Chapter Eleven

The hobbits moved forward and took their places before the Big People. Bill had been very firmly tied and hobbled by an apologetic Sam farther back. Aragorn had forbidden Frodo to join them, asking him to stay with the pony, but the Ring-bearer had refused the order. “It’s just a fever, Aragorn,” Frodo had replied impatiently. “I can fight as well as any.” Knowing the need, Aragorn had given way, but the others saw him watching Frodo worriedly.

“Ready?” Frodo whispered. Sam, Merry, and Pippin nodded. Before each of them rose a pile of cheesecloth-wrapped bags nearly to their knees, and the first swung ready in their slings. Frodo twirled his over his head then shook out his shoulders, grimacing as his arm pained him.

Behind the hobbits stood Legolas, Boromir, and Aragorn, bows strung, arrows nocked, each arrow with a bag tied just before the fletching of the shaft. Each arrow of each quiver carried such a burden. Gimli stood ready to throw, trusting his great strength to cover the distance. Gandalf had refused his portion of the bags, but now and then fire would dance at the end of his staff, and the others knew he planned something in addition to the part given him.

The scratch of claw on stone heralded the goblins, followed by black forms bristling with weapons. The water-goblins came first, spears raised and swords unsheathed, followed by the bulkier forms of the orcs. Even the darkness before the dawn the two groups could be easily distinguished; the orcs wore helmets and actual armour, and they carried thick swords of better quality. The two troops did not travel peacefully together, snarling at each other and shoving, an uneasy truce at best.

“Wait,” Gimli murmured. “Let enough of them come into the pass.” Frodo nodded intently. Colour rose high in his face. Beside him, Pippin was trembling slightly. Merry put a hand on his arm and gave him a lop-sided smile. Sam moved a little away from the others and knelt, beginning to swing his weapon in preparation.

“Now!” At the dwarf’s word, four sacks of cheesecloth arced high into the air and landed with pin-point accuracy at the feet of the foremost goblins. Those stumbled, surprised and stared blankly at the little bags. One reached down and picked up a bag, fingering it curiously.

“Now,” Gimli rumbled again. Three arrows followed the bags; bursting into flame after leaving their archers’ bows. Gandalf nodded in satisfaction. Two of the arrows thudded into larger bags the hobbits had laid at the sides of the pass and one less precisely into the middle ground. The dwarf watched their placement calculatingly, then – “Get down!”

The hobbits threw themselves flat. Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir sheltered their heads. The first bag ruptured into a shattering blast of fire, followed less than a second later by the other. Boromir’s arrow did not find its target but hit a rock and skittered along the ground, managing to ignite two at once. These exploded in bursts of fire, sending flaming shreds into the others, igniting the pass into an inferno.

Flame boiled towards them from the narrow fissure, but Gimli had kept them at a safe distance. Bag after bag blew up, igniting one after another, the blasts of sound merging into one shattering roar. The Fellowship contributed to this; after their initial shock the hobbits sprang to their feet and their slings delivered bag after bag into the fury. A deep, grinding roar caused them to look up to the tops of the high cliffs as a great number of boulders worked and came rolling and smashing down, disappearing into the fire and smoke.

The archers sent their arrows into the maelstrom, each arrow bursting into flame with a gesture from Gandalf’s staff. The wizard’s face was awash with red light as he focused on each arrow and timed his magic, igniting it so the flame would burn along the shaft to the bag just as the arrow shot between the walls of stone. Now and again brilliant flashes of blue, green, and red light would flash into the air above the pass, and at such times Gandalf’s eyes would glint, perhaps remembering the humiliation of another time of being trapped by goblins. Gimli trusted to his own strength to deliver his missiles, and if they landed with less accuracy than those delivered by the archers’ arrows or the hobbits’ slings, they accomplished the same work. The entire passage reverberated with sound and fury.

Frodo reached down and no bag met his searching grasp. Startled, he looked to see all of them gone. Turning, he saw that the Big People’s arrows were spent, and Gimli and the others, too, had exhausted their ammunition. Gandalf sent a last flash of green light into the pass then leaned on his staff, breathing noisily. They waited, the smell of acrid smoke and dust heavy in the air.

“Is it over?” Pippin quavered after some moments.

No one answered him. Pippin glanced around, reassuring himself that everyone was all right. Legolas stood with his empty quiver at his feet, turning his head one way then the other. Pippin realised the elf was listening. He listened too, but did not understand the sounds he heard. The roar of fire he recognized … things burning. The pops and tings of overheated metal. Then the wind shifted and he hastily covered his nose, assailed by the stench of burnt hair and flesh. Pippin gagged, his face taking on a greenish tinge.

“We do not want to go through that place,” Aragorn said briefly.

“It is to be hoped that those behind the first advance had to sense to take flight,” Legolas said, lowering his bow at last. There was an odd, almost unwilling compassion on his face, he, who hated orc-kind with every fibre of his being.

Abruptly Gandalf thrust his staff into the ground and drew his sword. The others looked at him in alarm, their hands flying to their own weapons, but they relaxed when he merely held up the blade before him. Glamdring gleamed dully, faintly, its glow growing weaker even as they watched. Frodo pulled Sting from its sheath and examined its leaf-shaped blade, sighing with relief when it echoed the information of the larger sword.

“None near enough to endanger us,” Gandalf said, sheathing the elven blade. His next words were addressed to Legolas, but he was looking at the hobbits as he spoke. “I have no doubt those behind the leaders ran. For all their brutish ways, they are not entirely stupid.”

“They will seek cover when the sun rises,” Boromir said, “and lick their wounds and plot and wait for dark. We must be gone from this place before then.”

“We will return the way we came,” Aragorn said, his weariness showing for a moment in his face, “back to the lake and around the other side. It is not so very far. If we march hard through the day, we can make up the time lost. At least we can walk without fear of ambush, now.”

“Up, my friends,” Gandalf said. Frodo had sat down as they spoke, swinging his hands loosely between his knees. He struggled up, only to be overcome by a fit of coughing. Sam pressed his water bottle upon his master.

“Here, sir. Take a sip.”

Frodo tried, but deep, wet coughs welled out of him, and he could not swallow. Another gust of smoke rolled over them at that moment, deepening his distress. He leaned forward, coughing violently.

“Mr. Aragorn, sir!”

Aragorn had already reached Frodo, forcing him to sit straighter. Frodo choked and turned away from him, shuddering, than choked and spat out a great glob of slimy, yellowish mucus the colour of spoiled cream. “Easy, friend,” Aragorn told him softly. “Easy … easy.”

Aragorn lifted Frodo and stood with him in his arms facing Gandalf. Frodo lay limply, too tired to protest the indignity. “We need shelter, Gandalf. He needs warmth and stillness and rest.”

Gandalf looked at a loss. “We can camp…”

“We need a cave, Gandalf. A cavern. An enclosed place, where the wind cannot reach him.” Aragorn swung into a walk and the others fell in behind him, Sam hurrying ahead to retrieve the pony.

“Why?” Pippin asked, trotting anxiously in the Ranger’s wake. He redoubled his efforts but the Ranger’s long legs were quickly outdistancing him. Boromir waited until all the Company passed him, then took the rear position, his great shield on his back.

“Frodo must clear his lungs,” floated back the answer. “I need an enclosed place where he can inhale herb-infused smoke.”

“…don’t want to breathe smoke,” Frodo gasped, which the Ranger ignored.

“If we cannot find a cave, we may make one,” Gimli called from behind Pippin.

Aragorn stopped dead. “Make a cave?”

Huffing, the dwarf pulled even with him. “A wind-break, I mean. We have hills and boulders and an infinite source of black powder.”

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged a long look. “It would take the rest of the day to gather and strain enough of the ore to use for blasting. Drying it would take hours.” Aragorn looked down at the silent hobbit in his arms, watching them. “I would leave this place behind us. When darkness falls, we must be far from here.”

Silence reigned. “Aragorn and I could take Frodo and travel on ahead, to where the foothills of Caradhras rise,” Legolas said slowly. “You others could catch up with us in your own time…”

“No!” Wizard and hobbits spoke together. “We stay together,” Gandalf added, with nods from Gimli and Boromir.

“It won’t take hours. Here.” Merry reached into his jacket and with a tug of the cloth, freed two of the cheesecloth bags, holding them out so the others could see them.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” Gandalf said in a dangerous voice, “give those at once to Gimli.”

Merry did so, his reluctance visible. “You owe me, Cousin,” he hissed to Frodo.

“I could have done without this help,” Frodo hissed back.

“And just what were you planning on doing with the powder, Meriadoc?” Gandalf continued as Merry laid the pouches carefully in the dwarf’s outstretched hands.

“You never know when something like that might come in handy,” Merry replied, giving the bags a last longing glance as Gimli stowed them away.

“Like now,” Pippin smiling brightly at Gandalf. “Come on, Merry, let’s help Sam with Bill. Come on, Merry.” Literally dragging his cousin away, Pippin towed his cousin out of the wizard’s glowering reach.

* * *
“Just a nudge is needed,” was Gimli’s professional opinion as the Company examined their potential campsite. Gandalf had demanded that they put as much distance between them and narrow pass and the lake as they could, allowing them no halts, not even for eating. The hobbits sat together against a fallen log, revelling in the warmth of the pale sun on the faces, watching tiredly as the dwarf muttered and clucked to himself, delighted with the great stones surrounding them.

“These rolled from the slopes of Caradhras ages ago,” Gimli rumbled, patting one almost with affection. “Move this boulder two steps to the left and it will fit neatly against the other, providing Master Frodo a nice, wind-proof shelter where our good healer can administer his remedies.”

“I don’t want to breathe smoke,” Frodo said despondently. “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”

“Is everyone well back?” Gimli asked. He had opened one of the bags and a thin line of glittering black powder ran from his feet to where the bag and its mate were tucked in a shallow hole hollowed out under the smaller boulder. He knelt, tinderbox in hand, and looked around. “Good. Shelter your heads.”

Boom!

As the dust cleared, they saw that the great rock Gimli had chosen to move had performed exactly as the dwarf said it would, snuggling tightly against the larger one at its side. Aragorn went at once and started building a fire between them, Sam helping him. Gandalf joined the hobbits on the log to wait. Frodo crossed his arms and glared at all of them.

“Oh, that was marvellous,” Merry murmured, staring fixedly at the settling dust.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed. “Meriadoc Brandybuck.” Merry looked at him, suddenly apprehensive at the abrupt deepening of the wizard’s voice. “Do you have any more of those bags on you?”

“No,” Merry replied rather sulkily.

“Humph.”

Surprisingly, Boromir stepped in. With an apologetic glance at the hobbit, he said, “Or in your pack, or stashed with Pippin, or on Bill–loose powder, dried ore, another bag of cheesecloth or of anything else, or in any form, in or out of your immediate possession?”

Merry glared at him. Very slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, bulging with glittering black specks. Pippin stifled a yip and inched away from him. This Merry handed to Gimli, who emptied the kerchief on the ground, shook the last speck from it, and returned it to its owner.

“Thank you,” Boromir said courteously. Merry glared at him a final time, got up, and stamped away. Looking relieved, Pippin smiled at Boromir and followed.

“Dangerous folk, hobbits,” Gimli rumbled. “I think I had best remove temptation from the path of those two younglings.” He added the contents of the two cheesecloth bags to the one at his feet, grinding them carefully into the dust.

“I told you I had deciphered their secret language,” Boromir said in response to Aragorn’s raised eyebrows.

The End