Chapter Nine – Down Devious Paths

Merry rounded the corner at a run, his feet slipping on the cobblestones. Another street stretched before him, narrow and dusty, lined on both sides by wooden doors fronting stone buildings. It looked exactly like the last dozen streets he had searched. And they called Brandy Hall a warren! This city of Men contained innumerable blind corners and countless dead ends and was more confusing by far. He flung himself against another door but it did not open. Frantic, he raced on.

Merry’s frenzied search had been uncharacteristically haphazard. Time and again he had hurled himself against locked doors, peered into shuttered windows, and run quick-footed and desperate though the dark rooms open to him. He could not bear to stand still and listen; all his instinct demanded he move. Nowhere did he find sign of Frodo.

Stumbling to a halt, Merry sagged against a wall, panting. This was achieving nothing, and the kidnappers might be spiriting his cousin out of Minas Tirith even as he sought uselessly through abandoned buildings and deserted alleys. Increasing his sense of being lost and alone was the falling darkness.

Think! he ordered himself. Frodo, unconscious or stunned. Merry could not bear to consider hurt. No one had seen a wagon, so the Man must be carrying him. It would be difficult to carry an insensible body far, and someone would surely see and raise the alarm. And Frodo would fight, Merry knew he would, as soon as he could. No wagon … so the ruffians could not have carried him so very far away.

He was going about this wrong. Blind searching would not find his cousin. Merry launched himself away from the wall and bellowed, “Faramir! Faramir!”

A faint shout answered him. Head turning, Merry listened but could not pinpoint the Man’s location. Curse these great stone buildings and the way they twisted sound! “Faramir! I’m outside the leather shop!”

“Wait!” came the far reply. “I’m coming!”

It seemed hours before the Man strode into view. Faramir’s face was covered with perspiration and he was breathing heavily. Merry ran to him and thrust the dipper from a nearby well into his hands. Faramir took the water gratefully, splashing the last of it over his face.

“This isn’t working,” Merry informed him. “All they’d have to do is lock the door and douse any lights, and we’d go right past them. We need a house-to-house search, with none bypassed.”

Faramir nodded, his breath returning. “Yes, I agree. We will return to the Inn – the King will go there. We must divide the City into quadrants and organize search parties. Every house and building must be accounted for.” He paused, seeing the anguish on Merry’s face. “Don’t be afraid, Merry. They won’t escape.”

“They might be gone already,” Merry whispered to himself as he ran after the Man.

* * *

The King and his grim-faced entourage were nearly to the Inn when the clatter of hooves rode over their shouted orders. Aragorn turned just as two huge grey forms burst into the courtyard. Soldiers scattered before flying hooves and bared teeth but those closest to the King drew their swords and closed around him.

Elladan and Elrohir pulled their stallions to a halt and swung down, their eyes flashing. Recognizing the Elves, the soldiers surrounding the King bowed and gave way, sheathing their swords. A man stepped forward to take the reins but Elladan’s grey lunged at him and the soldier jumped back. Aragorn, Gandalf at his side, strode past them and clasped arms with his foster brothers.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Elladan told them as Elrohir calmed the snorting horses. Ever sensitive to their masters’ moods, the stallions were tossing their heads and stamping, ready for battle. They were lathered, for the twins had been returning from a patrol with the Rohirrim when they had seen a breathless boy run to the gates and gasp out his news to the soldiers there. The twins were urging their horses into a dangerous run before the soldiers had even begun to push the great gates shut.

“Elrond?” Gandalf asked, his worried gaze over the twins’ shoulders.

“He is coming,” Elladan assured him.

“We will not stand by while another we love is taken and tortured,” Elrohir said grimly. Elladan nodded in agreement, his face both angry and sad.

Aragorn nodded, knowing well the unending grief that gnawed at his beloved brothers. “All right. As you have horses, make a circuit the buildings of the lowest level, and order all lesser gates and exits closed. The boy you saw was one of several sent to the greater gates, but the smaller gates have yet to hear. I have sent men ahead of you, but mounted, you will get there faster.”

“We will see that all of the gates and exits are closed,” Elrohir assured him. The twins swung themselves up on their horses and turned them so quickly the animals reared. Hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones, the horses and their riders broke into a gallop the way they had come.

Aragorn turned back to see a small figure hurrying determinedly towards him. “Sam! Are you all right? Where are the others?”

Sam pulled up before him, puffing. “They’ve all gone after Mr. Frodo, sir. I’m fine. Mr. Merry told me I was to wait for you, and tell you–”

Aragorn knelt down and pulled the hobbit towards him. “What is the matter with your feet?”

“Nothing!” Sam retorted, struggling to free the ankle the King was lifting. “Mr. Frodo–”

“Stand still, Samwise,” Gandalf demanded, bending over to glower at him.

Sam hopped backwards, trying to regain possession of his foot. Aragorn tightened his hold and laid a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, effectively locking him in place. Sam didn’t dare kick. ”It’s just a little blood. Mr. Frodo, sir–”

“Carry him inside,” ordered a cool voice. “I will attend him there.” Aragorn and Gandalf looked up to see Elrond hovering over them, the only sign of his hurried arrival a slight gleam on his high forehead. Keen grey eyes studied Sam’s torn and bloodied feet.

“Mr. Frodo–” Sam began, a wail building in his throat. Before he could protest it, Aragorn stood and lifted him easily to his shoulder. Sam gasped and wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s neck, face blanching at the sudden distance to the ground. He gulped and closed his eyes as Aragorn strode towards the Inn at a dizzying pace. Gandalf came after, with Elrond gliding silently behind.

“You are the proprietor?” Mikah met them at the door and bowed, his face bloodless. He swayed on his feet and a townsman standing behind him slid a supportive hand under his elbow. Aragorn brushed past them, having no time and little sympathy for overawed innkeepers. “Bring lamps. I need water, both hot and cold, and clean bandages.“ Aragorn looked around the common room, then sat Sam carefully on one of the tables. “Then I will hear what occurred here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the poor man whispered, hurrying away to do the King’s bidding. Sam looked after him, knowing all too well the feeling of being run over by larger folk.

“Will you listen to me?” he cried desperately. “Mr. Frodo–”

“We know, Samwise,” a gentle voice interrupted. “Prince Faramir’s messenger reached us.” Sam started; he had not seen Legolas’ slender form amongst the milling soldiers. Behind the elf, the leader of the sedan chair bearers gave him a pasty smile, then took advantage of the King’s distraction to slip into a corner and rejoin his remaining man.

“Aragorn is having the gates closed and is ordering a search,” Legolas continued. “Now be quiet and let Lord Elrond see to you.”

“Put your feet in this,” commanded Elrond. Sam dared not disobey. Biting down on a yelp, he dipped his throbbing feet into a basin of warm water. His face flushed scarlet as he realised the Lord of Imladris was preparing to wash his feet.

“Oh no, my lord, you don’t need to–”

“Hold still, Sam,” Aragorn ordered as Sam writhed from pain and mortification both. “Now, I want to know exactly what happened.” Elrond bent over the basin, his long, thin fingers cleaning and examining each abused foot. Tears crowding the corners of his eyes, Sam pushed aside the hurt to answer the King’s questions.

Then Mikah was called, then the chair bearer who had canvassed the witnesses. The man rejoined his employer with relief, almost as pale as Mikah. The King was quiet for long moments after Sam had recounted Faramir and Merry and Pippin’s pursuit. Aragorn’s eyes smouldered and his mouth was a thin, angry line.

“It is almost dark; we will need torches. Divide the men into pairs,” he ordered a grim-faced Man Sam did not know, “and have them search every room of every house and building. If the door is locked, break it down. Tell the men to move out.”

Sam was sliding down to the bench Elrond was sitting on when a firm hand clamped on his shoulder. “And where do you think you are going?”

“You can’t leave me behind!”

“Samwise Gamgee,” Aragorn said sternly. “I forbid you to walk on those feet. Do you understand me?”

“Mr. Strider, sir!”

“No, Sam,” Aragorn returned. “I will not have you cripple yourself. Give me your promise that you will not.”

Sam gaped, caught. Aragorn knew well the reverence hobbits placed on their given word. “But–”

“Sam.” Aragorn could only have picked up that tone of voice from Frodo.

Sam winced. “I promise I will stay off my feet. There! Are you happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Aragorn replied dryly. “It is for your own good, Sam.” Sam flushed, too furious and muddled to answer. He looked down at all he could see of his feet; two bulky white protuberances at the ends of his legs. He tried to wiggle his toes and gasped.

“Let that be a lesson, Master Samwise,” Elrond said serenely. “You are fortunate the damage was not worse. Deep cuts barely closed should not be subjected to racing back and forth on cobblestones. Now, put your feet up and keep them up for no less than three days.” Ignoring Sam’s mute look of appeal, the Elf-lord stood and joined Aragorn at the door. 

Gandalf laid a hand on the shaking hobbit’s shoulder, his voice kind. “You must obey the King, Samwise.”

“Gandalf, please–” Sam tried, but the wizard only squeezed his shoulder and left him.

The soldiers began to file past. Legolas cast him a commiserating look as he went by. But Gimli paused by Sam’s side and waited till Legolas was out of easy hearing. Glancing around, Gimli leaned down and whispered, “You heard Aragorn, laddie. You must not walk after us.” He laid a finger aside his nose and deliberately winked at Sam. Then he was gone, his thick form lost in the darkness.

Sam stared after them, his heart pounding. It wasn’t fair! But Aragorn had made him promise. Sam drummed his heels on the bench, too immersed in his private misery to notice the pain it caused him. Can’t walk … I promised… But Gimli … Gimli said…  Sam’s mouth dropped open. Then he closed his eyes and whacked himself hard on the side of the head. You ninnyhammer! That’s what he was trying to tell you!

The last of the soldiers were leaving, each accepting a lit torch from a man outside. Searching the folk remaining, Sam spotted the sedan chair bearers and waved urgently at them. The two Men looked startled, but came to him at once and helped him off the table and supported his uncertain steps outside.

Sam looked about nervously but Aragorn had left. Once out of the inn, the bearers released him and both men bowed deeply. Sam flushed; he’d never get used to Big People bowing to him.

“How may we serve you, lord?” the man who had served as messenger asked.

“Can you break that big chair down?” he asked them. The leader and his man looked at each other, not understanding. “I mean,” Sam explained, “can you break off that box and curtains and them big poles, so’s the chair is light enough two Men could carry it?”

The leader eyed him apprehensively. “My lord, the King said–”

“He said I weren’t to walk,” Sam interrupted him. “He didn’t say anything about being carried.”

The men hesitated. “I’ll pay for it,” Sam promised. Somehow. “And I’ll make sure the King don’t get angry with you.” Someway.

The screech of torn wood interrupted him. The leader looked up with what had been the back panel of the chair in his hands.  “Wouldn’t even consider payment, sir,” he said. “Today I talked face to face with the King I never thought I’d live to see. And saw an Elf, and a Dwarf, and the White Wizard. The heroes of the War of the Ring.”

The man cast the panel aside and tore another from the sedan chair. The other man was sawing at the long poles with a knife. “Anything we can do for you, lord, or for the one who destroyed the Enemy’s Ring, we will.” The man slowed in his work, his face averted. Sam saw his hands were clenched so tightly on the panel his knuckles strained white.

“I lost both my sons in the war, and my father when I was just a boy. The Ring-bearer’s valour has given my grandsons a future. We all have a future, now.” He looked at Sam and the tears in his eyes glimmered in the torchlight. “I will help you in any way I can.” Sam bowed his head, his understanding greater now of what his master must feel when these folk knelt before him.

In short order, the elegant sedan chair had been reduced to a simple plank of wood between two short poles. The men kicked aside the velvet curtains and bowed. “We’re ready for you, my lord.”

Sam hobbled towards them and climbed aboard. The leader suggested he lay down on the plank instead of sit and Sam agreed; he felt less like he was about to tumble off that way. He clung wobbly but resolute as the men lifted the poles to their shoulders and broke into a trot after the King.

* * *

“The King will pay your ransom,” Pippin told the dark figures evenly, fighting down the fear and the rage threatening to swallow him. He realised he could see their shadowed forms, and that he should not be able to after night had fallen.

He looked up through the gap in the floor above and saw the lantern placed right on the edge of the hole. The Man–Dharnor–must have left it there when he ran to direct Brin and these three around to the cellar door. He looked back at the squat shadows. “Then he will have you hunted down and your heads will adorn the pikes on the gates along with the orcs and the traitors.”

“Big words, little man,” the leader snarled. Pippin ignored the insult. The three looked at each other, and Pippin almost lost his composure when they laughed. Their voices were deep and gravely, like weights dragged over rough ground. “Ransom?” the leader said. “King Elessar can keep his ransom. We don’t want no ransom.”

Pippin was silent, his heart hammering. Had he heard a rustle of movement behind the stone? No, Frodo, he thought passionately. Don’t wake up. Don’t let them find you. He spoke loudly, partly from his desire to know why they did this, and because the one called Shunt had turned his head towards the sound.

“Why then kidnap the Ring-bearer? What do you want with…” Pippin almost said “him” and barely managed to change it to, “me?”

The foremost figure stared at him. The faint light of the lamp shone down on them, illuminating little more than their hoods, the span of their shoulders, and the tips of their boots. The leader reached up and Pippin saw his hands were black-skinned and clawed. “You destroyed our whole world, Ring-bearer.” It pushed back the hood.

Orcs. Pippin had known it in his heart, almost from the first words the leader had spoken. Memories of Boromir wounded and dying, of being captured and forced to run until his heart near burst crowded in on him. Being carried with his nose buried into a stinking, sweating neck, and Merry hurt and unconscious and out of his reach. He could not breathe. The room swam before his eyes.

The leader stepped forward. Extending a claw, he ran it over Pippin’s cheekbone, then lifted his finger to his mouth and licked it. “Blood,” it rumbled appreciatively. “Sweet.” Pippin realised it must be tasting the blood Frodo had coughed on him, and his stomach roiled.

The orc reached out again. Unable to bear being touched by it, Pippin cringed back. It let him, its eyes glittering in the faint light. “The Age of Men was to be over,” it whispered, bringing its finger to its mouth again. “It was to be the Age of Orcs. We would rule, and Men would be nothing more than sport and food. We would do what we wanted, with no lords over us … other than the Dark Lord, of course.

“You ended all that, Ring-bearer.” The orc took a deep breath. “I hid when the Black Tower fell. I wanted revenge more than quick death or a short life being hunted by the Whiteskins and their horses. I listened to Man-talk and learned it. I talk Man-talk good, don’t I?” It sneered at him and the light flashed on its yellow teeth.

“We–” It jerked its heads towards the other two on the stairs, “couldn’t hunt you ourselves – the people of this miserable stone city would have seen us. These foolish men agreed to deliver the one who had caused my grief to me. They got paid good for their work, didn’t they?” The creature gestured towards the bodies sprawled at the bottom of the stairs and laughed. Pippin followed the gesture and glanced away quickly, sickened. What light there was had turned the crimson blood black, and it looked like the still forms were riddled with cracks.

“I wanted the other one, too. It’s said he helped you, that you’d not been able to destroy our Master’s Ring without his aid.” I have to warn Sam, Pippin thought, then realised he had no chance of that. “Well enough,” the orc continued, “you are the one I wanted most. You are the one who threw the Ring into the fire and took away all our sport.

“I had looked forward to that sport, Ring-bearer. I intend to have it. It will be sport indeed to see how long you last, before you become food.”

Pippin’s heart fluttered. Don’t you touch me … I can’t bear for you to touch me… 

“We will go now. I doubt not the gates know of your taking by now, and we would find them barred against us. But we have other ways out.”

No, Pippin thought frantically. No one knows where Frodo is but me! I have to signal Aragorn!

One of the orcs are the stairs growled something, words in a hissing, harsh language Pippin remembered from his nightmares. It pointed at Pippin, then raised its hands, one above the other, as if it were comparing two things of different height. It pointed then at Pippin’s right hand, which he had kept carefully in his breeches’ pocket.

“Show me your hand, Ring-bearer,” the first orc snarled.

No! Pippin thought. No, I won’t–

“What was that?” The orc highest on the stairs spoke, its gaze riveted on the great boulder behind them. Pippin’s heart leapt; he too had heard the faint sound, like a cough or a soft moan.

“Rats!” Pippin near shouted. The three black, misshapen heads swivelled towards him, startled by the volume. “The city is crawling with them. Rats everywhere. Rats in the streets, rats in the pantries, rats in the cellars. There’s one now!”

Before they could stop him, Pippin stooped and scooped up one of the pieces of broken stone littering the floor. He turned and threw it unerringly at the lamp. The lantern exploded into shards and flame, the oil pouring from it to run in dark streams along the floor. Flame followed it, spreading out to catch on pieces of broken furniture and discarded cloth. In moments the room above was in flames, and sparks were falling into the cellar.

“Little fool!” the orc roared, covering its head from the rain of fire. It whirled and pushed past the two on the stairs and ran out into the night. “Bring the Ring-bearer! Bring it!” The others paused, looking up into the growing inferno, but then they rushed towards him.

Pippin did not resist. He allowed himself to be flung over a shoulder, his head bumping against the orc’s back as it ran up the stairs. A smell he still feared in his dreams filled his nose. Pippin struggled to raise his head as the orc gained the top stair. The fire was catching more quickly than he had thought possible. Something, a chair, fell from the room above and shattered into flaming pieces on the floor. Hurry, Strider, Pippin prayed. Find him! Find him!

* TBC *