Chapter Twelve - Between White Stone and Shadows

Merry ghosted after the Man, silent as the bitter wind plucking at his cloak. The man was moving slowly, picking his way through the deserted streets with caution. He paused often to peer around him or look into open doorways, and at such times Merry would use the gift given hobbit-kind not to be noticed. Was the man marking houses to return to later and loot?

Merry cast desperately through his mind for a way to subdue the man. He had considered an ambush; locating a parallel side-street and rushing ahead of his quarry, perhaps to find a wall ready to collapse at the right moment. Suddenly the man began picking up his pace. He seemed more alert too, muttering and swearing, with “damn halflings” being a frequent refrain. He obviously knew these streets, as Merry did not.

This ill-favoured Man knew where Frodo was, and Merry intended to have that information from him by any means necessary. He thought of Aragorn as he had seen him in battle, cold-eyed and merciless, and Legolas, impassive as he killed orc after orc with his bow. Gimli, splattered with blood and gore, the enemy fleeing in terror before his great axe. Merry compared his small ability as a warrior to theirs and fury shot through him at his insufficiencies. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and he longed to confront the ruffian and beat Frodo’s whereabouts out of him.

A memory came to him from what seemed years ago but was in truth only months. One day at the end of the Fellowship’s march, he and Pippin had begged Boromir for another sword lesson, and Boromir had indulged them. Again and again he had come at the soldier, seeking an opening, and been turned aside each time. Boromir did this easily, his calm, confident voice instructive and encouraging. Yet Merry’s temper rose with each thwarted attack, angry that his greatest effort could not score against his opponent. Finally Boromir had called a halt, and leading him away from the others, sat him down where they could speak privately.

“It is not a matter of valour, Merry,” he heard the deep, gentle voice say again, “but a matter of size. Pippin would not stand much of a chance in a wrestling match against Master Samwise, would he?” At Merry’s amused shake of the head, Boromir continued, “And even less chance would he have against an adversary almost twice his size.” Boromir smiled, but Merry saw shadows in his eyes.

“It is foolish to engage an enemy who is so much larger and stronger than yourself. You are very quick, you hobbits. And courageous.” Boromir smiled again, grey eyes warming now. “You will prevail not through force of arms but through your speed and bravery. Turn your size to your advantage, Merry. I have faith in you.” Merry’s hands balled into fists. A surge of grief for a loved friend lost poured through him and a sob rose in his chest and worked its way free of his throat.

The Man halted and stared over his shoulder and Merry saw his face was frightened and wary. Merry hid behind a pillar, waiting while the man examined the road behind him then the tall buildings to each side. The moon was high now, allowing both to see the empty houses and deserted courtyards around them. The destruction was less here; they were leaving the badly damaged parts of the city. The part of the city where Faramir thought he was, Merry realised with a pang.

If speed and bravery were what he had in place of size and strength, then he would use them. Merry took a deep breath, gathering his strength and his will. As the man began walking again, he launched himself from the pillar, gathering speed with each pace. The man did not hear him until Merry was almost upon him. Merry saw his stride lessen. Sword rising into a fighting position, he started to turn around.

Merry leaped, curling into a ball as he flew through the air. He hit the small of the Man’s back and felt him stumble. He fell to the ground but the man yelped and lurched forward, the sword flying from his hand to fall in raucous clatter on the cobbles. Merry sprang up at once, determined to press his advantage while the man was still surprised and off-balance.

He darted around in front of the staggering man and threw himself at the man’s knees. The man yowled and went flying over Merry’s body, sprawling hard on the cobbles. The breath knocked out of him, he lay on the ground gasping like a fish, his hands twitching spasmodically. Merry tugged his sword from his sheath and ran to the man’s head, kneeling to dig his fingers into the greasy hair. The shock on the man’s face was almost comical as Merry dragged up his head and slid the edge of his sword against the man’s throat. The man hissed when cold steel kissed his neck and froze, not daring even to breathe. His dark, wide eyes shone in the moonlight. For a moment, both of them panted in silence. Then Merry said in a soft, certain voice, “Tell me where the Ring-bearer is or I will kill you.”

* * *

In the ensuing silence, the soldier’s retreating footfalls sounded distinctly on the paved street, each muffled thud a little fainter than the one preceding it. A shout drifted back on night air; the soldier’s companions urging him to hurry and catch up with them. The hand tightened over Pippin’s mouth again, then eased off as the hobbit made no sound.

Goodbye, Pippin thought sadly, bidding farewell both to the soldier and to his hope of rescue. Part of his heart begged the man to return, and part was passionately grateful that he did not. Three armed and ready orcs against one soldier – it would have been a slaughter. The other three men would doubtless have been drawn by the sounds of conflict and also killed. It was better that one die instead of four. Another tear slid down his cheek and over the orc’s hand.

“Little filth!” The orc holding Pippin shook him hard, easing up on its clamping across his mouth. “Stop leaking on me!”

Not wishing to antagonize the creature, Pippin shut his eyes, squeezing back the tears. The other orcs left their hiding places and rejoined his captor, hissing to each other in their harsh, ugly language. They were not paying attention to him, other than the restraining arm draped on his shoulder and held loosely over his mouth. He looked from one to another, knowing he might not get another chance. Refusing to think of what he was doing lest his courage fail him, Pippin bared his teeth, opened his mouth, and bit down on the orc’s hand as hard as he could.

The orc froze, as much from shock as from pain. Instinctively it jerked away him. Pippin seized the opportunity and bolted, head down and feet churning, spitting out coarse hair and the foulest taste imaginable. If he could get far enough ahead of them, he could find a hiding place and they would seek him in vain. He could outlast them, he knew; they could not risk being seen by the city’s inhabitants when the sun rose.

“Catch it! Catch it!” The leader sprang after him with the others following, the one he had bitten last. Pippin skidded around a corner and shot into a smaller road, risking a quick glance back to see how close they were behind him. They did not look swift; how could they run so fast?

Why did none of these roads seem to lead back to Frodo? Pippin ran past an alley, rejecting it at the last moment. Fear for his cousin rose like bile in his mouth and he regretted anew his decision to set fire to the house in the hope that Aragorn would be drawn there. At the time it seemed he could do nothing else to protect Frodo but his impetuous action seemed, in retrospect, beyond foolish. 

Light sparked in the dark and Pippin heard the ring of metal on stone bare inches from his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw something fall, moonlight flashing on metal. One of them had thrown a knife. He ducked and redoubled his speed. “Fool!” the leader snarled, clouting the knife thrower. “Don’t hurt it! It must be whole so we may kill it slowly!”

The orc he had bitten drew even with the others then passed them, its rage lending it speed. It was gaining on him. Pippin dared another glance over his shoulder; it was less than a body-length away, its heavy arms extending to grasp him. Too close. He could not outrun it, and the leg injured in battle was beginning to pain him. Spinning on his heel, Pippin pivoted and darted down a side street. The orc lumbered past the entrance, then reversed itself and stumbled into the other two as they gained the opening. All three struggled with each other to force their way after him.

Some twenty feet into the street, Pippin slid to a stop as he beheld the lane ahead of him cluttered with rubble. Not only broken blocks of marble and debris from the war, but discarded household furnishings and rubbish. You are faster than they, he thought frantically. Make them chase you under– Something slammed into his back like one of huge boulders from the Enemy’s catapults. Pippin reeled forward, throwing out his arms to shield his face from smashing into the cobblestones.

He hit the ground so hard he slid forward several lengths, irreparably ruining Frodo’s jacket. He hardly felt the pain, so stunned was he. Then in a rush feeling returned, and Pippin cried out in pain and chagrin both.

“Let me kill it!” snarled the orc he had bitten.

“No!” The leader forced itself in front of the other, blocking it. “Listen! We are almost free of this place!”

The other lunged around it, its claws reaching out for Pippin. His head still ringing, he rolled away from it. Get up, Pip-lad, Pippin thought to himself muzzily. Run! His limbs remained wooden. Peregrin Took, Pippin ordered himself in Frodo’s voice, Get up this instant! He imagined that look his cousin got when he was well and truly angry. Frodo’s face would pale, and two red spots would heat his cheeks. A little strength returned to Pippin as he concentrated harder on his image of an outraged Frodo. The way Frodo had looked the time Merry carted him back to Bag End in a wheelbarrow after his attempt to impress Pansy Mossybanks with the number of ales he could drink. Ungrateful lass.

With Frodo’s image urging him on, Pippin struggled onto his hands and knees. He was dimly aware of an argument going on behind him, punctuated with blows. Had any of that wonderful meal at Mikah’s inn remained in his stomach, he might have been sick. He was still considering the possibility when a pair of boots stepped in front of him. A clawed hand reached down and fastened on his collar, dragging him to his feet. He swayed, fighting to stand tall and straight. He would not cower before these creatures.

“Don’t like our hospitality, Ring-bearer? Not exactly your King’s table?”

“I would rather starve in the King’s midden-heap than dine with the most exalted of your lords,” Pippin replied evenly.

With a snarl, it struck him across the face. Pippin collapsed to the cobblestones, recovered enough now to feel every sharp stone beneath him like a bruise. The orc drew back its boot to kick him and Pippin steeled himself for the blow.

Instead it growled something and glared at the other two. “Carry it,” the leader ordered.

The bitten orc reached for him eagerly and Pippin scooted back on his hands and knees. The leader seemed to realise its orc’s eagerness to obey boded ill for their captive, for it caught the orc's arm, snarling at it. Then it turned its head and spoke to the other. That one reached beneath its cloak, pulling out coil after coil after coil of rope.

Pippin stared at the huge mound of rope, mystified. What was all of it for? He knew asking would only earn him another cuff, and his head still rang from the last. The orc shook out a short length, perhaps five feet, and cut it free.

The leader took the length and folded it back on itself. Pippin’s mouth dried as he saw it fashion the rope into a loop, a hangman’s noose. The orc laughed at his expression and draped the noose over his neck, pulling the knot tight enough to hurt.

“You be good now,” it said in almost a caressing tone. “You be good, you breathe. You try any more tricks, you don’t breathe. Understand?”

The rough hemp of the rope was cutting into the delicate skin of his throat. Pippin nodded. The leader gave the rope a casual flick and they started walking, Pippin ahead of the orcs like a lamb on a lead to the slaughter-house.

They walked for what seemed a long way, and the moon drifted cold and uncaring overhead. Pippin looked about but he did not know this place. The damage from the siege was less evident here. Looking ahead, Pippin saw the reason - these buildings had been sheltered by the wall, the great stone bastion that protected the city. They stopped before the black mouth of an opening not far from the wall and one of the orcs slipped into it. It was gone for several moments then it returned, gesturing with a clawed hand, and Pippin was forced to follow it into the dark.

It was an alley, deserted but for discarded barrels and crates and a few startled rats. Moonlight glimmered on some unidentified liquid pooling on the ground. Pippin scrunched up his nose as they passed it, for it stank.

At the leader’s unintelligible growl, the other two moved to the rear of the alley where a great stack of broken crates and casks were piled against the wall. They wrestled the casks and crates out of the way, and from their lightness, Pippin deduced they must be empty. Camouflage. A hole was revealed behind it, a gaping maw of darkness. The great wall was so thick that it formed a shallow tunnel and the orcs crowded into it.

“Smuggler’s bolthole,” the leader rumbled, more amiable now they had reached their goal. “Bring in forbidden things, take out forbidden things.” It laughed. “No taxes and no questions.”

A jerk of the rope dragged Pippin into the hole. Unable to resist his curiosity, he stared out of it, out into the star-pricked blackness of night. Far, far below, the Pelennor Fields shimmered under the moon’s rays, looking more like an artist’s charcoal rendering than a place where people had fought and bled and died.

The plain swam before his eyes and the blackness seemed to reach up to consume him. He slipped forward, sinking to his knees. A claw fastened on the back of his neck and pulled him back. “Not so easy a death for you, Ring-bearer,” the leader growled.

One of the others was rooting about in the casks. There was a loud squeal then it emerged with a squirming rat in its fist. It bit off the rat’s head and spat it out, then crammed the quivering body into its mouth. Blood ran from between its teeth as it chewed. Pippin decided he was very glad his stomach was empty.

The orc slurped up the tail and swallowed. “I don’t trust it,” it growled with a gesture at Pippin. “It might seek to fall, spoiling our sport.”

The leader seemed to consider this, looking at the hobbit measuringly. It nodded and told the one who had spoken, “Tie it to my back.”

Pippin was hefted onto the orc’s back and ropes were run under his legs, looped over his arms. The rope around his neck was removed for this purpose and he could not restrain a gasp of relief. The orcs laughed and the one he had bitten stroked a claw across the weal the rope had left.

Pippin kept his right ring-finger folded into his palm so tightly his hand was cramping but their minds on their escape, the orcs did not notice that this Ring-bearer had all of his fingers. The great mound of rope was again produced and after some discussion, one end tied around a stone cistern standing near the wall. One orc ducked into the bolthole and grasping the rope, turned around and braced its feet against the edge. Hand by hand, it began to let itself down the rope.

The bitten orc nodded to the one carrying Pippin. They conversed briefly then the leader entered the hole and turned around, its clawed hands on the rope. Pippin fought down a cry as he was suspended over nothing. His weight seemed negligible to the creature. As the leader began to descend, the other orc leaned over the edge and reached past the leader’s head to catch Pippin’s chin in its hand. Pippin pulled back from the taint of the orc’s breath as far as his bonds would allow. “You cry out,” it said grimly, “and I cut out your tongue. You understand?”

“Yes,” Pippin whispered.

The orc carrying him barked a laugh. “The tongue to start,” it said with satisfaction.

Hand under hand, the orc lowered itself. Pippin marvelled at its strength even he saw the wall rise past them. The rope above him swung and Pippin craned back his head to look up. The last orc was following, swinging easily down after them. What seemed miles of pale stone passed before Pippin’s eyes as the orc carrying him slid down in swift, controlled lengths. When his orc at last released the rope and dropped to the earth with a thud, Pippin’s heart dropped with it. They were outside the walls of Minas Tirith.

* TBC *