Chapter Fourteen 14 -  In the Light of the Dying Moon

“The King will find you,” Merry gasped. His head was being pulled back at an agonizing angle, cruelly and deliberately. The man’s grip on his hair was bringing tears to his eyes, turning the moon-washed street into a hazy halo of light. “I am his friend. He will never stop hunting you.”

“He’ll have to find me first,” Lammor growled. “And your dead body won’t tell him nothing.” The fist clenched and Merry felt prinks of pain as hair ripped from his scalp. “Not that I’m staying to find out. There’s ways out of the city he don’t know about, him and his advisors and his Rangers and his fancy Elf friends. I’ll be gone long before they find you.”

“No,” a voice behind Merry stated flatly. “You won’t.”

Two voices, Merry realised, so alike in pitch and timber they sounded as one. Merry’s breath went out of him in a whoosh of relief. The grip on his hair tightened as his captor turned to look behind him, then Merry felt the hand tremor as a shudder passed through the Man.

“Release the hobbit,” one of the voices commanded.

“And do not hurt him,” ordered the second. “Lay the sword on the ground – slowly.” The grip on his hair eased and Merry heard the clatter of his sword as the man dropped it on the cobblestones. The moment the man was off him, Merry scrambled sideways on all fours and snatched up his sword, not daring to turn around until he was out of the man’s reach.

Elladan smiled at him from behind his great bow, the point of its arrow never wavering from the Man’s heart. Elrohir had drawn his sword but he too spared the hobbit a smile as the grey stallion he rode pranced nearer. Its great head came down to nuzzle Merry and whuffle into his hair. Merry gulped and managed a laugh, stroking its nose and receiving a sloppy lipping of his hands in response.

“Hullo,” Merry said tremulously, hearing his voice shake.

His eyes on the Elves, the man tried to retreat a step. Instantly the stallion laid back his ears and extended his neck past Merry, his great chisel-like teeth bared. It nickered warningly. The man blanched and stood very still.

Elrohir glanced at his brother and Elladan nodded. Sheathing his sword, Elrohir swung down from his mount. He gasped as a moment later, short but strong arms locked around his middle and were hugging him tightly. Elrohir smiled and returned the embrace, raising a hand to stroke the young hobbit’s hair.

“It’s all right, Merry,” Elrohir whispered. He frowned as he felt the hobbit shaking. Gently unwinding the arms, he knelt and looked into Merry’s face. “Are you all right, Merry? Did he hurt you?”

Merry drew a deep breath and raised his head to look the elf in the eye. “I’m all right. I’m not hurt.” After a moment, he added, “Thank you.” Elrohir smiled at him again, relief and joy in his eyes, and Merry could not help but smile back.

“Do not.” Elladan’s brisk warning made them both turn.

The man slid his hand away from the knife in his belt and held up his hands, palms outward.He smiled ingratiatingly, the sweat on his face shining in themoonlight. “I’m not going anywheres,” he assured the elf. “Sir.”

“Wise of you,” Elladan remarked dryly.

Careful never to place himself in his brother’s line of fire, Elrohir relieved the man of the knife. Elladan kept his draw as his brother searched the man for other weapons, controlling his horse with his knees. “What is your name?”

“Lammor,” the man replied, disgruntled. Calmer now, Merry retrieved the man’s sword and handed it to Elrohir for safekeeping.

“How did you find me?” Merry asked as he trailed Elrohir back to the horse.

“We just followed the sounds of battle. Aragorn told us where there is shouting and swearing, there is usually a hobbit.” Merry tried to marshal a glare but he could not maintain it, sagging against the horse’s legs in weariness.

“And we were searching for you,” Elladan added, his gaze never moving from their prisoner. “We met two of Aragorn’s search parties; they alerted us that you had not returned with Prince Faramir. Is Pippin with you?”

Fear stirred in Merry’s heart. “Pippin? No, I haven’t seen him since we split up to search for Frodo – that was hours ago. You mean no one has seen him?”

Their faces told him the answer even before Elladan said gently, “We have had no word of him, Merry. We went to all the Gates, both greater and lesser, and relayed Aragorn’s order that they be closed. No one there had seen him. But Frodo has been found and is in the care of our father.”

Elladan’s last words, meant as a reassurance, did not succeed in its purpose. Something in the elf’s careful words frightened Merry. “In the care? What does that mean? Is he all right?”

The twins hesitated, looking over his head at each other. Merry went cold and his heart began to trip. “Elladan? Is Frodo all right?”

“No, Merry,” the elf replied gravely. “He has been badly injured. A fall, one of the soldiers said, then harm from a fire, though we were told that is not so bad.  But Elrond is with him, and there is no better healer in all of Middle-earth. Can you doubt it, after he saved Frodo from the Morgul-shard?”

Relief made Merry weak. He swayed and Elrohir hastened to grasp his arm. “I’m all right,” he said faintly. “I just … I haven’t eaten anything since lunch.”

“That, at least, we can remedy,” Elrohir said. He guided the hobbit over to his horse, which dipped its head so Merry could scratch between its eyes. Friendship renewed, the horse held perfectly still so Elrohir could lift Merry onto its back.

 “You, Man – Lammor,” Elladan said. “Walk.”

“I don’t know nothing,” Lammor whined, raising his hands. “That halfling attacked me. I was just walking along, and he snuck up on me and attacked me.”

“He knows where they kept Frodo,” Merry retorted. “He was in on it.”

“They made me,” Lammor shrilled. “Dharnor and Brin. I ran as soon as I could get away from ‘em.”

Rage flared in Merry. “You told me someone hit you!” He curbed his tongue, thinking. “Pippin… That’s when you deserted, isn’t it? Was the house already on fire, and Frodo still inside?”

The man looked between the Elves and the hobbit, almost as if he did not know which to fear most. “I don’t know nothing. The house was burning when I woke up.”

“Peregrin Took saved your life,” Elladan told him flatly. “You would be a burned corpse with the others had his actions not saved you from the flames.”

“They’re dead?” Merry asked, his heart lifting at the news. The next moment he felt shamed, knowing how horrified Frodo would be at his joy that the men were dead. He leaned forward and the horse shifted, uncertain if it was being given a command. “Why hasn’t Pippin shown up?”

Lammor refused to meet his eyes. Merry twitched the reins and the horse moved nearer. “Where is my cousin?” He drew his sword, rage and fear burning in him like a brand. “Where? Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” Lammor cried. “I tell you I don’t know! Get him off me!”

“The King will question him, Merry,” Elladan said grimly. “Put up your sword.”

Reluctantly, Merry did. Elladan nodded in approval. To the man he said, “And I advise you to answer truthfully, and quickly. He is not gentle with those who harm the people he loves.” He jerked the bow. For a moment Merry wondered at the elf’s strength, to hold an archer’s stance while ahorse and for so long.

The man stumbled into a walk and Elladan fell in behind him, still at full draw. His horse’s reins dangled; neither rider or mount needing them. The stallion’s teeth were bared to bite, mirroring the mood of its master.

To his embarrassment, Merry’s stomach chose that moment to growl – loudly. Elrohir handed him his helm, then placed a squarish packet into his hands.  “Here,” Elrohir told him as he swung himself up and settled himself behind Merry, “Being friends with hobbits has taught us the importance of always carrying food.”

The package felt oddly cool and … slick. Saliva flooded Merry’s mouth and he tore away the leaf wrapping.  “Lembas!”

* * *

At its leader’s order, the orc who had come down the rope first drew its knife and came forward, its yellow fangs glinting in the moonlight. Pippin’s heart hammered in his chest and he tried to rear back, but the ropes were bound around him too tightly. He could not move as the creature raised the knife and brandished before his face, taunting him. The other snarled at it and cuffed it and it cringed, then sidled around the leader and began to saw at the ropes holding Pippin to the creature’s back.

“Hurry up,” the leader growled, shifting its shoulders like a horse twitching off a fly. “The Ring-bearer stinks.” Pippin bit his tongue on a retort; the stench of the creature had near overwhelmed him and he was as eager to be free of it as it was of him. More eager.

The leader’s impatient movements were not helping the orc trying to cut him free; it was being forced to follow as the other kept circling the swinging rope, barking at the one following to speed its descent.

“Move back, then,” Shunt called back, “Lessen you want me to drop on you.”

The leader lurched out of the way and the orc cutting Pippin free hastily moved its knife before it cut other than hemp. Pippin closed his eyes and sagged against the orc’s back, refusing to watch the last strands part. When all three orcs were down, they would take him far from Minas Tirith and from Merry and from Frodo and Sam, and they would hurt him until he died. Pippin buried his face into the orc’s stinking back and hot tears filled his eyes.

At least we are away from Frodo, he thought, wishing at that moment nothing more than to see his cousin’s face. Had Aragorn seen his signal and reached Frodo in time? He would never know. The thought that he might have failed his cousin – worse, caused his cousin’s agonizing death  – suddenly overwhelmed him and he shuddered. Acid burned in his throat and he fought against being sick, knowing for a certainty that if he vomited on the orcs, his torture would begin that much sooner.

He swallowed it down with an effort, feeling it burn down his throat into his empty stomach. Pippin looked up past the descending orc to the white wall of the city, the long, long rope looking like a crack in the stone. He realised the moon must be going down to cast the light so. Would anyone find the rope, and connect it with his disappearance? How long until Aragorn heard?

The orc freeing him moved the knife to the last rope binding him to leader’s back, tied under his legs, and began to saw. It was taking its time, being careful not to cut the larger, stronger orc. There would be no better chance to escape, Pippin thought. One still on the rope, one facing away, and (unfortunately) one inches from him with a knife. He tried not to look at the knife; at how close it was, at how sharp. Ready there, Pip? he asked himself. It’s now or never, my lad.Pippin dropped an inch as the rope stretched, then as the last strand parted, he fell to the earth and was on his feet and running.  

But he had not counted on the effects of being lowered down a high wall with ropes tied around his body and legs, cutting off the flow of blood to his limbs. His body did not obey him. Instead of a long leap and a fast sprint, Pippin stumbled forward and his feet tangled with each other. His legs promptly gave out from under him. He fell forward, throwing out his arms to break his fall. The ground came up to meet him and he banged his chin on the rocky earth. Stars flashed before his eyes and he tasted dust and grit.

For a moment the orcs stared at him and his pitiful attempt at escape in astonished silence. Then the leader leaned over Pippin and began to laugh. It was a harsh, ugly sound. Raising a foot, it put it on Pippin’s shoulder, pinning him in place. His face burning, Pippin closed his eyes, the threatened tears starting to course down his cheeks.

The orc laughed. “Weak little Ring-bearer! Can’t even stand up! You’ll have to come up with more backbone if you’re to be good sport.”

Shunt released the rope and dropped to the earth with a thud that Pippin felt jar his bones. They surrounded him, now. He felt vulnerable on the ground, defenceless, frightened that he could not see all of them at once. He tried to slide out from under the imprisoning foot, but the orc just bore down, crushing him. He stopped trying to move and the pressure eased off a bit.

“Soft,” Shunt sneered. “It will be tasty fare, beaten to tender. Let’s start now.”

“No! The sun will be coming up. We take it far from here, where no one can see or hear. There are Elves up there – maybe they hear. I’ve waited too long to give up this prize.”

“I want to hear it scream!”

The argument escalated and the orcs began to shove and push each other.Pippin could not tell if the third orc was for or against torturing him now; it cringed away from the larger ones and keep peering up the wall, clearly fearing pursuit. Go ahead, Pippin thought at the quarrelling orcs, kill each other. That’s what your kind does. 

But the leader ended the dispute by drawing its knife. “Not here! I want it where I have all the time I want. It might last for days, if we’re careful.”

Shunt backed up, its eyes on the blade. “Just a few screams,” it begged, staring at Pippin. “To repay it for biting me.”

The leader licked its muzzle, its desire for blood warring with its better sense. “It was a long drop down the walls ... and it was heavy…” Claws clenching around the knife, it angled it to catch the last light of the dying moon. “Yesssss…

“Maybe just a little fun… All right, as a foretaste for later. But we must keep it quiet.”

“Cut out its tongue,” Shunt suggested. “It can’t make much noise, then.” It grinned down at Pippin, delighted to see its threat fulfilled. “Just bleating noises. And it will stay whole ... mostly.”

But the one who did not speak at least some of the Common Tongue seemed agitated. It pointed at Pippin, gesturing urgently, snarling something in its hideous language.

The leader yowled and stamped forward. Pippin cringed back, fearing it was about to kick him. He tried to curl himself into a ball and protect his head, but the creature reached down and dragged him up by his arm. Pippin nearly cried out at the pain, feeling as if his arm were being torn from its socket. But it wasn’t his arm that interested the creature. In a surge of fear and sickness, Pippin saw the creature was holding him by his right arm, its jaw sagging in disbelief as it stared at his hand and the five intact fingers there.

* TBC *