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Shadows of a Nameless Fear  by Budgielover

Chapter Six – Amongst the Shattered Stones

“Hoy! Hold still, you evil little bugger!”

A small speck of satisfaction threaded its way past the swirling dizziness as Frodo heard the Man grunt in pain. He twisted within the imprisoning cloak and drew back his foot again, driving it forward into his captor’s stomach. Ambush him in the privy, would they? Knock him on the head and sling him over a shoulder like a sack of grain, would they? Carry him away from his friends, would they?

The man doubled over, swearing. He lurched, staggering, and the arm clamped across the back of Frodo’s knees loosened. Frodo kicked his legs up and hunched like an earthworm, trying to fling himself off the Man’s shoulder. He slid forward, a brief vision of dropping on his head flashing through his mind. Then a huge hand descended on his back, shoving him down onto the shoulder, forcing his face against the back of Man’s foul-smelling tunic. Frodo moaned, sick with helpless rage.

It had happened so quickly. He remembered hearing his friends’ solicitous queries outside the privy door as he had straightened, wiping his mouth. His ears still ringing from his hacking, he had never heard the intruders. His thoughts had been on the tongue-lashing he was going to give Merry and Pippin and Sam for their misplaced and unnecessary protectiveness. Frodo winced, thinking of the apology he now owed them. Then hands had clamped on his shoulders and he had been spun around, a stained, stinking cloak thrown over his head. Already sick and disoriented, he could not prevent himself from being lifted into the air and thrown over a shoulder.

Think he was a weak little hobbit, did they? If he only had Sting! Frodo clenched his hands together and arched his back, rocking up as high as he could on the bouncing shoulder. Steeling himself, he slammed his fists against the broad back. The man straightened, as Frodo hoped he would, and called him a filthy name.

He kicked the man as hard as he could, as low as he could. This was no time for the strictures of honour. Their attacking him in a privy, when he had no chance of defending himself, negated them any such consideration. The breath went out of the Man in a whoosh and he stopped running with a suddenness that sent both of them onto the paved stone beneath them.

The Man released his hold across the back of Frodo’s knees as he fell but the hobbit had no time to spring free. Still half-stunned from the blow on the head that had silenced him, Frodo hit the ground with a thud that jarred his teeth, then the Man’s entire weight came down on top of him. He heard the Man groan, but he had no breath for such an utterance. Even three overly protective friends did not weigh as much as this Oliphaunt crushing him. Pinned flat on his back, he pushed at the Man’s body and tried to slide free. The cloak still imprisoned him, wrapped tightly around his body. The man was oblivious to anything outside of his own pain; he writhed on the ground, rolling off Frodo as he curled into a ball and clutched himself.

Feeling the weight on him disappear, Frodo struggled with the dirty cloak, managing to free one arm. He had just worked his head free when a pair of boots strolled to a halt before him. Frodo froze. The man bent over and reached down, his hand closing on Frodo’s shoulder. Not again! I won’t be taken again!  The cry seemed to well from deep within him, both familiar and terrifying.

The hand tightened on his shoulder and started to pull him upright. Frodo latched on to a hank of long, greasy hair with all the strength he had in his damaged hand and yanked.

“AAhhhhh! Holy—!”

The man fell to his knees, releasing Frodo to grab at his head. Frodo scrambled to the side as the man fell backwards, dragging himself free of the cloak. In his hand was a length of long black hair, attached to a sizeable piece of scalp. Blood was beginning to ooze from the edges. He gaped at it, then threw it from him with a shudder. A snarl of fury, barely human, made him look up. Rage was in the man’s face as he crawled towards him, but Frodo did not wait for him to strike. Rolling up on his elbow, Frodo stiffened his fingers and jabbed for the eyes.

“You little—!” The man threw up his arm, blocking Frodo’s strike. Quick as lightning, the hobbit scooted forward, out of either man’s grasp. He slid to a stop several paces away and struggled to his feet. He had to get away, out of—what was this place? They were in an alley littered with huge, tumbled stones, many larger than he was, remnants of the walls of once-fine buildings.

Run! Frodo ordered himself. Find a Guardsman!

He was closer to one end of the alley than the other. A few hundred feet … but he could not. His legs felt leaden and a fine trembling ran through him. His head had gone from dizziness to fierce pounding, sharp stabs of pain near splitting his skull. With each stab, his vision greyed out a little more. He needed time.

Men and hobbit stared at each other, panting. The entire battle had taken no more than a few seconds. The one he had sought to blind was climbing slowly to his feet. The other remained on the ground, still clutching his misery, hatred naked on his face.

“You evil little sod,” the man gasped, as if he were the one affronted. “I’m going to make you sorry you were ever born.” He struggled into a sitting position, then started to creep towards Frodo.

The third man, who had kept himself safely out of the mêlée, circled around Frodo and caught his leader’s arm. “He has to be whole! We promised!”

“Whole don’t mean unhurt,” the leader snarled. “We’ll just tell them he got banged up a little when we took him. They won’t know the difference.”

Frodo was confused. Who were they and them? Did the men mean Aragorn? It did not sound so. Whatever they were talking about, it was not important now — escaping was. Fighting to catch his breath, Frodo backed up, stopping only when the cool stone of a wall halted him. Damage from the Enemy’s siege engines was terrible here; few parts of the walls on either side stood intact. Most bore holes where missiles had torn through them. Some buildings were totally destroyed, only rubble and great blocks of white stone and marble remained, tumbled about like children’s toys.

Such would provide good cover. Perhaps he could hide amongst them until help arrived. Keeping his eyes on the men, he fumbled behind him, feeling the sharp edges of broken masonry. Frodo glanced behind him, then his eyes widened in amazement. Chips crumbled into his hands, sharp-sided and heavy. Weapons. Turning quickly, he gathered these into his hands, rolling them in his palms to learn their shape and weight, readying himself to throw. It was unlikely that these Men were familiar with this ability of hobbit-folk.

The faintest sound alerted him, a bit of rock turned under a booted foot. Frodo ducked and felt air swish past his ears as a pair of arms closed over his head. He flung himself to the side and rolled out of the third man’s reach. On his feet again, he darted between the huge, tumbled blocks of stone littering the alley and crouched down again, fighting the greyness that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Get him! Get him!”

“I’m trying!” the man shouted back. “He’s fast!” Turning back to the scattered blocks, he crooned, “Come here, little halfling. We won’t hurt you. It’s all a misunderstanding, it is. We just want to talk to you.” The man peered into the shadows between two blocks, his face twisting in a sneer. Frodo crouched lower, grateful for the cracking of a stone block that allowed him to see the man without being seen himself. He watched as the man reached into a pocket and held up something. “Look here, little fellow! I have a treat for you! Come out and I’ll give you this nice, crunchy ginger biscuit!”

Frodo could not believe his ears. Did they think him a child? The temptation to teach them otherwise was irresistible. With a quick check on the whereabouts of the other two, Frodo pushed himself up, still using the block as cover. His first stone took out the biscuit. The man jumped, then stared uncomprehendingly at his hand as the tiny bit of sweet biscuit remaining crumbled between his fingers. His jaw sagged comically. Frodo could not resist. His second stone scored right between the man’s eyes.

If only he had his sling! And Sting. And his overzealous friends. And all of Aragorn’s army, while he was wishing. At least he had the satisfaction of seeing the man stagger backwards, one hand clamped to his forehead. The man lowered his hand and stared in astonishment at the circle of red in his palm.

Then his face contorted into a snarl as he saw Frodo peering at him. “He’s hiding in the ruins! It’d help if you two would get off your bums and lend a hand!”

Movement to the left caught Frodo’s eye. He had been visible too long. He ducked back down and began to crawl along a passage between the stones, one hand sliding along the marble blocks to steady himself. He halted and crouched lower as one of the men passed in front of him, searching. The man was using his sheathed sword to poke between the blocks. Frodo watched him look up and frown, then understood the slanting afternoon sun was inhibiting the search, casting deep shadows between the ruined buildings and tumbled stones of the alley.

“Got you!” An enormous hand furled in his jacket and Frodo was jerked to his feet. He had been concentrating so on the man before him that the big man had caught him by surprise. The leader shook him, hard. Frodo’s teeth rattled. “Little man,” his captor murmured, “I am going to make you pay for that kick.  And for every other hurt you’ve given me or my men.” He laughed mirthlessly. “All I have to do is deliver you alive. Just barely breathing still qualifies as ‘alive,’ don’t it?”

Frodo acted without thinking. One of the stones he still held was sharp; he had near cut himself in picking it up. He forced his hand up and slashed the man across the forearm. The man dropped him. Frodo landed on his feet and took off.

The man leaped after him, but he was hampered by the broken masonry the hobbit had taken refuge in. Frodo darted between the stones, silent-footed as a shadow, struggling to control his breathing. He needed to rest, needed to gather his strength. He crouched between two great marble blocks, panting silently, and listened for sounds of pursuit.

* * *

”What?”

The King’s roar shattered the polite conversation of the Court, the nobles and courtiers and honoured guests awaiting their turn to speak to the King spinning around in astonishment. The King was standing, fury almost visibly radiating from him. In one swift movement, he was down the many stairs of the Royal Seat and had seized a man by the throat and lifted him from the floor.

Taken! When? Where?” The unfortunate messenger gargled, his face turning blue, his hands picking feebly at the King’s. Becoming aware that the man’s feet were kicking a tattoo against his knees, Aragorn released him. The sedan chair bearer sank to the marble floor, coughing.

Aragorn knelt beside him, only peripherally aware of Gandalf coming to his side. The wizard’s eyes blazed as he took in the man’s flushed and sweated face. “Frodo?” he asked with dreadful certainty.

Aragorn nodded, his fierce eyes on the man’s face as he struggled to breathe. “The Guards brought this man in when he said he had an urgent message about the Ring-bearer. Faramir sent him.”

The man had stopped gasping, but he looked at the King with fear. “I am sorry,” Aragorn told him gravely. “I did not mean to hurt you. The Ring-bearer is very dear to me.” Aragorn paused, his eyes closing for a moment as he fought for calm. His face was composed when he opened them again, but his eyes burned. “Can you give me your message now?”

The man nodded, his fear fading. Gandalf reached out and helped the man to his feet. The messenger stared at the shining white robes and staff in awe.

“Sire,” the man whispered, forcing his gaze back to Aragorn, “Lord Faramir instructs me to tell you that the Ring-bearer was abducted outside of Mikah’s inn, one level down, past the rat-catcher’s. He—the Prince, I mean—told me to tell you that they are searching for him, he and the halflings and other folk. We don’t know who took him, your Majesty, or why.”

“I can guess why,” Gandalf growled. “There is no person more valued in Middle-earth than Frodo. He—”

“Milord,” the man interrupted, tugging tremulously at the King’s sleeve, “Lord Faramir says you must summon the—”

Guards! To me!” As the King was surrounded by grim-faced men in black and silver, Gandalf motioned for the messenger to follow him. Guiding the man to a relatively quiet corner, the White Wizard began to ask him questions, pulling from his mind and memory every detail that might aid them in their rescue.

* * *

Though the Big People were trying to be silent, Frodo could hear each clearly. The man he had kicked was nearest, his steps dragging. He was still swearing under his breath; no doubt he thought he was being quiet but his foul language travelled easily to sharp hobbit-ears. Frodo could hear him clearly. One of the men, he could not tell which, was also coming closer. Little shuffling noises betrayed him, careless steps on sliding rubble. The third he could hear only as an occasional kicked stone; the man was trying to sneak up on him.

The grey veil was lifting from his vision. Just a little longer, he prayed. Just let me rest a little longer. But the men were getting too close. He had to move or he would be discovered. He rolled the handful of small stones but he would have to stand to cast them, and they would see him.

“There he is!”

Frodo leaped into the air and was moving before he realized the shouter could not possibly have seen him. They had tricked him. He tried to take cover again, but the third man had seen him. “By the door!” the man shouted. “He’s by the door!”

They were coming at him from three sides, and the unyielding marble wall was at his back. He pushed against it as if he could somehow sink into it, and watched his abductors approach.

“Ring-bearer,” murmured the third man, nodding his head in almost a bow. The blood had run down his nose, marking him like one of the strange Men from the South who had fought in the Enemy’s armies. Seeing the hobbit’s eyes upon him, the man dabbed a finger in the blood running down his cheek and licked it deliberately, the action somehow salacious and threatening.

“My name is Frodo Baggins,” he told the men softly. He pulled his jacket straight, pleased to see the leader’s tunic sported a dark, foul-smelling stain. He had thought he had vomited on someone, just before something had slammed into his head and his world went grey.

The big man followed his gaze and his coarse, ugly face flushed. Frodo grinned, a showing of teeth, glad that insult had been added to injury. A mistake, however good it felt. The man reached under his soiled tunic and slowly pulled out a length of rope, unwinding it from his body. He twisted a length between his hands, his gaze promising that it would be used with as much pain as he could possibly inflict.

Frodo! Frodo!”

The calls were faint, but they caught all of them off guard. Quick as thought, Frodo leaped atop one of the tumbled stones that had been a wall before one of the great troll-driven siege engines had destroyed it. He clapped his hands around his mouth. “Pippin! Pip—”

“Git him!”

The smaller man, quicker than the others, dove at him. Frodo abandoned the stone and leaped back, the man’s extended fingers brushing his cloak. The wall stood was behind him; he could retreat no further. The other man had already blocked his right, arms ready to close on him. The largest man, who had carried him, walked around the rubble and stood before him, rocking lightly on his feet.

Frodo pushed back against the wall, trying to watch all three of the men as they advanced upon him. The leader was grinning, his eyes gleaming with malice.  Frodo could too well imagine what would happen to him should that Man lay hands upon him. He sidled along the wall, dodging stones, then his hands met with nothing. The door – one of the men had said he was near the door. Without turning to look behind him, Frodo leapt through the dark opening.

* TBC * 





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