Chapter Ten

Boromir, Gimli, and Sam were not halfway back to the others when a shifting of the shadows in the distance alerted them to the swift approach of a runner. The two warriors exchanged a grim glance then looked for cover, but they had left the hill behind them and now stood exposed on the flat, boulder-studded plain behind it.

“No cover,” Gimli grunted.

“No need,” Sam replied, flashing a grin in the moonlight. “Hoy! Over here, Mr. Legolas!”

A moment later, the shadows resolved into the elf. His advance almost soundless, Legolas bounded gracefully over a pile of tumbled stones and joined them, not even breathing hard. An arrow lay nocked on his bow and his sword was in his other hand.

“We heard fighting.”

Gimli waved a hand dismissively. “Hardly, hardly. Master Samwise had matters well in hand by the time Master Boromir and I arrived.”

“Meaning my poor Bill would be turning on a spit right now, if’n they’d hadn’t come when they did,” Sam put in, unwilling for the elf to award him undue credit.

“Well enough,” Legolas said with a smile. With another keen glance around him, he reversed his sword and slid it cleanly into its scabbard but left the arrow ready on his bow. “Aragorn urges us to return speedily. We have seen no sign of the yrch.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Sam asked.

Legolas was silent. When he did not reply, Boromir shook his head. “I’d rather know where they are, Sam. And what they were doing. I cannot believe they will allow us to pass unavenged through their lands, after killing so many of them.”

* * *
The hobbits heard them approaching before the Big Folk, and alerted Aragorn and Gandalf with tugs on their clothing. “Aragorn,” Merry whispered. “They’re coming back. I hear Gimli’s armour creaking, and Bill’s hoof– Oi!”

Peeling a dripping shirt off his head, Merry glared up at his cousin. “Did you have to do that?”

Frodo leaned sideways out of Aragorn’s arms and considered it. “I suppose I didn’t have to, but you were such a tempting target.”

“I am glad you are awake and feeling better, Frodo,” Aragorn interrupted, “but perhaps you could just hand the rest of your clothes to your cousins. All of you should change into fresh clothing as soon as Sam arrives with our packs.” None of them made any mention of the silver chain restored around Frodo’s throat.

“Everything itches,” Pippin complained, scratching industriously.

“It’s the dirt, or sand, or whatever those black specks in the water are,” Merry told him. “I won’t feel better until I’ve had a bath. A real bath.”

“Speaking of necessities,” Frodo murmured, “one of you wouldn’t have a bite of something strengthening, would you? I’m famished.”

“We will stop very soon, Frodo,” said Gandalf, laying a hand briefly on Frodo’s face. “There are no caves in this area, but we can find shelter in the lee of the hill ahead of us. It is steep enough to cut the wind. And food, dry clothing, and most importantly, tea and pipe-weed, are arriving now with Sam.”

“How is he? How is he?” Thrusting Bill’s lead into Boromir’s hands, Sam hurried past the Big People to where Aragorn was lowering Frodo against a small boulder. Suddenly tilted, Frodo paled and dug his hands into Aragorn’s arms. With a strangled gasp, he started to cough.

“Frodo,” Aragorn said urgently, “can you breathe? Breathe, my friend.” Frodo shook his head frantically, wrapping his arms across his chest as he drew up his knees and leaned forward, struggling to stifle the deep, wet coughs. Pippin dropped by his side and began rubbing his back.

“Here, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, pressing a water bottle on him. Frodo merely closed his eyes and turned his face into Pippin’s shoulder.

“He’s awfully warm,” Pippin told them as the coughs trailed off. Frodo slumped against him, exhausted.

Aragorn laid a hand against Frodo’s forehead. “Merry, please bring me one of the medicinal kits. And fresh clothes for all of you …and something for Frodo to eat. Sam, would you heat water–”

“I’d best strain any water before we use it, sir,” Sam interrupted. “I wouldn’t want to drink any of that nasty stuff either,” he told Frodo, who nodded in agreement without opening his eyes.

“All right. Merry, would you also please bring Sam one of the rolls of cheesecloth in Bill’s panniers. No, Pippin, stay with Frodo. Your cousin needs you more where you are. We will gather wood…” Continuing to issue instructions, Aragorn soon had a fire burning and the others settled around him, watching as he administered various salves, tonics, and powders to a reluctant Frodo.

“Now rest,” Aragorn admonished him in a quiet voice. Pippin had gone to sleep, his head in Frodo’s lap. Having assured himself that everyone had been fed, was warm enough, and his master settled as comfortably as he could be, Sam had sat down on Frodo’s other side and immediately gone to sleep against Frodo’s shoulder. Frodo nodded, his face ruddy in the firelight, but Merry struggled to his feet and followed Aragorn wearily to where the others waited at the edge of their impromptu encampment.

“How much farther until we are out of these creatures’ territory?” Aragorn asked Gandalf.

The wizard shook his head. “I did not even know they were here, Aragorn.”

Boromir joined them, pulling a fresh tunic over his head. “Perhaps they have lived here without notice, until they could remain hidden no longer.”

“What would have driven them out in the open to attack travellers?” Merry asked, sitting himself on a boulder.

“Hunger.” Aragorn and Boromir spoke together. Aragorn nodded. “I have seen signs of it amongst those we have killed. Long starvation. Our intrusion into their lands – with packs and supplies and with a nice, fat pony – must have been seen as too fortuitous an opportunity to let pass.”

“I can answer that question of ‘why’.” Gimli cupped his hand under his helmet and poured into his palm a quantity of the water. Loosening his fingers slightly, he allowed the water to pour through, leaving in his hand a small puddle of tiny black flecks.

“That is what made swimming so difficult,” Boromir said, looking at them. “They lodged in our eyes and burned. It was like swimming through a sea of grit.”

“Close enough,” Gimli said. “This is rock ore, the result of open-pit mining done poorly, done carelessly. Such debris comes from a quarry used beyond its resources.” He pushed a thick finger into his palm and held it up, the tiny particles glittering in the moonlight. “When such quarries are exhausted, the mines are sometimes converted to landfills. Some form of water control is usually required to keep the mine pit from becoming a lake. The easiest way is to make a slurry … pump the waste into a river to carry it away.

“The river would carry it underground as far as the river flows, then empty it into whatever the river feeds … another river, a pond ... or a lake. Eventually rock covers the bottom of the lake, smothering the plant-life there. The fish and lake-life dies. Then things on the shore start to die.”

“The trees,” Legolas murmured.

Gimli nodded. “Tailings can often be toxic due to the presence of unextracted minerals, often toxic minerals, and oftimes toxic from chemicals and processes used to treat the ore. Dumped as this was, eventually, everything dies.”

“The hobbits remarked up on it,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. “Or Sam did. He said, ‘No cattails, or marsh-grass or water-weeds, or fish or frogs or anything edible’.”

“Pippin remarked upon the lack of frogs,” Legolas corrected him.

“In relation to the equal lack of breadcrumbs and butter,” Aragorn agreed. “Yes, he would.” Merry smiled, too tired to contest the comment.

“But where–” Legolas began.

“Isengard.” Gandalf’s voice was flat. “You would understand if you had seen what I saw while captive on the tower of Orthanc. Saruman’s orcs had dug great pits into the earth and burrowed into it like maggots, consuming every mineral and resource in their paths. Far deep the caverns went, wretched from the earth, for more than a mile around. So that is what happened to the earth they dug,” he murmured. “I had not thought upon it till now.” He sighed, leaning on his staff. “A grievous fate for a land that was green and flowering once.”

“We cannot stay here, Gandalf.” Aragorn’s voice was firm.

The wizard nodded, straightening with visible effort. “Nor can we venture blindly into the unknown. Legolas, if you are not too weary–?”

“I will go,” the elf said in his soft voice. “Let the little ones sleep.”

When Legolas returned, all but Gandalf and Aragorn and Gimli slept. The hobbits lay in a row in a hollow of the hill, sleeping more than half upright. Boromir stretched out at their feet, his unsheathed sword near his hand. Bill drowsed at the end of his stake-rein, head down, hip-shot. Gimli sat on the other side of the fire from the sleepers, cleaning his mail, his face thoughtful. Gandalf was staring into the fire as Aragorn stood the guard, smoke curling from both their pipes.

Light-footed, Legolas went to those awake and gave his news. “They have summoned reinforcements. Orcs. Orcs on wargs. Word must have gone to them almost as soon as we entered these lands. There are perhaps sixty, and many more of the goblins. They gather perhaps a half-league from here, on the other side of a narrow pass.”

“We should have pressed on,” groaned Gandalf.

“We would have had to carry the hobbits,” Aragorn said, “and we could not do that and still defend ourselves in case of attack. We will have to evade them, if we can.”

“We cannot,” Legolas told them. “The pass I spoke off… The ground descends sharply, then rises again on both sides, not gradually but in steep upthrusts of rock. The sides are sheer stone, broad at the top but very narrow at the bottom. No more than two could walk abreast. We could not hope to pass unseen there.”

“I know that place,” Gandalf said. “We could not scale the sides without mountain-climbing gear. The tops of the sides are lined with loose boulders – they would come down on us if we even tried. And it would be impossible to get the pony up them.” He stared into the fire, old grief on his face. “Who would have thought that old treaty between goblins and orcs would still be in force, this far from the Misty Mountains. I must remember to tell Bilbo.”

“They would catch up with us easily enough if we tried to outrun them by going back and circling around the lake,” Gimli said. “So … we cannot go back. We will have to fight.” Silence greeted this statement. Rubbing off the last of the black specks from his mail shirt, Gimli laid it aside. “I have a plan.”

* * *
“I am not certain this is a good idea, Gandalf,” Aragorn said, keeping his voice low. “I would feel better if Merry had agreed not quite so quickly.”

“I am more concerned about Gimli’s assertions,” Gandalf replied, watching the industry taking place about him. “Pippin! Get back from the fire!” Merry looked up from his work and snagged his younger cousin’s jacket, dragging him and the bundles he carried farther from the flames.

Food, a quick wash, food, sleep, and more food had done much in restoring the hobbits’ strength but their weariness still showed in an unwonted slowness of their movements. The first hints of pre-dawn waited on the horizon; not light yet, but the moon was preparing to set and the stars were fading.

Frodo had unintentionally awakened them several times, coughing, and was quiet and withdrawn, inarguably running a fever. As he would not rest while the others worked, Aragorn had assigned him the easiest job, sitting and tying shut the little bundles the others passed to him. Sam cut the cheesecloth into little squares which Merry and Pippin filled from the grey doughy mixture Gimli had concocted.

“That is the last of the water,” Boromir announced, shaking the last water bottle to catch every drop. He watched critically as the water pooled and dripped through the layers of cheesecloth tied over the top of the water barrel, then carefully gathered up the cloth and spread it on the ground to dry. “It will be good to have water fit to drink, for a change.”

Muscles strained in his broad back as he lifted the barrel and carefully apportioned the water back into the water bottles, careful to waste none of it. “Here, Boromir,” Frodo said, holding up the barrel’s missing cork. “You might want this. I found it in my pocket.” Smiling, the soldier took it and pounded it home.

“And that’s the last of the cheesecloth,” Sam said, laying down a pair of scissors and rubbing his fingers ruefully. “There’s just enough for the last batch.”

“I still think we should test them,” Merry said, holding up one of the little bags to examine it. “At least one. How do we know they will explode?”

“They will explode because rock ore, washed free of dust, strained, and dried, is explosive,” Gimli rumbled. “Rock ore mixed with Gandalf’s fireworks powder is doubly explosive. And I’ll thank you to not stand so close to the fire holding that, Master Merry.” Hastily Merry stepped back.

“Come,” Gandalf said, squinting at the horizon. “We just have time enough to take our positions before the moon goes down.”

* * *
Creeping along as silently as they could, the Company heard the gathering of orcs and goblins before they saw them. Hoots and snarls and deep, growling voices rose on the pre-dawn air, magnified by the narrowness of the pass. Quickly the hobbits did as they had been instructed, placing the bundles where Gimli directed them, lining both sides of the narrow way and the pass itself. That done, they scrambled back to the others on the high ground before the mouth of the pass and waited.

“It must be soon,” Gandalf whispered. “They hate the light, and it will be dawn in another hour. They would seek to surprise and overpower us, and return to their deep lakes and shelters before the sun rises.”

Scarcely had he spoken when a great shout rose from the other side, and the sound of shuffling feet. A high whine rose over the stifled noise, evidence of a warg’s eagerness. The whine cut off at the sound of a whip. Then a sword clashed against a shield and the unseen army began to advance.

* TBC *