Chapter 10 - Intercept

The two hobbits ran blindly through the woods, their faces lashed by unyielding branches, their feet tripping over ancient tree roots. They were weak from days of confinement and injury and did not care which direction they turned as long as it was away from the ruffians. There had been obvious problems with his plan, Merry understood, but he'd had few other options. Their lead was slight and that getting somewhere completely safe would not be a possibility that night. Perhaps, given time and a miracle, they would find a way home, but he had little of the first and wasn't counting on the second.

Merry glanced at his cousin, wild-eyed, breathing heavily as he ran beside him. Even if they made it home, what then? Could they ever return to the Shire and be safe from ruffians and invaders? Would they ever be safe again? Would he even be welcome? The probable answer to that last question was too crushing a burden to bear and so Merry shut off his mind, pushed Frodo ahead of him, and ran.

VVVVV

Grimbold examined the ground carefully. He could see small footprints sunk deep into the wet moss, leading away from the abandoned cords. He knew well enough his captives had headed for the trees. The forest was the only logical direction they could have gone, as any other would leave them out in the open and easy prey, but he assumed they would soon head northerly, back to their own lands. Grimbold took a long, slow breath. Peering into the gloom under the trees, he saw nothing. He hoped they would follow the course of the Greenway, or perhaps come back to it further up the track; it was the only landmark to be seen in this deserted country, after all. That would make his job easier. If his men could get ahead of the halflings, they could recapture them as they tried to make their way back along the road. If the foolish creatures were not stupid enough to get themselves killed before he could safely dispatch them to their torments at Isengard.

The erstwhile captives could not have got an enormous lead, less than 15 minutes, he guessed. And they were both in poor physical condition while his men were fit, larger and faster. Barring anything unforeseen, they should be his prisoners again before the night was old. Still… He chewed his lip, a gnawing sense of foreboding stubbornly dogging his thoughts.

“Broga,” he ordered. “You go back along the road -- on foot. Keep your ears to the brush for anything moving about. If you catch them, don't harm them. I will handle things from there. Scur, come with me. We're going into the woods to flush them out. They can't have gone far.” Grimbold glared fire at his subordinates as his voice rose in tightly controlled anger. "Now, both of you move! If you value your hides, find those little runts!”

The men leapt into action, leaving their horses in the clearing. Scur dove noisily into the undergrowth, clearing a path with his fervent progress. Broga strode menacingly down the roadway, his strides twice as long and loud as those of the creatures he tracked.

VVVVV

Pippin and Sam ran behind Strider as fast as their shorter legs would allow. The riders had given them a fright more harrowing than any they had ever known and both were feeling the effects of the terror. Sam was too shaken to question Strider's timely appearance. They ran through the wilds, unaware of the direction, only knowing that they were following the tall man and that their progress led away from the riders and their horrifying shrieks.

Pippin's flight had been fueled by fear and he was just reaching the last measure of both that and his stamina when a great root seemed to leap up beneath him to tangle in his feet. He fell, landing hard against the bole of a hoary fir and ripping a great rent in the back of his shirt. The whip wheals tore open as Pippin rolled to his knees, panting and trying to control the pain.

Strider and Sam turned quickly.

“I... " Pippin tried to stand and gasped as his leg buckled. "Can't run! Go on... without... if you need.”

“I don't think that will be necessary, master Peregrin,” said Strider proffering his hand. Pippin took it and, cringing in pain, stood up.

“Where are you hurt?” the ranger asked.

“Back…hurts,” he panted. “Ankle, but," he tested the limb gingerly. It bore a little weight. "It's not bad. I'll be fine. Just need to rest it.”

“We're not leaving Pippin,” said Sam firmly. “I won't ask how you came on us as you did, but now that you're here -- and seeing fit to order us about -- you might offer us help as we could actually use.”

“We will tend to his hurts once we find a safe place to stop,” said Strider. “But this is not it. Not yet. If you cannot go further, Peregrin, I could carry you if you will have it.”

“And so you'd carry him pig-a-back like a faunt then?" asked Sam bristling.

“I'll have it, Sam, I’ll have it,” interrupted Pippin breathlessly. “I trust him.”

Sam glowered. “I'd say you were trusting a mite too much.”

Strider pretended not to hear the offhand insult as he lifted Pippin onto his back. He settled the hobbit where Pippin could hold easily to his harness and where his nearly empty pack made a convenient seat. Without further comment, the ranger began to jog again, moving forward with the same swiftness as when unburdened.

“Come, Sam,” Strider ordered over his shoulder. “We must move quickly.”

VVVVV

“Come, Frodo,” said Merry as he pulled his cousin along. “We must move quickly.”

Frodo stared blankly as Merry took the lead. He was becoming confused again, his mind rolling and swirling in mists until the trees on all sides of them became a dark blur. He had no notion of where they were, but something about racing through the forest stirred a dark memory. Running blindly in the night, trusting to another to lead him as they ran, shouting, pleading for help! Help! Help! Then he heard a voice call out that was not a memory. He was jerked forward, thrust to the ground and a hand was clamped over his mouth. Frodo blinked, forced his mind to focus, and looked up with confusion at Meriadoc’s worried face.

“You must be quiet!” said Merry and lifted his hand from Frodo's mouth.

“I heard screaming,” said Frodo vaguely.

“That was you,” said Merry.

“Me?”

“Don't you remember? You ran ahead of me and started calling for help. But you mustn't do that now, my dear! It'll only attract danger.”

Frodo shook his head, the visions of another night racing through the trees and calling for aid seeming more real than what he now saw with his own eyes. “Remember?” he asked and raised himself. For an instant he seemed to recall another face beside him in the terrifying dark.

Help! Help! Help!

Had Merry been there then too? Frodo could not remember. Merry took his cousin's hands in his own and squeezed them encouragingly.

“You're safe with me now, Frodo,” he said with almost pathetic desperation. “Don't think too hard -- just follow. Please,” he pleaded. “Now.”

Frodo let himself be pulled to his feet. No, it had not been Merry beside him on that other night, but he had been desperately on their minds.

Why?

Merry tugged frantically on his hand and the question melted from his mind as the two hobbits continued running headlong into the gloom and his thought slipped back into the darkness of the mists.

VVVVV

Strider found them shelter; a small hollow shielded by a thick rise of briars and bracken. He sat Pippin carefully down on an outcropping of rock in the center while Sam dropped heavily beside him, breathing hard. Both hobbits stared up at Strider expectantly.

“We can rest awhile here, I think,” he said, his eyes showing a kindness they had not seen before. “I know you are tired and afraid.” He sighed as he turned and began to gather wood and tinder from the glade. “But they aren’t close anymore and it is safe to sleep, though we must take turns keeping watch. We do not want to be caught up unawares.”

“I thought those things were chasing Frodo,” said Pippin ominously.

“And so they are,” agreed Strider. “Though if a magpie carried the Ring, they would hunt the poor creature down with the same dogged malice. It’s the Ring they want and whoever or whatever happens to be attached to it.”

Pippin looked at Sam, horrified, but Sam did not acknowledge him. He was staring intently into the tiny fire Strider was kindling, his face set hard and his hand plunged deep into his pocket.

“My cousin, Merry,” said Pippin, hopefully, “he said we needn't worry about the riders, at least not for the present.”

Strider’s short laugh was wholly without mirth. “Then your cousin is either a fool, or speaks from brute ignorance. You must trust one who knows better. They will do much worse than kill.”

“What…would they do?” Pippin whispered, his voice trembling. “What is worse than dying?”

“That is a tale best left to the daylight when their shrieks are not so close a memory,” answered Strider. “Suffice to say we must sleep briefly and move at first light. We much catch up to the ringbearer and make certain that he is not caught.” He stared intently at Pippin and caught the hobbit’s frightened brown eyes. “Woe be to the world itself if we should fail in that!”

“The world?” Then Pippin remembered Strider’s talk at the Inn and sighed, “Oh yes, I was so wrapped up in fear for my cousins, I forgot the greater threat is much more dire.”

“Yes,” said Strider grimly. “The struggle is much bigger than our desire to save a single hobbit -- though save him we must if the Ring is not to fall into the enemy's hands.”

“They’ll not get the Ring,” said Sam. “Not so long as Sam Gamgee draws breath.”

“You have admirable courage,” said Strider. “Utterly unwarranted, I fear.”

“My cousin,” said Pippin, “for all his faults, is no fool. When he said not to fear the riders, he also said that he'd handled them. I don't know what that could mean. Perhaps you do?”

Strider stood then to full height -- and in the amplifying light of the dancing flames, he seemed enormous.

“This is grim news, indeed,” the man said sternly. “There is no being in Middle earth who could hope to handle such powers as these. I fear what he may have done in the attempt.”

Sam gave a brutal laugh and both Strider’s and Pippin’s eyes snapped to him.

“Handled it,” said Sam savagely. “Well, that's a pretty way to put it! I'd say he handled it on account of being more like the Black Riders than like any hobbit. Probably talked to them himself more like!”

“Sam!” protested Pippin. “You know, it wasn't him. You know that.”

“What wasn't him?” asked Strider. “Gentlemen -- I must know everything if I am to help you and your friends!”

“Friends,” laughed Sam cruelly. “Meriadoc ain't no friend of mine and if he gets carved up by those riders -- I won't shed no tears!”

“Sam!” cried Pippin.

“Don't Sam me, little fool!” the other hobbit hissed. He stood, trembling with fury, his fists clenched. "Wasn’t him? I saw what he done! Go on, why don’t you give Strider a look at your precious Merry’s handiwork too?”

“No Sam!” cried Pippin and began to stand.

But before Pippin could move, Sam had grasped the torn edge of the younger hobbit’s shirt and shoved him roughly to the ground, pinning him there with his greater bulk. The movement ripped the garment completely off his back and Pippin’s raw and bleeding wheals were brutally revealed by the firelight. Pippin bucked wildly but was no match for the larger hobbit’s strength.

“See!” yelled Sam. “See what Merry did! Can’t say it’d surprise me he could talk to the monsters. He’s become a monster himself.”

Pippin twisted, and writhed against Sam’s grip and his struggles reopened the wounds so that tiny rivulets of blood ran down his back. Sam held the other hobbit fast to the ground and glared at Strider, seeming not to notice the new blood being spilled.

“Let him up, Samwise,” ordered Strider. “You have made your point.”

Sam suddenly seemed to come to himself. He blinked and let go his hold. Pippin lurched furiously to his feet, his face shot through with anguish, disbelief, and outrage.

Strider reached for Pippin’s arm, but even that gentle movement made the hobbit start defensively. “Those are grievous wounds Master Peregrin,” he said. “Though they seem to be closing. I can give you something for the pain if you desire.”

Pippin shook his head sharply and stared daggers at Sam.

“Did your cousin do that to you?” asked Strider.

“Does it matter?” seethed Pippin, still glaring at the other hobbit.

“It may,” said the ranger. “It may mean your cousin was under the influence of dark forces beyond his understanding.”

Pippin turned and stared at Strider, who held his eyes as he continued, his voice dark and serious. “And beyond his control. Am I to understand that he was acting in a way to which you were... unaccustomed?”

“My cousin would never have hurt me,” answered Pippin, angrily. “At least you understand. You know what the Ring can do!”

Sam made an indignant sound. “Not all as touch the ring are corrupted!” His hand moved towards his pocket, but he stopped himself and clenched his fist instead. “Take my Mr. Frodo. He…“

“All are influenced by the Ring,” Pippin muttered as he glared at Sam, his look a knowing and silent condemnation. “Even our dear Frodo.”

“Don't you sully his name,” Sam shot back. “If Frodo were changed it weren't no one's doing, but Mer-i-a-doc Brandybuck and that's flat!”

“It wasn’t…”

Pippin did not finish his retort -- for at that moment a shrill cry rent the night air. It was echoed soon after by a second further off. Strider grasped up a brand from the fire and waited as the world went deathly quiet again.

“They are near,” he said under his breath. “That is strange – for they follow the trail of the Ring, and should not bother worthless prey. Perhaps Frodo and his burden are very close.”

Sam and Pippin stared, white-faced, into the forest, their argument forgotten with the renewed terror. Pippin's right hand drew his sword. Sam's returned to his pocket. The hideous cry went up again -- sounding even closer.

Strider held out the burning brand, tracing it around the circle of their encampment. He heard a shattering gasp from behind and swung around. Pippin stood alone, staring horrified at the empty space beside him.

Sam had disappeared.

VVVVV

“What the hell was that?” cried Scur, stopping in his tracks. He turned to his leader and saw the man freeze still as a rock. “Grimbold?”

“Nothing good,” he muttered. “In fact it may be very bad for our escaped imps – far worse than the likes of us.”

“We ain't so bad,” said Scur under his breath. “If that biting imp leads my little one afoul – I’ll have his little head!”

“You're little imp may the one that brought them here,” snarled Grimbold. “But there's blame enough to go around. We must retrieve them for their own sakes as well as ours.”

“But that sound -- it were nothing like the ‘help’ cry we heard before. No man or creature that I ever heard makes such a cry as that!”

“It wasn't either man or creature,” said Grimbold in a grave and ominous tone.

Another screech went up in the distance.

“There it is again!” yelled Scur, rubbing his arm. “Makes my blood run cold.”

“It should,” warned Grimbold. “Yet that one seemed farther away. Perhaps those things aren't on the imps’ tail. We, however, are drawing closer. They are moving toward the road but may not know it. Broga could get them first if he uses what passes for brains.”

A third cry rose up in the distance, closer this time. Grimbold pushed on through the thick underbrush, knowing that danger grew deeper with every moment of delay.

He stopped suddenly, raised his hand and put a finger to his lips.

“What?” mouthed Scur.

“I heard another cry -- sounded more like your teched imp,” whispered Grimbold. “And, did you hear it, still another voice? We are close. They are being careless. Scur, you follow the signs -- quickly, quietly. I'll head them off at the road. We'll close on them like the jaws of a trap. Go!”

Scur went ahead and Grimbold moved deftly, handling the overhanging branches, placing his feet slowly and methodically in the hobbits’ wake, as silent as a wolf cornering his prey.

VVVVV

With the first screech in the distance, Frodo froze as if entranced.

“Frodo!” cried Merry too loudly. Then, in an exasperated whisper, “Frodo! Come!”

“Did you hear that?” his cousin asked tonelessly.

“I did -- and we must go.”

Another cry rent the air.

“They’re hungry,” sighed Frodo in a haunted, mesmerized voice. He began to claw at his neck.

“We must run, Frodo! Please.”

“No.” Frodo stilled and his expression became almost placid as he turned in the direction of the Greenway.

“What?” cried Merry in desperation. “What are you doing?”

The other hobbit did not answer but began to walk unerringly toward the road.

“Frodo!” cried Merry. “Are you mad?”

Merry rushed him, grabbed his hand and pulled for dear life. His plan had never been a brilliant one, but he could not let Frodo throw away this last slim chance. To Merry’s utter astonishment, Frodo suddenly spun around, his face contorted in a horrible masque of hatred. Before Merry could react, his cousin backhanded him with unbelievable strength.

Merry’s world spun and he found himself lying on the damp ground with Frodo starting dispassionately down at him. For a moment, their eyes met and Merry’s heart sank in despair. A thing possessed now walked in the guise of his fair cousin.

Another shrill cry rent the air as Frodo turned back on Merry and kept walking.

Merry rolled over, leapt up, despite the pain, and barreled after Frodo. “Frodo, PLEASE!You’ll get yourself caught! Stop!”

Frodo glanced back. His pupils were dilated to their fullest extent, their black orbs glinting in the moonlight. For a moment he stared and then bounded forward. Merry ran after, amazed at his cousin’s sudden burst of speed.

“Frodo!” Merry called. “Not toward the Greenway! It’s the first place they will look! Frodo! Wake up! You must listen to me! You are running toward your doom!”

Another ghoulish cry rose up in the distance and Frodo, incredibly, ran faster, seeming to launch himself effortlessly over the brambles and broken branches littering the ground. Merry looked up to see patches of starry sky breaking through the line of trees and knew they were approaching the open road. The open road! He would never catch him before he made the clearing!

“Frodo!” called Merry – desperate now. His cousin had passed the last line of trees. “Frodo! NO! You…will…be….”

“Got’em!” hissed a hated but familiar voice. “Hey Lads!” Broga called loudly. “I got the teched imp!”

Merry skidded to a halt, tears of despair welling in his eyes.

What to do? What to do now?

“Hold him!” called another voice from only a little ways up the road. “Bind him, but don’t harm him!”

Grimbold! thought Merry. Curse it! What to do? How could he fix this?

“He don’t take to ropes!” said a third voice from the forest behind Merry. The hobbit ducked down under the cover of a nearby bush.

“Shut up, Scur!” retorted the other two in unison.

Merry moved forward silently, as only a hobbit could, until he saw them. Grimbold and Broga stood side by side with the placid and unresisting hobbit held between them. Merry crouched upon his belly and kept very still, his mind racing as fast as his heart.

“We need the other one,” noted Grimbold.

“I’ll find ‘em myself,” Broga smiled horridly. “It’d make a fine sport for me, boss, and after I do, he won’t be in no condition to leave our care again for a good long time!”

“No.” Grimbold muttered, shaking his head. “He’s close. Probably listening right now. Broga, hand me the imp.”

Broga smiled. “Oh, I get it, boss…cut pieces off ‘im til the rat is smoked out of his hole. I’ll do it.”

“You wouldn’t!” cried Scur, climbing out of the brush onto the road.

“Hand me the imp,” ordered Grimbold. “This needs to be done right.”

Broga pushed an unresisting Frodo to Grimbold while Scur looked down at his former charge with concern and disappointment. The hobbit was again bound, hand and foot, and his eyes, though open, were as black and empty as a starless night.

“Why imp?” whined Scur piteously. “Why’d you go and havta follow him! Now you’re all trussed up again…and all teched again too!”

“Quiet, Scur,” said Grimbold harshly. He lifted Frodo by the collar and faced the trees calling out. “Master Meriadoc! You know we have him and you know you’re caught. Come out now or I swear, I will hurt him. Badly. You know I am capable of it.”

“Boss!” cried Scur.

“Shut up!” said Grimbold. “Unlike our friend here, you are expendable!”

Scur quieted, though anguish showed on his face.

Grimbold let go of Frodo’s collar, drew out his knife, and lifted the hobbit’s bound hands. He raised his voice again, louder this time. “Just because Broga’s dense as the Fangorn Forest does not mean all his notions are bad. Your friend can have nine fingers and still live. Or eight. Your choice!”

Merry could not move. There were no options left. If he emerged, they would capture him again, but if he stayed, how could he bear watching his dear cousin in torment? What on earth could he do to fix this?

“I shall count to three, and your cousin shall feel real pain. One –“

There was no answer.

“Two…” Grimbold moved the knife dangerously along Frodo’s lax hand.

Merry squirmed and rose up onto his knees.

“Three!”

Grimbold pressed the knife against Frodo’s palm and a line of red bloomed in its wake. Frodo blinked and seemed to rouse from his stupor, struggling weakly, uttering a thin, haunted cry. It sounded like a rabbit being strangled.

Merry wept, knowing that there was only one choice left to him. He stood and came out of the trees.

“I am here,” he said resolutely, his back straight despite the tears that streamed down his cheeks. “And I offer myself to whatever end. Kill me, as I know you would like! Kill me but let my cousin go! My life is all I have left to offer. I have done him a great wrong, and am ready to make payment. Kill me, but let him go.”

A powerful hand came from behind and pushed him face-first into the mud. All dignity lost, Merry struggled to breathe until Broga let him loose in a burst raucous laughter. He pushed himself out of the muck and knelt, head downcast and miserable, his body covered in filth.

“That ain’t how you expected your big moment to go, was it, Rat?” howled Broga. “Well you ain’t having no grand moments today, are ya?”

Merry felt his face warm beneath the mud. He rubbed his eyes clear and stared up at Grimbold, hoping for but really not expecting some form of mercy. Grimbold handed Frodo to Scur and approached Merry, his expression hard.

“Stand yourself up,” he said in disgust.

Merry raised himself, looked at Grimbold, then glanced to his cousin, and turned back to Grimbold.

“Please let him go,” he whispered, no longer noble and self-sacrificing but simply hopeless and desperate. “He doesn’t deserve this, but… I do.” He hung his head again as new tears washed his cheeks.

Grimbold paused for the barest moment as a frown crossed his face. And then it was gone.

“No,” he answered with severe finality.

Merry raised his head again just in time to see the big man draw back his fist and swing at his face. His world filled with pain and he saw no more.

VVVVV

“Take him,” said Grimbold to a grinning Broga who gleefully hoisted the unconscious Merry onto his shoulder. Then he turned to Scur and reached for Frodo.

“You can’t hurt ‘im!”cried Scur defensively. “This one ain’t done no harm!”

Grimbold moved his hand over his sword hilt and Scur reluctantly complied.

Another otherworldly sheik rang out in the night. Grimbold looked swiftly back over his shoulder in the direction it had come. “We must move, now. We cannot linger!” he snapped.

Frodo, who had been limp and unaware, stiffened like a creature possessed and suddenly, from his small form came an echoing, higher pitched cry, eerily like the one they had just heard. It pierced the night air around them, causing gooseflesh to rise on all their bodies. In the distance, the wraith called out again, and, again in answer, did Frodo.

Grimbold stared at his prisoner in horror, his calm resolve shattered.

The others trembled in silence as cries continued to sound out from the North. Frodo began to struggle in earnest, his strength now a match for the man who was holding him. The frantic hobbit drew a breath to call again.

Grimbold, his face betraying the first signs of real fear his men had yet seen, wrapped his fingers around the hobbit’s windpipe and squeezed desperately. Frodo bucked and fought with a frenzy that almost loosed Scur’s hold, but Grimbold added the strength of his other hand to the battle and finally Frodo squawked, his eyes rolling back in his head. The struggle suddenly went out of him and Grimbold, trembling with fear, caught his sagging form in his arms. The man's hands shook as he searched against the pale neck for a pulse and he sighed with relief to find one still there.

"Now," he growled, standing and cradling the limp form in his arms, "let's get out of here."

TBC