Chapter 12: Journey’s End

For Merry the final days of the journey ran together into a continuous nightmare. Even the landscape seemed to be aware they were approaching their destination. Now that they had passed the “green” expanse of the Greenway, the land had become a dull brown scrubland littered with rocks. Far to the one side, he could see a black stretch of forest, thick and unlovely. To the east, mountains reared up and glowered at them like angry gods. Merry supposed these crags were one of the great chains described by Bilbo, and the thought saddened him. The days of listening to the eccentric old hobbit's fireside tales seemed a lifetime away. He wondered what Bilbo would think of him now that he’d brought his beloved Frodo to this. Surely he would hate him for it. And Merry could not blame him. As the days went on, he'd grown more and more horrified by his own past actions. What kind of monster had he become?

He looked up at the broad blue sky, now limned with violet, and noticed how beautiful it really was. It was a lovelier sunset than he ever remembered seeing. He suspected his sudden appreciation was simply a function of his own melancholy, for once they entered the wizard’s stronghold, he doubted that they would ever see the clear sky again. No sacrifice he could now make would save them from torment and death and what else could await them here?

“How much father do we have,” asked Merry, “until we get…there.”

“One more day of hard riding,” said Grimbold. “This will be our last night together, if that pleases you.”

“Nothing pleases me,” said Merry drearily. “I would like nothing better than to die.”

“I suspect you will get your wish soon enough,” said Grimbold, but with no hint of mockery. “And for that reason, I may do you a small kindness; I shall allow you and your cousin time to sit together. Perhaps there are a few things you will want to say to him before the end?”

“That is kind,” said Merry, surprised. “In fact, that is one of the most gracious offers you have made me.”

Grimbold drew his horse up short, letting the other riders move ahead.

“We are both more than we seem,” he said, “And acted less than we are.”

VVVVV

For Frodo it was a relief not to play “the tetched one” anymore. Unfortunately it also meant he was no longer left unbound under any circumstances. Grimbold now paid much more attention to him, plying him with questions and trying to retrieve memories from the mists of his mind. Frodo feared what the cunning man might extricate. Something perilous lurked in those dim recesses, something he had locked away, for good reason, he suspected, but Grimbold was clever, insistent and ruthless. He would find what he sought, sooner or later, and doing so would perhaps be the ruin of them all.

If the unknown destination had not given him a feeling of sinking dread, he might have considered the ride pleasant. It was mostly a silent, slow trek in which Frodo had much liberty to think. Scur was still very good to him in his awkward, almost maternal way. The ruffian was convinced that he had single-handedly brought Frodo's mind back to him and Frodo saw no reason to disabuse him of this notion.

“Scur,” he asked quietly. “Why do they want us?”

“Don’t know,” said Scur. “And the boss won’t take to you asking such things. Mind yourself now and listen to Scur.”

“Are we to be killed?”

“No, no, little one,” Scur whispered, stealing a wary glance at Grimbold. He slowed his horse to put more distance between them. “We’re to bring you alive and unspoilt.” He laid a bony finger on Frodo’s shoulder. “Now, that don’t sound like he want to hurt you none, do it?”

Frodo waited for Grimbold to move even further ahead. When the ruffian leader was out of earshot he twisted in the saddle to look back at his companion. “Who is ‘he’?”

Scur smiled at his charge. “Why, the wizard, of course.”

Wizard? Frodo turned back, his eyes falling on Grimbold's tall form. Wizards had had something to do with his quest. They had played an import role in his task, an almost indispensable one.

But what? And what had been his quest?

Oblivious to his charge’s frustration, Scur continued, his hand squeezing Frodo’s shoulder in sympathy. “Can you tell me something, little guy.”

Frodo shook himself out of his thoughts and focused on the dusty trail. “If I can,” he answered quietly, noting Grimbold’s figure was still far enough away that he would not overhear them.

“Why’d you hang about with a piece of bad business like that one?”

Frodo knew Scur meant Merry, who rode now with the ruffian leader.

“He is my cousin.”

Scur whistled softly. “You’ve sure a set of bad relations then.”

Frodo did not comment.

“But I been wondering something else,” Scur continued in his hoarse whisper. “You may have been tetched when I got you, but I heard you wasn’t always…sick in the head.”

“No,” said Frodo thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think I was.”

“But that cousin of yours, the biting imp, he hurt you real bad. I saw the marks on your back.”

Frodo again made no answer. The marks on his back. Images rushed and tumbled through his brittle mind. A cottage, a large tree… Blood. The memory of pain like knives of ice made him flinch. Snatches of recollection flew at him fast and furious, chaotic and disorganized, hard to make sense of. He closed his eyes against the maelstrom.

A memory sharpened out of the confusion and in one agonizing instant he felt again the white and black bark of a birch tree, rough against his face and a throbbing, searing pain burning in his back. Now it made sense. He had been whipped! And quite severely. It explained a lot; the itching and discomfort of deep, barely healed scars, his stark, mindless terror when Merry had been hurt. Frodo drew a sharp, queasy breath but pursued the memory anyway, trying to drag more of it into his consciousness. It was no use. Beyond that one image, there was only turbulence and fear.

Frodo shut his eyes against the pain. “I don’t remember,” he said truthfully.

But even as he said it, he understood a deeper truth. Some part of him did not want to remember.

Grimbold had fallen back, perhaps suspecting that some kind of conversation was taking place, but Frodo and Scur were now silent. After a few miles, the leader seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss and sped up again to catch up to Broga. Once he was out of earshot, Frodo spoke again quietly.

“Scur,” he asked. “How far are we from the place we are being taken?”

Scur pointed to the horizon and there, violently piercing the blue sky, was a tall, dark spike. Frodo quailed as a cold dread stole over him.

“Scur?”

“Yes, imp?”

“When we get to that place, will you be able to see me? You have shown me a great kindness and I should like it if I could hear one friendly voice in such a forbidding abode.”

It was a calculated risk, or perhaps blind folly, yet Frodo suspected that whatever lay ahead of them in that dark spike of a building, he would need all of the allies he could get. And he somehow knew he could not rely on Merry.

Behind him came the sound of stifled sniffing. He felt Scur's arm move as the man wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I will,” he sniffled as solemnly as he could manage.

There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Scur seemed to collect himself, as if coming to a decision. “I have a daughter,” he said. “Must be around sixteen by now, beautiful as I am ugly, so I bet. Though, I ain’t rightly seen her for a space of years.” Another sniff.

“What is her name?” asked Frodo gently.

“Clotilde. I was thinking after all this is over, you could meet her, p’haps be like a companion to her. She has a fondness for little creatures, and if you don’t have nowhere to go, I bet she'd right take to you.”

Despite his grim situation, Frodo found the man's offer darkly amusing. Scur’s idea of “companion” seemed more along the lines of “pet” than friend and, however ridiculous the idea of his becoming a prize for the man's daughter was, he knew Scur meant well. It was extremely unlikely that, when this was all over, he would come out of that dark tower 'unspoiled', yet this simple, well-meaning ruffian's good opinion was not to be discarded lightly. There was still a chance he knew the wizard's real purpose and could be persuaded, for friendship's sake, to let it slip. Although, Frodo mused ironically, it was just as likely that, in his childlike naiveté, Scur thought wizards habitually retrieved gentlehobbits from their homelands to ask them to tea.

“That is a very kind offer,” he answered, with all the sincerity he could muster, and in a distant voice added, “when this is over.”

VVVVV

They awoke at dawn at Sam’s insistence and Pippin doubted that the other hobbit had slept a wink. He had not slept well himself and lacked the gardener's frantic morning energy. Frodo was close, he had said, he could feel it in his bones. Strider, his face drawn with concern, had no answer for this, but set a pace that was as fast as the hobbits could reasonably manage.

High rock formations soon gave way to low-lying brush interspersed with short, spindly trees that had a blighted, evil look, as if the land itself had been cursed long ago. The unlikely trio hurried through the waste, the hobbits panting and straining to keep up with the ranger’s steady pace.

At mid-afternoon, they found the cut cords. The landscape had gradually become greener, with dark, forbidding foliage close to the roadway and clumps of taller trees in the distance. Through a break in the brush, Strider saw signs that someone had left the road and they changed course to follow the track of three large horses, but by the time they found the campsite, the woods were silent and empty.

The hobbits held their breath while Strider examined the signs of disturbance in the grass. He bent down and pulled a few frayed coils of rope from where they had carelessly been tossed into the underbrush.

“It is them,” he whispered under his breath.

Sam nearly hooted with delight at the discovery, but then, as he stared at the rope, his countenance darkened. Without another word, he turned and raced off to follow the hoof prints that led away from the site.

“This is promising,” smiled Pippin, brightly, but finding no confirmation in the man’s face, he hesitated. “Isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” said the ranger, fingering the dirty cords. “And perhaps not. It means we are on the right track. But it also confirms my greatest fear.”

“What?” whispered Pippin.

“It proves they are being taken to Isengard, if I had ever the slightest doubt of it.”

Pippin cleared his throat nervously. “Can we catch up? Strider?”

“I do not know, Pippin,” the man said, laying his hand briefly on the hobbit’s shoulder. “We don’t know how great is their lead. These hoof prints are fresh, but the cords might have been here before them. There are many who travel this road.”

Strider paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “ We are drawing closer, at least,” he said then stopped short in the tall grass and Pippin nearly ran into him. He turned and stared down into the hobbit’s eyes, his own darkened with great sorrow. “But with each step we follow your companions, my dear Pippin, we put the whole of Middle-earth in greater peril.”

VVVVV

The sun was low in the sky when they found their second clue; the sign of another campfire, hastily made and more hastily abandoned. Strider knelt to examine the muddle of hoof prints.

“So we are getting closer,” said Pippin hopefully, even as he noted Strider’s stern expression.

“Yes,” the ranger replied, then under his breath added, “but to what?”

“To Frodo, of course,” said Sam, obviously irritated. “Come, we must move on, now!”

“The marks are confused,” said Strider, ignoring Sam’s impatience.

“What?” asked Pippin.

“I seem more sign here than that of three horses,” he said. “These,” he said as he pointed to the largest prints, “were made by another animal, a steed even larger than the ones we’ve been trailing. I fear at least some of the black riders are now between us and your friends.”

Pippin felt the blood drain from his face. “What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means we need to find Frodo right quick!” cried Sam.

“It means,” corrected Strider, “that you, Sam, have never been in greater danger.”

“You are not considering giving up now?" cried Sam.

Strider knelt down so that he was at eye-level with the hobbit. “Sam,” he said, “we have no choice, not anymore. I promised to help you search for a day, and that day has ended. But now we must rest and tomorrow, at first light, fly fast as we may to a place where I have some hope of protecting you.”

Sam gave Strider a look of pure hatred, and on the kind and gentle hobbit's face, it was a heinous sight indeed. Pippin looked from the gardener to the Ranger and back, greatly troubled. His heart was breaking for his cousins, but Strider's words held too much truth to be denied. If it came to it, and Sam went back on his promise, he was not sure he would want to follow his countryman. Suddenly and without another word, Sam sat down and turned his black look on the ground.

“I shall take the first watch,” said Strider. “You two must get what sleep you can. And for what it is worth, Samwise, I am truly sorry.”

Sam turned his back to him and laid down upon the grass, stuffing his bedroll under his head as a pillow.

“It ain’t worth very much.”

VVVVV

Sam planned his escape for Pippin’s watch. The moment the younger hobbit came close to nodding off, he would snatch up his belongings and run. He would keep Frodo’s life first in his mind even as all others in Middle Earth prepared to abandon him.

He would go alone, he knew that now, because only he could save his master. He would not let Frodo be sacrificed. The safety of Middle-earth meant nothing to him. What had it or anyone in it done for Frodo? No, as long as Sam drew breath, Frodo’s life would be bought very dear.

He saw Pippin lean back against a tree. The youngster's head dropped, snapped up, then dropped again. Strider lay somewhat away from the fire. Sam could see naught but his blankets, but assumed from their silent stillness that the man had fallen asleep. Even if he were descended of the old Western kings, as he claimed, he was still mortal and still needed rest just like the rest of them.

He fingered the Ring in his pocket. It was dangerous, but perhaps just once -- to save his master – he could use it. Then together they would destroy the cursed thing once and for all and go back to Bag End and their lives as they had always lived them.

He watched Pippin from behind half-closed eyelids. Of course, he'd avoid putting It on, what with those things so close. He no longer questioned what Strider had said; that they could see him when he put on the Ring, he could feel their cold eyes searching even now. But, if it came to it, he would use it again, if he had to, to save Frodo. Of course he would. It was the perfect tool for thievery, as Bilbo Baggins once discovered. It would be foolish not to use it to steal Frodo back from his captors.

Then it happened. He heard a sound from Pippin that could only be a snore. Asleep. He slipped his pack-strap over his shoulder and very quietly stood.

Pippin did not move.

Sam took a few slow, silent steps out of the illuminated circle of the fire and, at last finding himself clear, tore at full speed toward the trees.

And as he did, he crashed hard into a dark but solid mass.

VVVVV

Merry and Frodo sat together by the fire. Grimbold had taken no chances; both were bound hand and foot and tethered to a tree by a long line of rope. Yet they were together and purposefully left alone.

“Frodo,” said Merry quietly. “If we aren’t able to speak later, I would have you know that I am desperately sorry for all I’ve done – so sorry that even death would not cleanse all the guilt. I have hurt you, restrained you against your will, beaten you, and broken you. I only thought to save you, yet I’ve failed spectacularly. If there is any way I can right this, know that I will do it. My life is nothing now. You’ve every right to hate me. I've behaved contemptibly and inexcusably to the best hobbit I’ve ever known…”

Merry stopped himself before he added 'and I at last understand why you were trusted to carry this loathsome burden to the elves.' No, not yet. If he could keep the painful memory of the ring from his cousin for a bit longer, he would. It would not comfort him now. And Merry was not sure he was ready to face the magnitude of his own folly in trying to keep the thing, something which Frodo would surely perceive immediately.

Frodo did not speak for a long while. The fire crackled and snapped filling the dark silence until at last, he looked at Merry with wide, clear eyes.

“Meriadoc,” he said, “I can’t remember most of what happened, though I know that what you say is true, but you must answer me this; why? Why did you do those things to me? What what possible reason could you have had?”

Merry sucked in a breath, caught in his own web. How could he explain? Ever since they'd left Crickhollow, it had been as if a madness had been lifting from him. He saw his attempts to restrain his cousin through new, horrified eyes, saw the barbaric cruelty he himself had inflicted, and though he knew he had done those terrible things for what he had thought was right; to keep the Ring in the Shire, he could not now fathom how he could have performed them. The truth was, he did not know how he had done them and could not answer Frodo's forthright question. He bowed his head. “I cannot say,” he said.

“Cannot or will not!” growled Frodo. “What are you keeping from me, cousin? How can I forgive you when I don't know your reasons? How could you have possibly done what you claim to one of your own kind? Your own kin? What could possibly have taken hold of you to make you sink so low? Tell me, please. ”

Merry shook his head. “I cannot,” he said, feeling wretched. “It would do no good.”

“Then” said Frodo in a flat voice, “Your apology will do no good either. Until you can put a name to that which eats you from within, you will never move beyond it, and I can never forgive you. Good night.”

Frodo turned away, curled up in his cloak and made to sleep. Too tired to weep, Merry took the edge of it with his bound hands and pulled it lovingly over his cousin's feet.

Frodo was right, and Merry knew it, but how could he understand what he could not even face any longer?

VVVVV

Pippin was startled awake by Sam's outcry. He sprang from the tree he had been leaning against in both embarrassment and horror. His erstwhile companion was nowhere in sight.

“Strider!” he cried. “Strider! Something's happened to Sam!”

Pippin raced to where the man slept, pulled back the blanket and found nothing but his packs. He cursed, recognizing the ruse he and Sam had so recently used on the man.

By the gods! They’ve both disappeared! thought Pippin and a panic rose up in his throat. He was just about to cry out when he heard a faint but clear reply from the edge of the clearing.

“Here, Pippin,” it called. “We are both over here.”

Pippin heaved a great sigh – then flushed, humiliated at being caught sleeping on the watch.

"What are you doing?" he asked, peering out into the darkness. His hand moved uneasily to the hilt of his sword. There had been a strangely fearful tone in the ranger's voice that he had not liked at all. "I can't see you. Come back to the fire if you want to talk. I might have mistaken you for our foes in the dark and taken your heads." He heard the vegetation rustling and his hand involuntarily tightened around the hilt as he stared out into the blackness.

There was a brief exchange of words and suddenly Sam's voice rang out in the night.

“Take your hands from me! You’ve no right to make me prisoner!”

“That is true, Master Gamgee,” replied Strider. “But while you are under my protection, I would seek to keep you from becoming Middle Earth smallest wraith and taking your young countryman and I with you. Will you at least talk with us before you disappear from our sight?”

Pippin could now just make out the forms of Strider and Sam facing each other at the edge of the clearing. Strider seemed to be holding Sam's arm and, as he came closer, Pippin saw there was a look of great sadness on his face. “Did you try to put on the Ring?” gasped Pippin, staring at Sam with a mixture of anger and sadness. “Oh, Sam!”

“Only to escape from this brute!” cried Sam angrily. “I won’t ever abandon Frodo, Pip! I won’t! He’ll have to tie me in a sack if he means to keep me away!” He wrenched his hand free of Strider’s grip and rubbed it, glaring furiously at Pippin. “But I guess you don’t understand much about loyalty, do you?” His voice was so low and filled with venom that he was hard to understand, but he came back to the fire and did not try to flee.

“Be still,” said Strider, but without anger. “I do not mean to tie anyone in a sack tonight – but if you wish to call danger to us, by all means, keep shouting.”

Sam flushed, and quieted, but still looked daggers at both of them.

“He’s only trying to protect you, Sam,” offered Pippin, though the lump in his throat failed to subside.

“I see I am alone in wishing to stick by Frodo.” The gardener’s voice cracked with emotion and suddenly, as if a dam had burst, he dropped to a seat by the fire, bowed his head and wept.

Strider laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

“You are not alone, Sam. Far from it.”

“Then how can you make me give up? How can you make me stop trying to save him? I can’t leave him, don’t you understand? It’s not in me to.” He lifted his tear-streaked face and looked the man in the eye. “How can you force me to abandon my master and call yourself king?”

Strider sat down cross-legged in front of Sam, his eyes sad. “I can’t.”

Pippin jerked his head up in surprise. “What?”

“Sam is right,” said Strider softly. “I cannot force anything upon Samwise against his will.”

Sam looked up, surprised but still wary, and Strider smiled sadly at him.

“I cannot overpower you and take you where you would not go,” said Strider. “For taking the Ringbearer captive – even to save him — would be as claiming the Ring, and that I cannot do and still consider myself worthy to be king. But I can advise you, Samwise, that to put the Ring on now would be the death of us all, and worse than death for you. It would be the end of all the things your master has fought and sacrificed so much to save. Your quest to save your master, though it would be suicide, comes from a true heart.” Strider looked deep into Sam’s eyes. “I will not judge you nor hinder you any longer.

“What do you mean to do then?” asked Sam, his anger cooling.

“I will help you.”

Pippin’s heart filled with pure and unaccountable hope and he suddenly found that he was crying. He had not realized how much the prospect of abandoning the chase had cut him until it no longer hung above him. The alternative might have been a suicidal endeavor, but it was one that tasted as sweet as wine by comparison.

Sam went very still, taking in the man’s words. “You will follow us to Isengard then?”

“If that be your desire, I will,” said Strider. “All that I ask is that you do not strike out on your own again. If you can promise this, Samwise, I vow to help you to the fullest extent of my skill and the limit of my life.”

“Then Mr. Strider,” said Sam with an uncharacteristic decisiveness, “I wish to follow my master. I wish to save Frodo.”

Strider nodded grimly.

“So be it.”

VVVVV

Merry’s terror grew the closer they got to Isengard’s great tower. This would be the end then, he thought. The arrogant defiance that had supported him at the beginning of his journey was gone. He sat dejected and shivering before Grimbold on the great warhorse’s saddle, and looked neither at the menacing horizon, nor back at his cousin riding behind them with Scur. He was wretched and very afraid.

“If it is any comfort,” Grimbold said, seeming to sense his fear. “I do not relish what I must do.”

“Then save us…please,” pleaded Merry, but there was no hope in his voice.

“I cannot. Nor would I. But your fate brings me no joy.”

Merry had no sarcastic retort for the man. There was nothing left in him, no recourse, and no way he could regain control, except for one last desperate play. He bit his lip against the paralyzing fear and strove for the daring to play it.

“Please, ride up ahead a bit,” he pleaded. “I have something to tell you. Something for your ears alone.”

“I will,” said Grimbold. “Though you will turn my mind.”

Grimbold nodded to Scur and Broga and then rode ahead.

“Speak,” he said after they had put some distance between themselves and the other riders.

“We carry a great weapon,” lied Merry. “This you already know.”

“The wizard’s weapon,” said Grimbold warily.

“It is not his,” asserted Merry. “It belongs to Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor...or rather, it was made by him.”

“How then did such a thing find its way into the hand of a Halfling?”

‘That story is too long to be told now,” said Merry. “But you must know that this weapon is more powerful than you could possibly imagine. I tried to control it and it turned all the good intentions I had to evil.” Merry sighed deeply. “I did horrible things in the thing’s name, even though I sought to do good. And this wizard, by his very actions, proves he has no such beneficent purpose for the thing. In his hands, with his skill and power and the intent to do evil, he will bring all that you know to darkness. Can you let him do that?”

“It is not for me to command my master,” said Grimbold.

“But it will be for you to live in the world he will create,” pursued Merry. “Do you honestly think that he will reward you for your effort?”

“Yes,” said the man. “That is what he vowed.”

“Once he claims the weapon, he will be beholden to no one,” said Merry, his voice louder and stronger. “Vows will mean nothing to him. This weapon is so powerful it will mean he need fear reprisals from no one. You will be enslaved as easily as paid.”

“And what would one such as you, a captive halfling, advise me to do then?” said Grimbold, almost mocking. “All your choices have certainly gone ill. What better designs have you than the great Saruman the Wise?”

“I know this weapon,” said Merry cautiously. “And you would make better use of it than your master. Saruman will never reward your virtues to the extent that they deserve. Why not reward yourself? You are stronger than I am, strong enough to turn this weapon to the good purpose I could not. Why be a mere captain for a thankless master, when you could be a king?”

To this, Grimbold gave a bitter laugh. “You would use that which has tempted you to your downfall to tempt me!” he shook his head in genuine amusement. “Well, it shall not work, halfling, though you would have been a fool not to try it, and therefore you will not be punished for your bold ploy, at least not by me.”

Merry flushed. “I don’t understand.”

“You hedge about the weapon as if I do not know its nature,” said Grimbold. “I will tell you now in our last moments together that I do. I grew up hearing the ancient stories and I know the prophecies. Yet do you think me so stupid as to admit such to my men in such a perilous venture?”

“But,” said Merry, flabbergasted. “Why did….?”

“You wonder why I did not just steal this weapon –whatever form it might take, while you slept, or while you were bound beyond possible resistance, and claim it for my own?”

“Yes,” said Merry.

“Because I know a secret that not even Saruman the Wise knows, for all his magic, though he is bound soon to find out,” said Grimbold with an evil grin.

“What?” asked Merry, stunned.

“That you have offered something that was not yours to give. Unfortunately for you, I know something else. You could not offer it even if you wanted to with all your heart.”

“Why do you say this?” asked Merry.

“Because you no longer have it,” said Grimbold flatly.

Merry was stunned into momentary silence. “How long have you known?”

“Since you tried to escape,” answered Grimbold. “I knew then that you did not have it. If you had, you would have used it and that would have been the end of our journey. But we recaptured you and then I knew that you had no weapon to speak of but trickery. Thankfully, I had a fair store of that too.” Grimbold shook his head. “You are out of your depth, halfling. ”

“But what of the Riders?”

“I expected them much sooner,” said Grimbold. “And that too was a clue. Even with the wizard’s arts to keep them at bay, their pursuit should have been more earnest.”

“These riders do not frighten you?” asked Merry.

“They terrify me,” answered Grimbold. “They turn my blood to ice. Yet I was told to expect them, that they could not be held back forever, and once upon us, they would stay upon us. But they turned away and continued their search in another direction.

Merry scarcely dared to breathe. “Where do you think they have gone?”

“I think that they sense something I have suspected for days. They sense the weapon is now carried by another bearer.”

“But that is imposs…”

“Another bearer that is not far away.”

Merry stiffened. Sam! He barely kept himself from calling out the hobbit’s name. Sam and perhaps even his Pippin had somehow followed! And for better or worse, they were near.

“So even though we have not brought back the weapon,” Grimbold continued evenly, “our master cannot say we failed to bring back the Halflings he named.” The man paused. “I, however, shall know in which direction to look for it.”

“What shall become of us!” cried Merry, suddenly frantic. “What shall become of us when he finds we have no Ring?”

“I shall not stay to watch,” answered Grimbold, “as I will be otherwise occupied. I fear it will not be pleasant for you, for I do not think he will allow you to die until you have told him all he wishes to know. For all your faults, Master Brandybuck, I will say you have courage, and I am sure that you will face your doom fittingly. After I have helped my rightful lord gain his rightful throne, I shall lament that you could not have served under me in some small way.”

“That gives me little comfort. Nor shall it give you when I inform Saruman about your ’Rightful lord’.” said Merry.

“He is my master in this errand; the retrieval of you and Frodo Baggins with whatever else you may be carrying, alive and whole. Though I also serve my true lord through this appointment.”

“Then who are you; and who is your lord to share such pretty purposes with Saruman?”

Grimbold turned to see his two men still out of hearing distance. He turned back with a grim smile.

“You have earned some measure of my respect so I will tell you. I am no ruffian by trade, but Grimbold, son of Baldwin, loyal lieutenant to Boromir, son of Denathor, heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, and scion of a line who long ago should have been made kings.”

“The throne of Gondor?” asked Merry. “Did Sarauman promise your Boromir this?”

Grimbold laughed bitterly. “He does not need a wizard to grant him his right and his due; but he does require a weapon. My errand should provide him one.”

“And what stops me from telling that very fact to the wizard ?” asked Merry, threatening in his desperation.

“You are welcomed to do so,” said Grimbold, “for once I have the weapon in my hands, the wrath of Saruman will make no difference, and the black riders will be no match for the might of Gondor. But if I would ask that you wait. Such a disclosure will not save your life, nor help you in any way, but it might keep the weapon, and those who now bear it, from falling into the very hands you so fear. When you say Saruman will use it for ill, you speak true, but my lord will use it to save a great kingdom from sure destruction and usher in an age of peace and prosperity throughout these wide lands…including yours. I cannot save your life, but your sacrifice may help turn back this evil. If you are to die, should it not be in the service of some good?”

“Whose good? It seems I lose either way, and how am I to know I am not being duped now? I would be a fool to trust either of you.”

“The wizard is your true opponent, not I. Perhaps you could convince him you speak true and would gain some respite from torment by telling what you know, but it would not last. You have resisted him, gone back on your word; he will never let you live. Even if you were able to thwart our efforts, which I doubt, your life is forfeit already. Would you not rather at least outwit the wizard in this small thing? You will have done a great service and aided in your true enemy’s destruction.”

Merry thought this over carefully, not sure how to respond.

“Is there any hope, any hope at all, for my cousin and I?” he asked at last.

“There never was much,” said Grimbold. “But never say, my small companion, that all is hopeless – for beyond all hope, I have found a way to save my people and this land. To you and your cousin, I say that, if by some miracle, the Valar find a way to spare your lives, come to Gondor and be rewarded for the ill-fated part you have played.” Grimbold put a reassuring hand on Merry’s shoulder and said, in a soft voice, “We are not so different, you and I. We have both committed fell deeds for a greater future good. Perhaps for at least one of us, the sacrifice will prove worth the price.”

VVVVV

As Grimbold spoke these words, they broke through a thick line of trees into a wide circle of bare stone and ravaged landscape. It was a scene of desolation both to the eyes and their other senses, seeping into their very pores as if they had been drenched in a foul, decaying wave. Smoke rose from inside the giant walls and, at the center of it all, a tower of black reared up before them, its clawed heights grasping at the clouds.

Broga hooted and laughed as they approached and Merry realized he’d never despised the man as much as he did at that terrible moment. Scur was strangely quiet and Grimbold, serious and stern, but Merry knew what thoughts were upon his mind. Frodo’s bearer caught up to Grimbold and Merry watched his cousin’s face grow pale at the sight before them, and yet, though he looked small and helpless, he sat tall, as dignified as any king. Perhaps Frodo had no idea what fate awaited him in that big, awful place, or perhaps he truly was the best hobbit in the Shire and the bravest that Merry would ever know.

As they approached the wall, the stench of burning forges thickened the air and the banging of a thousand hammers clanged like the pounding of thunder. The corpses of countless trees littered the brown land around them, leaving the edge of remaining forest looking like a green line of battle; a battle the trees seemed to be losing.

They rode along the curve of the wall and from above Merry caught his first glimpse of what he knew from Bilbo’s tales to be goblins and orcs. Up close, they did not seem to be the oafish creatures the old hobbit has described, but horrible, strong and cruel warriors of a misbegotten race. The gate was huge; fashioned of whole trees with monstrous iron hinges beaten into loathsome shapes. At a call, it creaked open, revealing the most loathsome landscape Merry could have imagined.

There were orcs and goblins by the thousands, and ugly men, all of who paused in their labors to leer at them with ghastly smiles. Merry felt something cold and black settle in the pit of his stomach as they rode, their horses picking their way along a rough-hewn path through a field of stone columns that bled smoke. Merry choked, his eyes watered, and he wondered how any living creature could breathe here, much less work. And above all loomed the great black tower. Its heights obscured by clouds, it was an abomination from an age long past..

When they reached the stairs, the men dismounted, loosened their burdens and set the hobbits down on unsteady legs. Merry looked at Frodo, who gazed wide-eyed at the tower before him. Both his heart and spirit shattered with grief.

“I’m so very, very sorry,” he whispered.

The men and orcs moved aside as Grimbold, Scur and Broga took their captives up the black stairs. The unfriendly looking door was easily three times the height of a man and swung open on hinges that screeched like a dying animal. The Tower’s maw was open and into it the captives were led.

Their footsteps echoed off the damp, ancient stone as they entered a great hall bereft of furnishings or drapery. They could see little but the watery glow of high torchlights reflecting upon smooth dark stone. An oppressive heaviness inhabited this silent hall; a cold, dreadful weight and a feeling of a vast open space above. Merry dared not speak and barely dared breath. It felt as if he had come inside death itself.

They halted, and slowly a speck of light appeared in the blackness. Merry watched in fascination and horror as it grew larger and then he heard the footsteps. Someone was walking towards them down the unlit passage.

Suddenly, all the lights went out. Merry shivered. The air seemed to freeze in his lungs and he heard the pounding of his heart. The heavy footsteps came closer and the cold increased. Despite the futility of the gesture, he fought against his bonds.

The source of the menacing cold now stood before them.

A sharp crack resounded through the hall and the room was suddenly encased in blinding, white light.

The wizard, Saruman the White, stood before them.

He was tall and grim, his robes shone with a rainbow of colors that seemed to move about him and his staff gave off a circle of light, like a dying sun.

Merry’s legs would no longer hold him. His knees buckled as the wizard approached. A will not his own compelled him to look up into Saruman’s alabaster face. It smiled coldly and, bending down, the wizard grasped Merry’s shoulders in his claw-like hands.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” he said, his melodious voice sending a new chill down Merry’s spine. “What a wonderful surprise.”

A single, long fingernail, brushed a lock of hair away from the hobbit’s face. Merry watched in pure horror, every nerve in his body firing in desperate alarm, but he could not look away. Sarumans’ icy smile broadened.

“How very nice to see you again.”