Chapter 19 – The Blue Wizards

The turret room is large enough that the Variags can surround Sauron easily once he reaches the middle of the room yet he cannot remain in the doorway, so close to the stairs and a hopeless uphill battle. They will overpower him instantly if he allows that to happen. His only chance is to cut through them as quickly as he can, yet that will be no simple task. They have the advantage of armor, thick steel and tough leather over heavy mail, and they are not simple-minded orcs who rely on strength of numbers rather than skill, nor are they innocent men enslaved by a force too powerful to resist. They have been bred and reared with a lust for blood, trained by Sauron himself to be the Elite. It will not be enough to merely disable them; he must destroy them utterly or else be destroyed.

Sauron charges into the band of Variags, his sword and scimitar singing through the humid air of the turret room, the golden rays of the sinking sun glittering off the steel blades. As the scimitar flashes, its great diamond reflects the sun’s rays, temporarily blinding his nearest opponents, but this is not the advantage he needs it to be. As one opponent is blinded, another takes his place, and soon enough of the window is blocked and the diamond sleeps. 

He manages to get in a few jabs before the sun is shaded, but nothing fatal. The Variags are ready for him, almost as though they have been warned of his coming, but Sauron does not have the time to worry about the implications of this as they come at him from all sides. Their lieutenant commands them with quick and brutal orders that are followed instantly and they move around each other in an organized dance of hard steel and savage grunts. It is everything Sauron can do to counter and block their strikes, yet they draw first blood all the same, the lieutenant’s scimitar grazing Sauron’s right arm as he dodges just in time to miss the fatal blow. 

Sauron wields his weapons with expert ease, keeping them constantly moving in a whirl of flashing steel to deflect the advances of his enemies. They keep him busy parrying and dodging so that he cannot set up an attack, and when one line of attackers steps back another quickly replaces them, taking rest for themselves while he is granted none. He strikes when he can, cutting flesh but doing little real damage, and each strike costs him, his thin Haradrim robe offering no protection from their biting scimitars. 

Finally he manages to trick a few of the Variags into the stairwell. He pushes them backward before they can realize their peril, and they tumble down the stairs with clangs and curses. They will return but for the moment that is three less he must worry about. He whirls around just in time to miss a strike to the spine. He grabs his attacker’s wrist and drives his knee into the warrior’s forearm, forcing him to drop his scimitar. Then Sauron twists his sword around and drives it into his attacker’s gut with a devastating upward thrust. One down.

He pulls his sword free and pushes the dead warrior into a line of approaching Variags, pinning them under the heavy body. The remaining warriors are now slipping into chaos and Sauron takes advantage of this. He quickly cuts through two more opponents, dropping to his knees to thrust his sword and scimitar upward, under their armor and mail. Black blood rolls down the blades as he draws them out of their vanquished targets. 

Sauron jumps up and advances swiftly on a fourth. As he is setting to parry, he senses an attack from behind and he quickly dodges out of the way, letting the charging Variag dispose of his own comrade. Then Sauron swings his sword with decapitating force and the charging Variag drops limply to the floor. 

Five are now defeated, but the three he had pushed down the stairs have returned and the remaining warriors have regrouped and are setting up their attack. Four of the remaining Variags, including the lieutenant, have successfully wounded him, and they are all eager to improve their counts. 

A couple of the Variags are bleeding mildly but none of their wounds will slow them in the slightest. Sauron quickly assesses himself. The cut on his arm has clotted already, as have wounds to his thigh and shoulder, but the wound to his abdomen still bleeds. He can feel the blood drenching the front of his robe and dripping down his legs to the floor.

The lieutenant sneers, smelling victory. He narrows his eyes and with a nod of his head, the others spread out, lining up their attack. He nods again and they charge at Sauron from the sides as the lieutenant charges from the front. 

Sauron has but a moment to glance out the window before it is blocked again: five minutes to go. He growls in frustration and adjusts his grips on his sword and scimitar as he prepares his second defense. 

Amros calls a halt when they reach the top of the trail. The warriors, Semira and Rick gather around him just within the bend of the hilltop, keeping themselves as silent and still as stone. They wait as Amros and Cepros creep forward, slithering along the ground like snakes until they are far enough to assess the layout of the fortress, lake and the surrounding hilltops. They are not happy with what they see and after a few moments, they slink backward, returning quickly to the others. They speak softly in Haradrim to their comrades. 

“A sneak attack is not feasible,” Amros informs them. “The fortress sits on a small isle in the lake. There is no entrance on this side of the fortress other than the main gate, and that is barred by the drawbridge. If there are any other entrances, we will only be able to get to them by swimming and then climbing up the rock wall of the isle.”

“We must get them to lower the bridge and open the door,” Cepros says.

“We might as well ask them to hand over the hobbits freely then, while we’re at it,” says one of the warriors grimly.

“We can wait for the next transport,” another warrior suggests.

“That could be days away. We could wait for cover of night and try to swim around and look for another entrance,” Cepros says.

“No. We need to get in now, before another moment is lost,” Amros says. “But how?”

They bend their heads in thought, turning over the dilemma in their minds, looking for weaknesses to exploit. One by one, they each shake their heads and a few repeat Cepros’s idea of waiting for the cover of night, which is not very long away now. Only Semira refrains from giving an opinion and when the men turn to wait for her suggestion, they find her assessing Rick with a shrewd look. Rick too notices this and tries not to fidget under her regard.

“I have an idea,” she says at length and nods, satisfied with her plan. “Sauron got in by handing over a hostage. So, I think we shall hand one over too, yes?”

“And who are we to hand over? The boy?” Amros says, in the clear opinion that this is a bad idea. “What would the wizards want with him? He means nothing to them. That will not get us inside.”

“No, but if he were to capture one of us…” she continues. 

“He will run away!” Amros argues. “It is out of the question.”

“He won’t run. He wants the Ring-bearers recovered just as much as we do, and he will not leave without Sauron,” Semira reasons. “Untie him, Amros, and give him your scimitar to carry.”

“You cannot be suggesting what I think you are suggesting,” Cepros says, astounded at what can only be considered a desperate plan. 

“The wizards have a bounty on your head as well, Amros,” Semira says, ignoring the interruption. “It is nearly as large as the one on the Ring-bearers, if the rumors are true. They will open the door for the man who has captured you.”

Cepros and the warriors laugh softly. Cepros shakes his head, looking Rick up and down. Besides his doe eyes and innocent expression, Rick is half the size of Amros and even if he has some skill with the sword he has been carrying, he will never be able to overcome the great Sultan of the House of the Sun. 

Rick squirms against his bonds and tries not to bristle at this frank inspection. Whatever is being said, it is clearly about him and it is clearly not very nice.

“They will never believe that such a boy captured the mighty Amros,” one of the warriors points out. “They are more likely to shoot Amros through with arrows, and shoot the boy as well.”

“Then he will capture me,” Semira says and cuts the ropes binding Rick’s hands before anyone can argue the point. Rick looks at her in surprise at this sudden development and begins to ask what is happening when she holds her hand up for silence. She switches to Westron so he will understand. “The wizards might not believe that he has captured the mighty Amros, but the wife of Amros is quite a prize, yes? They will believe that more readily and they will not be so eager to kill me. They would hold me for ransom, among other things.”

“Wife?” Rick says, the blood draining from his face. He staggers backward as one just punched in the gut and he looks between Semira and Amros, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. Surely, she is just offering to play another role?

Semira nods. “I am the Sultana of the House of the Sun,” she answers, looking at Rick with sympathy and pity. “I am sorry, Rick, that I could not tell you sooner, but we do not have time to speak of it now. Take my scimitar.”

“No, Semira,” Amros says gravely, stepping between her and Rick. He takes her firmly by the shoulders and shakes his head. “It is too dangerous. I will not let you.”

“Too dangerous? No more dangerous than storming the castle by force, no more dangerous than spending the last month escorting the Eye across our land,” Semira reasons. “And as for not letting me, I am not one of your men who must wait for your permission to sneeze. We need to get into the fortress, and we need to get in now. This is how we will do it.” 

Amros and Cepros exchange doubtful looks, but Cepros only shakes his head, reverting to his own tongue to speak. “I know better than to argue with her. Besides, it is a good plan.”

Amros looks ready to argue again but he stops himself to consider the plan fairly. It certainly is better than waiting for the cover of night and swimming to the isle to look for another entrance. He also has to agree that the wizards will not be keen on killing Semira right away, and he can have his warriors in position, ready to storm the fortress at the soonest opportunity. Semira need never come to harm or be touched by the wizards’ polluted hands. 

The only real flaw that he can see is trusting the boy. It may be true that the boy will not be likely to run if he truly does not wish to leave without Sauron, but he can just as easily be in on Sauron's plan. They can all be walking into a trap, just as the Ring-bearers had. Yet Semira trusts him and her trust is not easily won.

Amros turns to Rick and towers over him, flexing every large and bulging muscle in his body as he sizes Rick up and down. Rick stands his ground, jutting his chin up in defiance and squaring his shoulders, ready for a battle that he knows he cannot win. Amros leans down and breathes into Rick’s face.

“If they touch one hair on her head,” he warns.

“I won’t let that happen,” Rick swears. “I would sooner die than let anything happen to her.”

“What good is your death going to do for her?” Amros asks.

“Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about me turning against you if I’m dead, yes?” Rick replies.

Amros steps back, surprised by this line of reasoning. Then he laughs shortly and shakes his head. “Your ways are strange to us, but you are quite right. If you wish to die by your barbaric customs, then I can keep my promise not to kill you and still you will be dead.”

Amros turns to his brother. “Very well. Bind her hands and give her scimitar to the boy,” he commands then addresses his warriors. “There is some scant coverage on the other side of the hill. We will put ourselves into position first, then Semira and the boy will approach the fortress. Be ready to storm the fortress at my signal when they are halfway over the bridge.”

Cepros pulls a length of cord from his tunic pocket and loosely binds Semira’s hands, then he takes Semira’s scimitar and straps it around Rick’s waist.

“You are to give that to Semira when the fighting begins, understand?” Amros commands.

Rick begins to nod but pauses. “What about my sword?”

“What about it?” Amros asks, fully willing to allow Rick to be unarmed during the battle.

“Do not be so cruel,” Semira lectures him and she motions for the warrior carrying Rick’s sword and dagger to hand the weapons back. The warrior glances quickly at Amros before obeying the silent order. Rick straps his sword onto his other hip and tucks his dagger away beneath his robe. At Amros’s glare she reasons, “He can’t capture me if he is unarmed, which means he should have two weapons, his and mine.”

“Thank you,” Rick says and Semira nods. 

Amros then takes Semira aside and speaks with her quietly as Cepros organizes the warriors and urges them into position. The warriors slink out of the hilltops, sliding on the ground to the cover of the nearest bushes, and when all of them are in position, Cepros nods and follows. 

Rick diverts his eyes as Amros bends down and kisses Semira. He cups her cheek and caresses it lovingly, his forehead resting on hers for the slightest of moments. “Be careful, dear one,” he says.

“Only if you are,” Semira replies with a knowing smile. It is the only way she can ensure her husband will take some care for caution.

Amros then straightens, glares a warning at Rick, and follows his men. Semira waits until Amros is hidden, then waits another minute to ensure there is no suspicious movement within the fortress. “Come. We must work quickly,” she says to Rick.

Rick nods and gently grabs her arm, glancing down to make sure the rope is not cutting into her wrists as it had cut into his. Satisfied, he takes a deep breath to steady himself, and pushes her ahead of him as he steps out of the protection of the hilltops. He glances up at the west tower, bathed in golden sunlight, and wonders what is occurring within.

The hobbits walk between the wizards, the chain dragging on the stone floor between them. They stubbornly refuse to look at the corpses in the cages as they pass, keeping their eyes straight ahead at the flowing sea blue robes of Pallando. Behind them, Alatar’s footsteps are mingled with the shuffling footsteps of the young girl. When they pass the cage with the two dead children, Frodo wonders if this girl might be their sibling or friend, and he wonders again, as he had when he and Sam first entered the dungeon, why the remains of the dead victims are kept in the cages rather than disposed of.

They reach the small wooden door and with a wave of Pallando’s hand, it swings open to reveal a long, narrow passage of many shadowed doorways. They step into the passage and Alatar closes the door behind them, plunging them into near-absolute darkness. A couple of torches are lit along the passage, flickering weakly and providing little light. They shuffle along, following the soft footfalls of Pallando ahead of them.

A few of the doors along the passage are open, leading into damp and musty rooms the size of a linen closet. The hobbits peer curiously into one of the rooms as they pass. A small window provides little extra light to see by but even in the dimness they can tell that the room is sparsely furnished. There are a couple of dirty straw mats on the floor and blankets so worn there are more holes than fabric. 

Beside him, Sam gasps as the information Sauron had inserted into his mind begins to reveal itself and Frodo gets his answer to his earlier query. These rooms run directly under the entrance hall along the front wall of the fortress, and they are used to house the servants and guards. This passage continues in a straight line to its other end: the torture chamber, from which there is no exit except in death. No, there is an exit from the torture chamber – a secret passage that leads up to the west tower and though Sam can see it, he knows not how to enter it.

Frodo swallows the bile that creeps up his throat as he realizes the full implication of this: a tunnel of rooms, ending in either the torture chamber or the dungeon filled with rotting corpses. He tries to imagine the horror of the servants and guards who must pass through the dungeon to go to and from their rooms, a daily reminder of where they will one day end up. No matter who well they behave, they can only delay the inevitable, and if they don’t behave, they will go the other way, to the torture chamber. He simply cannot fathom it and pushes the dark thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. 

‘We must get away from the west tower,’ Frodo reminds and Sam nods. For the time, he can only hope that the top of the turret is high enough that anything occurring there will not be heard by the wizards. Yet despite the distance, he knows the moment the rings are touched the wizards will be able to sense it, and they will be able to reach Sauron too quickly from the chamber. 

Halfway down the tunnel, they hear a soft click of a door closing behind them. The hobbits turn their heads, surprised at the noise, but they can see nothing past the robes of Alatar. The girl watches them with mild curiosity, giving no heed to the sound. Not until they pass a room where a woman can be heard moaning hollowly does the girl show any sign of emotion. She hangs her head and glances away from the closed door, her hands clutched into loose fists. Frodo turns back around, catching Sam’s eyes in the process. They are both thinking the same thing: the girl had been taken from one of these rooms, and there are others still occupying them. Even if the girl gets away somehow, what will happen to the others when they try to escape? 

They reach the end of the tunnel and the final door swings open into a wide chamber. Pallando steps aside to let the hobbits pass. Frodo goes first, leading Sam behind him. 

If they thought the dungeon grotesque, they find the chamber no better. The room is just as large as the dungeon but instead of cages there are tables with straps of leather or metal to hold the victim immobile. A large man-shaped box stands in one corner, with a small slit at eye level to peer out; the hobbits know instinctively that they do not want to see what is inside it. There are other contraptions that they recognize as tables but beyond that, they cannot guess their purpose. All of the contraptions are covered with blood, the wood and leather so drenched they have been permanently stained. Lined along the walls are odd-looking instruments, as well as saws, knives, axes and clubs, all blood-stained.

The hobbits stop in the middle of the room and turn to face the wizards just as Alatar enters, the girl still in his clutches. The wizards converse quietly to themselves, then Alatar nudges the girl and speaks sharply to her. The girl shuffles to the wall and picks up a flint and stone. She clacks them together over a torch and lights it, then shuffles about the room lighting the rest of the torches and lastly the fire in an oven that the hobbits had not seen before. When the girl finishes, she puts the flint and stone back in their place and stands obediently in front of the wizards. Miraculously, Alatar waves his hand, dismissing her.  

Frodo has but a few moments to send her a message before the door swings closed, blocking her from view. He shows her their reception in the village and the shamaness giving him her necklace. He then shows her a vision of herself, gathering any who are still in their rooms and taking them with her to hide in the fortress above. The door closes before Frodo can determine if the girl understands or not, and he can only hope that she will follow his instructions. If he manages to give himself and Sam an opportunity to escape, they will have to go back up the tunnel, away from the west tower, and Frodo does not want to worry about anyone getting in the way.

The wizards turn their cold eyes on the hobbits, sizing them up. They are no longer whispering but Frodo has a feeling that they are speaking to each other with their minds as well. They appear concerned by something. At length, Pallando comes forward and bends down to examine the manacles and chain, and Frodo understands what is troubling them. The wizards do not have a key and the chain is not long enough to allow the hobbits to be placed on separate tables. The manacles will have to come off for the wizards to do their work.

Both Frodo and Sam hold their breaths, though for different reasons. Frodo is worried what will happen if the wizards attempt to touch the chain too soon, whereas Sam is waiting to see if this chain proves to be the wizards’ bane or not. Pallando finishes studying the chain, apparently seeing nothing more significant in it than Sam had. 

The wizard straightens and waves his hand over the chain, clearly expecting the manacles to open and release the hobbits. Nothing happens. Pallando tries again, speaking some sort of incantation this time. Again, nothing happens. He goes through several incantations, each time his voice growing more irritated, but the manacles refuse to budge. The chain doesn’t so much as quiver. The wizard narrows his eyes and finally reaches out, taking a length of the chain into his knurled hands. An instant later, he lets the chain go and backs away, hissing in pain as the pungent smell of burnt flesh fills the chamber.

‘Oh no,’ Sam thinks, though deep beneath his fear he is relieved to discover that Sauron had not been lying. These chains really are the wizards’ bane, only now the wizards know it.

“What do you want with us?” Frodo asks suddenly, hoping to distract the wizards from their discovery, though he knows it is futile. “What can you possibly hope to gain from capturing us?”

The wizards ignore him. Pallando slowly opens his hands and examines them. Welts are already beginning to grow where the chain had touched him. He leers at the hobbits and Alatar steps forward, raises one knotted hand and soundly smacks Frodo across the face. Frodo falls over backward from the force of it, and Sam goes with him. They crash onto the grime-covered floor, and Frodo lies there in a stunned daze as Sam broils over with anger. He hovers over Frodo and glares up at the wizards, who are again inspecting Pallando’s hands. 

“You want knowledge of the One Ring,” Frodo guesses as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth and down his throat. He needs to find some way to stall the wizards long enough to get out of here. If he can only get them talking… “You would create a new one. You can’t do that. You don’t have the skill or the power.”

“We have the skill,” Pallando assures calmly, flexing his injured hands, “and the power that created the One Ring is at this very moment spilling his blood, his life force, as he fights the Variags above. We will soon have that as well, but the knowledge for controlling the Ring we will get from you, for this Sauron will never give us.”

“Variags?” Sam says, remembering Sauron’s brief description of them the previous night. “They’re here?”

“Here and waiting for that double-crossing deceiver,” Alatar says. “They will rip him to shreds and bring us his blood. We cannot enhance our rings, he saw to that when he made them, but we will soon have a better and will no longer be reliant upon them. I am afraid that he will not be in time to destroy them.” 

He smiles widely in a most sickening fashion and the hobbits watch in horror as he drifts over to the wall with the knives and other weapons and picks up a saw. He flicks a finger against the saw blade and its dull twain fills the air. He keeps his eyes on Sam’s as he slowly mimics slicing the blade across his wrist then bends a finger at Sam. The implication cannot be more clear. 

“In the meantime,” he says in his soft wooden timbre, flicking the saw blade again and the twain reverberates off the chamber walls, echoing shrilly. “Your knowledge of the One Ring is the missing ingredient. You will give us your knowledge, or we will take it from you. Tell us everything you know, and you need not be hurt.”

Frodo sits up shakily. “We will tell you nothing,” he says in defiance, “and you will take nothing.” 

Pallando steps beside Alatar and takes the saw with his wounded hands. Alatar then takes four thin leather cords from the wall to use as tourniquets as Pallando fingers the sharp teeth of the saw and considers the hobbits closely. 

“He gives us commands and warnings,” Pallando says, tilting his head at Frodo. Then his eyes drift over to Sam and a soft, almost loving, smile spreads over his lips. It is far more frightening than the saw he holds in his hands. “Will he bargain?”

‘Mr. Frodo,’ comes Sam’s desperate plea in Frodo’s head. Sam is gripping both of his master’s hands now and is quaking with fear.

‘Stay calm, Sam,’ Frodo says. ‘We’ll have no chance to escape if you pass out now.’

Satisfied with the condition of the straps, Alatar turns back to the hobbits, smiles cruelly and points a long crooked finger at Sam once more. Sam shrinks away, attempting to both keep hold of Frodo’s hands while hiding his own behind his back. His trembling doubles as Pallando advances. Before the wizard reaches him, his grip begins to slip from Frodo’s and he is being pulled towards a small stone wheel sitting on the floor nearby. His hands fly up onto the stone to rest there, despite his futile attempts to get away.

Frodo is on his feet instantly and he rushes over to stand in front of his friend. “You will not touch him,” he warns, a heated glare in his eyes unlike anything Sam has ever seen before.

“No?” says Alatar. “How do you plan on stopping us, little one? You are no match for us.”

Yet even as he says this, he stops walking as though meeting some unseen resistance and Pallando also is unable to move his feet. They look down at their immobile legs and laugh. 

“Do you wish play games with us, Ring-bearer?” Alatar asks, his amusement evident in his low, rumbling voice. The wizards allow Frodo to hold them immobilized for a few more moments, then Alatar waves his hand and Frodo stumbles backward as if struck. He falls beside Sam, whose hands are still glued to the stone wheel. “You only needed to ask.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispers worriedly into his master’s ear. They have barely begun and already Frodo is beginning to look worn. He will not be able to keep this up for much longer. What is taking Sauron so long?

“Be ready,” Frodo whispers back. He shows Sam his plan and Sam nods. 

Frodo gets to his feet and whirls around to face the wizards once more. 

To be continued…

GF 6/30/07