was wondering, if’n ye might not say my name again…were I to cut your bonds for the night.”

Frodo didn’t move but Merry sucked in his breath.

“And I can’t do it unless I hear, Scur.”

Frodo had managed to follow the conversation. It had drawn him like a clear light through the haze and had provided his mind something to focus on. He understood what Merry was planning and saw the opportunity that was presenting itself. He wrinkled up his forehead. Scur expected him to speak in order to be freed. Like a trained dog. There was resentment. He licked his lips slowly. He didn't want to cooperate with Merry or Scur. What he wanted was some place quiet, safe and dark to think and settle the chaos that still tumbled about in his head. There were still many things he didn't understand and needed to, quickly. But first, yes, first he needed to be free. Frodo groaned and turned away from his captor's ugly, grinning face and bad breath, as if having a difficult time with the request. He took a deep breath, prolonging Scur’s anticipation before producing anything like the correct sound. Then, in a soft, sullen whisper, he said, “Scur” and folded back into a fetal position upon the blanket.

Merry smiled brightly and nodded to Scur, who beamed. He bent over to cut Frodo’s bonds and then thought better of it, untying the ropes instead and stuffing them in his pocket. He quickly threw a blanket over Merry and tucked another gently around his charge.

“Goodnight, imp. Have a nice, comfortable sleep but don’t move from that blanket or we're both in trouble.” He shot a cold stare at the other hobbit before turning back to Frodo. “And you just cry out for me if that rat bothers you.”

Then Scur walked toward the main fire with a light step, his hand shoving the thick rope deeper into his pocket. Merry watched him go and grinned despite the misery in his back. Then he rolled himself right next to Frodo.

“Good show, Frodo.”

Frodo's eyes opened very slowly and glittered in the distant firelight.

“Now, quickly, I need you to –“

His nimble fingers were already on Merry's wrists, bound tightly underneath the blankets though he kept the rest of his body very still as he worked at the cords.

“Very good, Frodo,” said Merry, excitedly. “And don't forget the cords at the ankles.”

The dark gaze, which held none of the blankness he had shown to Scur, focused sharply. He looked daggers at Merry and was certain his cousin understood his unspoken intent. This escape was on Frodo's terms and Merry was only included by the grace and generosity of one he had wronged.

Merry swallowed shut his eyes against the stare.

“Yes, I see,” he whispered. “Frodo. I know how you feel. Really, I do, but we must keep our wits about us! Don't throw off the cords entirely. We may not get a chance to escape this night, and we need them on loosely for show.”

A flicker of memory came back to Frodo as Merry spoke these words. He had done this before; had been planning to do the very thing that Merry had suggested. Somehow he had known it was a good plan. But how?

Sam

Sam had done this trick at Crickhollow - or so Frodo remembered.Sam had gotten himself free, then fooled Merry with the loose rope. But how had Sam freed himself? This memory eluded him, but as the knots started to give, so did the latch on Frodo's flittering memory.

“Sam,” he said hesitantly. “How did Sam cut his bonds?”

Merry cringed, but after a moment, answered. “He…got hold of a knife.”

“How?” persisted Frodo.

“It doesn't matter,” said Merry. “We can't use the same ruse here. Please keep trying - I can feel the knots giving way.”

The knot suddenly pulled free completely and so did Frodo's recollection.

“He tricked Pippin,” said Frodo flatly.

“Yes,” answered Merry, now drawing his knees up to his belly to work on the ankle bonds.

“Sam tricked him,” repeated Frodo coldly, “and then you beat him.”

“Yes,” answered Merry barely above a whisper. “Frodo, I…”

“How did that feel?” asked Frodo, his voice cold and dangerous.

Merry did not answer, but Frodo saw his cousin's face was covered with tears.

“Answer me, Merry.”

“Frodo…”

“How did beating on a lad who adored you make you feel, Cousin?”

Merry bit his lip, an almost childlike shame washing over his face.

At last Merry spoke in barely a whisper.

“Powerful.”

“How does it feel,” said Frodo savagely, “knowing that you can make Broga feel powerful too.”

VVVVV

“He'll never take to you following us,” said Pippin anxiously as Strider sheathed his dagger. “Sam has no trust for big folk and lately his fear has only worsened.”

“I well understand,” said Strider. “Yet follow I must.”

“What is to be done then? I can't very well tug you back like some stray dog!”

Strider laughed grimly. “Not yet,” he said, nodding toward the hobbit camp. “But you both will soon wish you could have me near, I think. Even your Sam. There are threats out here that you will not wish to meet while alone. And I do not speak merely of ruffians.”

Pippin blanched and looked fearfully up at the man, still not moving from his place on the jagged path. “Then what must I do? Demand you come with us?”

“No,” said Strider, shaking his head. “But I shall follow at a small distance.” He raised his hand as Pippin protested. “Do not fear, my skulking reputation is well earned. Sam shall not detect me. But leave no more guides, Master Took. You are an easy enough quarry as it is. I will not let your trail go cold.”

VVVVV

“I was thinking, lads. P’raps when this job is over, I might use a bit of my share to buy one of these imps for my little daughter.”

“Let me understand you, Scur. You want to buy a teched, fat-footed ratling for your daughter as a gift!”

“More like a companion. You know, like a dog, ‘cept smarter and less stinky.”

Broga sniggered so hard that water sprayed from between his teeth.

“And why not?” asked Scur. “Mine’s taken well to training and such.”

“You are an idiot!” laughed Broga. “You really want to buy an imp?”

“So what ifs I do?”

“Where will you find one, you great fool? At the teched ratling booth on market day?”

Grimbold suppressed a smile.

“No need to make fun. I think my Clotilde would take to a pet. Little girls like that sort of thing, long as its friendly and,” glancing back over his shoulder at where Merry lay, “doesn’t bite.”

“One problem, Scur,” laughed Broga. “Clotilde ain’t a little girl no more! She’s a full grown woman,” he paused, then added, “Oh, yeah. FULL grown!”

Scur opened his mouth, shut it, and then his face grew dark as a thundercloud. “Just what you saying about my Clotilde?”

Broga laughed cruelly and threw a stick onto the fire. “Nothing that everyone else ain't saying too.”

Scur frowned, looking angry and confused, as if he knew there was insult in the other man's words, but couldn't put his finger on it.

“But you got to know your Clotilde is growed up? I mean, How long since you seen her?”

Scur sighed and a heaviness fell on his face. “Nigh onto six years. Last time she’d just passed ten winters.”

“Sixteen now,” remarked Grimbold laconically. “Not such a young lass, methinks. Old enough to wed.”

“Aw she ain’t of a mind to wed, I don’t imagine,” murmured Scur. “Not without sending word to me, leastwise.”

“Well, Scur, laddie boy, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” began Broga, his face giving no hint that he actually hated it, “But I run upon your Clotilde last summer. She hung about Cair Andros's outer wall, you know, and along the river, with a few likeminded girlies. And you’re right,” he laughed cruelly, “she ain’t in no mind to wed, as it seems.”

Scur nodded, missing Broga’s malice. “I told ‘e! I know my girl!”

Grimbold gave Broga a warning look, but it did not detour him.

“Well, she prefers to spend her time, as they say, with one or another of the lads serving Isengard,” and with a cruel glint in his eyes, added, “For money.”

This time, Scur leapt up, seeing the insult, but Grimbold held him back. “Don’t let him work you up, Scur!”

“Is it true?” asked Scur desperately. “Is it true?”

Grimbold hesitated but finally he spoke in the hope of keeping peace. “There is nothing unusual about local lasses gathering about the camps, especially those as don’t have husbands. And the lads do often spend a good portion of their wages to please the girls in their company.”

“Company in trade for gifts,” said Scur thoughtfully. “I guess there ain’t nothing so bad about that. And I imagine they does laundry and other chores that don’t befit a man.”

Broga gave a savage laugh, and Grimbold gave him an equally savage glare.

“Company for gifts!” Broga was laughing hysterically. "Which by most accounts, the proper description of a WHORE!”

“Stay back, Scur,” warned Grimbold, using all the authority he could muster, “and shut up, Broga. You both are too deep in drink to have this conversation. Broga, get out of here. Go check on the halfling you tore to sheds, now. Scur, simmer down. He’s just trying to rile you. Go tend to your own imp. We’ll have no more words on what Clotilde did or did not do last winter, clear?”

Scur nodded, still bristling, and mumbling something angrily under his breath.

Broga nodded too, and yet a snicker percolated from him.

“Scur?” Broga said in a menacingly quiet tone. He waited until the thin man's gaze was directly upon him and his features were already twisted in anticipation.

“Yes?”

Your daughter, Clothilde. She was good.

Scur slammed into Broga with all his strength and the battle of the henchmen began in earnest.

VVVVV

Sam glanced up to see Pippin emerging from the trees.

“Where are the ponies?” he asked crossly.

Pippin looked around sheepishly. “Um, I forgot. I’ll—“

“What have been doing!” said Sam, accusation darting from his eyes. “You've been gone for hours.”

“Hardly hours,” said Pippin, adding a touch of the surly himself for good effect.

Sam stood up, his anger propelling him toward the other hobbit. “This is serious, Pip! What are you about? And don't you be telling no lies. I'll know, so you’d better out with it right quick!"

Pippin suddenly leveled an imperious, green eye gaze at him. "Leave off, Sam,” he said, his voice rising and taking on a peremptory tone he had never before used with the other hobbit. “We’re wasting time.” He stood his ground, bringing all the Tookish power in his blood to bear on the gardener and Sam, after a moment's hesitation, acquiesced.

But the look Sam gave Pippin then was resentful and heavy with anger and as he stomped off to bring the ponies round, Pippin cursed. After all Sam had done to help free his master and knowing the dedication with which he was pursuing both the cousins, it felt callous to remind him of the difference in their stations, but Pippin had had to keep him from asking too many questions. He looked over his shoulder to where the gardener had gone and frowned.

In minutes they were trotting down the Greenway again with Pippin uncharacteristically silent as if lost in thought. He felt himself tense with each cracked branch, and every bird darting from its hidden perch. He wanted to trust in Strider's ability to follow, but doubt steeped in with each twist and turn of the trail.

Pippin's eyes bored into Sam's back. Something dark and brooding had come over his companion’s face, something that Pippin could not place, that he had never seen before...at least, not in Sam. It was a darkness and malice that somehow reminded him… of Merry.

Sam seemed to feel Pippin’s intensity and turned in the saddle. “D'you hear something?” he asked nervously.

“No,” replied Pippin.

“You ain't talkin much.”

“Neither are you,” answered Pippin, quickly defensive.

“Something's not right,” said Sam frowning and scanning the landscape behind them. “I can feel it.”

Pippin felt the blood rush to his face. “What do you mean?”

“I got a sense we’re being followed,” said Sam, looking furtively to the right and then left of their path. “Though I got nothing to prove it proper.”

“Why do you say so?” asked Pippin, loudly, hoping Strider and his obviously rusty skulking skills were near enough to hear.

“Just a feeling Pip.”

“A feeling?”

“Yes,” said Sam, turning to Pippin in exasperation. He furrowed his brow as he twisted in the saddle again and gazed down the pathway behind them. “P’haps it's time we moved off the main road.”

“No!” said Pippin, a little too forcefully.

Sam had slowed his pony to a walk but now stopped it in the middle of the Greenway. He reached into his pocket and curled his fingers around something inside. “Why not?” he asked.

“We ,” Pippin paused, thinking 'We might lose Strider, who is secretly tracking us for our own protection,' but instead he said, “In the wild we would be slower and maybe never catch up to Frodo and Merry. Or we might get lost or encounter bogs or beasts or…”

“The road ain’t no safer, Pip.” Sam's voice was low and angry. He appeared to be trying to control a temper that was enraged beyond what the circumstances merited. “We won’t rescue our friends no how if we get snatched up by…,”... Sam paused, then carefully added, “something bad.”

Pippin's eyes brightened hopefully. “Are you thinking there’s something to what Strider said back at the inn?”

“That ruffian-king was full of bogwater,” snorted Sam derisively. “But my gut tells me get off the road and I would follow my gut before I follow the blatherings of men.”

With some effort, Sam removed his hand from his pocket and took up the reins, moving his pony off the road into a heavy thicket. He turned a gaze as imperious as that Pippin had used on him earlier toward his younger companion and reluctantly, Pippin followed. Several dozen yards in, Sam halted and looked back, this time with an expression caught between caution and paranoia. He dismounted and curtly demanded Pippin to do the same.

Pippin obeyed and looked in the direction Sam was facing. Both hobbits stood silently for a few seconds, looking nervously about them with widened eyes. Finally, Sam turned to Pippin, a look of abject terror in his eyes.

“Get down!” he hissed. “Let go your pony and get under the bramble, now!”

“Who?”

“Now!”

Pippin and Sam scrambled to a thick clump of underbrush and dug in.

‘Sam?” whispered Pippin.

“Sssshhh!” ordered Sam

Then Pippin heard it - hoof beats on the Greenway. He felt terror seize up him. Whoever it was, it was certainly not Strider. Briefly, he felt remorse for not trusting Sam, but the feeling was quickly supplanted by terror.

The hoofbeats came closer – Sam and Pippin huddled together underneath the bramble, shaking with fear, any animosity they had felt towards each other evaporating. They heard their ponies neigh in terror, then bolt away into the murk. The hobbits could do nothing.

Ker-clomp. Ker-clomp. Ker-clomp. The rider showed no pretense of deception. It was a being with no fear. Pippin, however, felt as if his heart would burst with fright. He tried to remember when he had ever experienced such hopeless terror before. Then - as if waking from a nightmare, he remembered.

The riders! The black riders!

He prayed that it was not so, while every moment growing surer that it was.

Suddenly the tirade of hoofs and snorting stopped and silence once more pervaded the bramble bushes. Something horrible dismounted near, too near, and almost silently.

It sniffed seeking something.

Pippin glanced over to Sam to confirm this horrible suspicion - only to find Sam staring straight ahead as if spellbound, his hand reaching into his pocket.

Pippin saw the twinkle of gold slowly appear just above the hem of Sam’s pocket.

Simultaneously, the black head twisted around, its sniffing intensified like a dog hot upon his prey. It stepped closer.

Not knowing exactly why he did it, Pippin suddenly placed his palm over Sam's mouth and violently grasped his wrist, digging in his nails until he heard the Ring drop back into the bottom of the pocket with a dull plunk. Sam turned, no longer spellbound, but wearing the closest thing Pippin had ever seen in Sam's gentle features to an expression of pure hate.

“Be. Still,” mouthed Pippin.

And Sam was still.

More sniffing - footsteps, veering off - as if the scent had been lost. The sounds of something climbing back upon a horse. Then a great crashing cacophony. The long, metallic scratch of a sword unsheathed, the crackling of fire, threats called out by a familiar voice. A blood curdling screech of despair and the pounding of retreating hooves.

“Pippin! Sam!” Called the man. “Come! We must leave this place! NOW!”

VVVVV

Grimbold waded in to the mele and tried to pull the men apart. Both were at each other's throats, bashing and punching whatever part of the other he could reach. Grimbold intercepted a few shots with his own body before he finally managed to get them off each other. Blood ran down Broga’s face from an open cut under his eye and Scur’s neck would soon show the bruises from Broga’s fingers digging deep into his windpipe.

"Enough!" shouted the ruffian leader. He brutally backhanded first one then the other in blindingly swift succession. The two, reminded that Grimbold could handily best either of them, nursed newly bloodied noses and glared at each other across the space of Grimbold's armspan.

“He ain't got no rights to insult my fathering!” cried Scur.

Broga wiped at his profusely bleeding jaw. “I just said…”

“Silence!” ordered Grimbold, letting Scur go and pulling out his knife. In a flash it was at Broga's throat, its razor-sharp blade drawing a thin trickle of new blood. “Or I’ll skewer the both of you, collect the full reward and call it a day!”

“You think yer so much better an' me,” cried Scur in an almost childish pique. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his stomach. “I got skills, I tell you! I can do things you'd never figure out how to. Just you wait and see!”

“You got noth’in,” answered Broga as he held his shirt against his bleeding nose.

“I got the imp to look at me clear as day!” exclaimed Scur. “I got the teched imp to say my name!”

“You are full ,” began Broga.

“Wait!” said Grimbold with a voice that thundered over their bickering and made a flock of crows take off from a nearby tree. He looked straight at Scur. “What did you say the imp did?”

“He looked straight at me,” said Scur proudly. “And he said my name. I wasn't gonna say nothing, but…”

Grimbold looked around wildly, not even listening. He grasped Scur’s collar. “Where did you leave them, Scur?”

“Right over there,” Scur answered as he indicated the spot with a nod of his head. “They’re just f-”

Grimbold shoved Scur down and spat violently on the ground.

“They aren’t anything, you fool!” bellowed Grimbold, showing the first sign of panic his men had ever heard in his voice. “They are gone.”

TBC