Chapter XIII: An Unwilling Guest

Aragorn arched his spine. As the hob-nailed boot shifted he launched himself to the right, heedless of the claws digging into his shoulder as he rolled onto his back. The orc was caught by surprise, and stumbled. Aragorn managed to get his left foot under his body, and with his right leg he pinned the orc's feet against the ground, pressing upon the thick ankles. A sharp pain shot into his chest as the grip on his shoulder tightened, but his assailant fell upon the slag and Aragorn sprung atop him, grappling with the flailing limbs as he attempted to overpower the orc.

Though by nature the Uruks of Mordor were stronger than Men, Aragorn had yet to meet one who could equal him in speed or agility. He would have made swift work of this one, too, save that the orc was not alone. Without warning, three more set upon him. Even as he drew his blade the knife was wrenched from his hand and his arm was twisted behind him. One grabbed his feet whilst the third took a fistful of his hair and yanked back his head. Resisting the urge to cry out at the unexpected pain in his scalp, Aragorn let his whole body go limp.

Abruptly the orcs let go, and he fell to earth with a heavy thud. As he had hoped, the three who had seized him relinquished their hold and he was left with only the first orc still clinging viciously to his shoulder. He closed his eyes, trying his utmost to look unconscious though his heart was racing and it took all of his will to steady his heaving chest. He did not dwell on recriminations for his folly: there would be time enough later. There were more important considerations at hand.

'Wha'd you do to him?' one of the orcs demanded.

'Do? I ain't done nothing!'

'You killed 'im!'

'Did not!'

'He ain't dead,' the first one snorted, pushing himself up. As he did so, he released his grip on the Ranger's shoulder.

Instantly, Aragorn was up and away, running as fast as his tired legs would carry him and groping in his pouch as he went. But the ground was uneven and the orcs were swift, and the necessity of fumbling with his sleeves slowed him. One flung himself upon Aragorn's ankles, sending him crashing painfully to earth. He tried to scramble up, but the orc was on top of him now, long arm crooked tightly around the Ranger's throat, cutting off his supply of air.

'That were stupid, tark,' the orc snarled, using the Common Tongue. 'Got 'im, fellas. I got 'im!'

He need not have made that pronouncement, for the others were on his heels. An iron-toed boot blasted into Aragorn's side and his legs ground against the debris that littered the ground as his body attempted to curl itself forward. His prone position rendered that impossible, but the orc straddling his legs pulled back, causing his spine to curve painfully. Aragorn's hands clawed frantically at the arm, trying to loose its hold on his neck. He could not breathe, and reality was becoming a very fuzzy plane of existence which threatened to forsake him at any moment.

'Now don't you try anything like that again, see?' said the first orc. A blade pricked at Aragorn's ribs. 'If you do, I'll skewer you like a rabbit. And no screamin', neither. We don't need those dunghill rats up here, makin' trouble and stealing credit. Understand?'

Aragorn reflected distantly that he ought to nod, but it was all that he could do to fight off the oblivion of asphyxiation. His eyes lolled in his head.

Apparently this was assurance enough, for the first orc boxed his comrade's left ear. 'Let 'im go before he chokes to death, you stupid fool!' he snarled.

No longing for dignity could stay the sundering gasp that shook Aragorn's body as he crashed back to earth. He gulped greedily at the air, coughing helplessly. His pack was torn from his back, the orc responsible for despoiling him severing the straps as he pulled it away. Then suddenly they were yanking his arms, twisting them behind him and crossing his wrists in a most unnatural position. Under other circumstances he might have struggled, but instead he lay there, fighting for air and hoping that they made quick work of binding him and that they did not detect anything strange about his forearms.

Mercifully they did not, though the bonds were cruelly tight. Aragorn gritted his teeth as one of them took hold of his shoulders and dragged him up onto his knees.

'Now bind 'is legs,' the orc said.

'Bind 'is legs? How're we s'posed to get 'im back to Ghashmaz if we bind 'is legs?' another demanded incredulously.

'Carry 'im, of course! I'm not takin' the chance of 'im bolting like that again!' snapped the first orc. 'This one runs like a stinkin' Elf. If he hadn'ta hesitated you never would've caught 'im. Bind 'is legs!'

'Why not 'is neck instead?' the fourth orc suggested. 'Then it's keep step or strangle 'imself, and we won't have to carry 'im. Too tall by far for hauling. Filthy tark.'

The hateful epithet was accompanied by a blow to the gut that left Aragorn freshly breathless. In his moment of debilitation he scarcely noticed the noose of rope that was forced over his head. Only when it was drawn snug against his neck did he realize that they had fixed him on a halter like an animal.

'Where's 'is knife? Tark steel ain't to be wasted,' the first one growled.

'It ain't tark steel: it's Elvish!' another whimpered. 'I threw it away quick as I could!'

'Elvish, eh? Best find it, then: Ghashmaz'll want to see that. Strange, ain't it? Lonely tark poking 'round up here. Where are all your friends with their bright swords, my lad? Answer me that!'

The filthy claws took hold of Aragorn's chin, digging into the soft flesh under his jaw. The orc's demand was met with stony silence that seemed entirely inadequate to conceal the prisoner's dread. They were not even a mile from the Black Gate. If he did not make his escape in the next few minutes, he would find himself a prisoner of Sauron himself. But the orc's remark about dunghill rats seemed to ring in his ears. These were Uruks of Minas Morgul, not the servants of the Barad-dûr. Perhaps, then, they would not be so willing to turn him over to their northern rivals.

'How'm I s'posed to carry an Elf-knife?' the other orc whinged.

'Wrap it in a bit 'o rag, you lumbering donkey!' the leader snarled. 'Show a little initiative, or I'll have Ghashmaz send you to the mines! There'll be an opening now, with the maggot proved right again. Smarter than the lot of you, is our little hunchback!'

'Where'll I get a rag from? I ain't tearin' up my things just to carry the tark's weapons.'

There was a tugging at Aragorn's shoulders as someone seized his cloak. Despite the absurdity of such concerns at a time like this, he could not help but flinch as a length of cloth was torn from it.

'There!' said the despoiler. 'Initiative, see?'

The discontented orc moved off, muttering bitterly to himself as he went. But he returned at last, and Aragorn found himself on his feet in the midst of a diamond formation, surrounded on all four sides. The one to his left held the end of the rope affixed to his neck, and the prick of a sabre at his back egged him on as the orcs began to run. He stumbled a little, but quickly fell into stride. It would avail him nothing to antagonize his captors: any further defiance would most likely earn him a savage beating, and if he was to have any hope of escape he had to keep himself as free from injury as he could.

lar

When Aragorn realized that they were heading southwest instead of due East, he felt something almost akin to elation. They were not taking him towards the Morannon: as he had hoped, they were making their way back towards Morgul Vale. Ordinarily he would have despaired at such a course, but Minas Morgul was many days' march away and the Black Gate within shouting distance. The further they had to travel, the greater the opportunities for escape.

The middle-night was long past when the glow of a bonfire appeared in the distance, reflecting off the mountainside behind and illuminating the gaping mouth of a cave. As his escort egged him onward, Aragorn could make out dark figures around the blaze, and a strange shadow looming before it. Not until he was near enough to make a count of the orcs – in addition to his captors there were ten: too many to fight even if he could get his hands on his knife – did he realize that it was a tree. A gnarled old oak, to be precise, its heavy branches bare. Immediately he began to look for an orc with a bow. Uruks were poor climbers: if he could get out of their reach with a small supply of arrows he might pick them off one by one.

His assessment was aborted when the orc holding his halter shoved him forward, kicking his feet out from under him so that he crashed to his knees. By some miracle, Aragorn managed to remain upright, or he would have driven his face into the dirt.

'Found our runaway, I see!' Aragorn recognized the voice of the one called Ghashmaz, as an enormous orc lumbered forward, sneering unpleasantly in the firelight. 'You took some tracking, let me tell you,' he sneered, taking a fistful of Aragorn's hair and twisting his face upward. Something of the Man's disdain must have shown in his eyes, for Ghashmaz scowled and said; 'Ain't no call for that, tark! What's the matter? Too proud to travel with the mighty Uruks?'

A biting retort died on Aragorn's lips. He could not afford a witty riposte, however much it would ease his jangled nerves. His one hope was to avoid engendering too much animosity while he waited for dawn. They would harm him grievously enough without being baited.

The orc released his hold on the Ranger's hair, but the relief lasted only a moment: a heavy fist blasted against his jaw and his head snapped against his right shoulder as he very nearly lost his balance.

'Hold 'im up straight!' Ghashmaz ordered, and abruptly four claws were digging into Aragorn's arms, hauling up on his shoulders and increasing the discomfort in his painfully tingling hands. 'So...' the orc-captain growled. 'What's a tark doing out here all on 'is own? Lost all your little friends, have you? Or maybe you're a spy. Tracked you right 'round the mountains, we did. Why would you be headed North?'

Like the others, he was using Westron. Aragorn dared to hope that this meant they did not associate him with Third Voice and his story. Though most of the orcs were gathered in a circle now, eager to lay eyes upon the prisoner and doubtless anticipating the sport to come, the Ranger did not see his acquaintance among them. Had the company divided, perhaps? Half to return to Minas Morgul, the other half to follow – what? He wondered despairingly what sign of his passage he had left behind that had roused their interest sufficiently to make them turn around and follow him in the direction from which they had come.

'Answer me!' snapped the orc. 'Why was you headed North?'

'I was following the road,' Aragorn said, as impassively as he could. The answer was true enough, though by no means entirely forthright. 'It leads North.'

The carmine eyes narrowed, and Aragorn realized that he had miscalculated the intelligence of his opponent. A simpler orc might have accepted his answer as logical, but for one of his size Ghashmaz was uncommonly intelligent. He swooped low for his next blow, catching Aragorn under the ribs and driving all the wind from the Ranger's lungs. 'You rat, answer my question!' he roared. 'Are there others about? Was you meeting 'em?'

Aragorn made no reply. He had no answer to give, and in any case he was struggling to rediscover his breath.

'All right, then. What's your business?'

Somehow he did not think that the orc would take a sympathetic view of his intentions. He held his tongue resolutely.

'Ask 'im if the tall one's dead yet!' one of the others put in. Ghashmaz, who had been drawing back to strike Aragorn again, whirled on his compatriot.

'What's it matter if the tall one's dead?' he snapped incredulously, slipping into the Black Tongue.

'I was the one who hit 'im. When I do a job I like to know if I done it proper,' the other explained defensively.

'Fools!' Ghashmaz snarled. 'I'm surrounded by fools. And you not the least, tark,' he hissed, reverting to Westron for the benefit of his prisoner. 'Tell us what we want to know, an' we'll kill you quick. Else it's yonder hanging tree for you!' He closed his hand on the noose-knot about Aragorn's throat and tightened it ever so slightly. 'An' if you think we'll string you by the neck first, you'd be sorely mistaken!'

Aragorn swallowed hard, partly out of dread and partly because the knot of the noose was now pressing down upon his larynx. He was familiar with the interrogation tactics of the Uruks, and though he knew he was fortunate that they were not under the command of a Black Númenorean, he found this to be less than comforting in the circumstances. The orc was leaning nearer to him now, and the stench of the hot breath issuing from between the jagged teeth was overpowering. He closed his eyes.

A stinging slap sang against his cheek, and the long nails drew blood at the root of his jaw. 'Look at me when I'm talkin' to you, tark!' the orc roared. He was growing ever more enraged, and Aragorn dared not provoke him further. The threat of torture meant that he had little hope of escaping unscathed, but if Ghashmaz tired of him and left him to the devices of the others they would surely beat him to death, or near enough as made no difference. He could taste their blood-lust already, and their growing dissention at their leader's postponement of their fun. If he could but outlast the night...

As ordered, Aragorn fixed his eyes upon the orc. 'I hope you do not expect me to answer you,' he said mildly, bracing himself as best he could for another debilitating blow.

Instead, a broad grimace that might have been intended as a grin spread its way across the unsightly face. 'Not straight away, I don't,' Ghashmaz hissed. 'Truth be told, I think we'd all be mighty disappointed if you gave in too quick. Longer you hold out, the more we'll enjoy it. But in the end you'll talk. Last tark we captured? Lasted almost two days, 'til we started with the fire.'

'Fire! Fire!' several of the subordinates began to chant. The ghastly rent in Ghashmaz's face widened considerably.

'Wept like a maid, 'e did, before the end. Snivelling coward. Then we et 'im. Stringy, 'e was. Shouldn't've left 'im so long, I suppose.'

Aragorn felt a great surge of wrath at the thought of these bestial creatures of Sauron so using one of the gallant men of Ithilien. He could not help the fury that glinted in his eyes, but he schooled it as swiftly as he could, hoping the orc had not noticed.

He had, but instead of lashing out, Ghashmaz laughed. 'Friend of yours, was 'e?' he mocked. The conclusion was a logical one: his race had only the barest ties of loyalty. Rage on behalf of a stranger was a foreign concept to them, as was sorrow. 'Don' worry: you'll be joining 'im soon enough.'

Ghashmaz turned away, snatching Aragorn's pack from the orc who had confiscated it. ' 'Ere, you two. String 'im up by 'is arms! We'll let 'im swing awhile whilst I look at 'is gear.'

Aragorn's pulse quickened. If they hung him by his wrists, his one hope of escape would avail him nothing. Already his fingers were beginning to go numb, however he writhed them. If he lost feeling entirely...

'I had wondered,' he said, as saucily as he dared; 'why your men did not simply turn me over to the guards back at the Gate. I wonder still more now.'

The orc leaned close, taking hold of the noose again and leering eye-to-eye at his prisoner. 'Eh? 'Ow's that?'

'Surely the Men of the Eye could come up with more creative means to torment a prisoner than dangling him from a tree,' Aragorn sneered. His pulse was racing and he hoped frantically that his desperation would not show through his mask of disdain. 'I have seen as much done for the sport of the one who hangs! Why would you not leave me in the hands of capable interrogators?'

With a howl of rage, Ghashmaz kicked him squarely in the gut. Anguish exploded into his viscera, and as Aragorn's body crumpled forward even the grasping hands on his shoulders could not keep him from falling. He landed on his side in the dust, helpless as the heavy boot dug into his side once more.

'Scum! Filth!' Ghashmaz howled, adding several more unsettling epithets in his own dark speech. 'The soldiers of the City do not hand over our prizes to Tower filth! You are ours, you worm, and we'll wring you to death! Wretch! Maggot! Stinking tark!'

Each expletive was accompanied by another vicious blow, and Aragorn was rapidly losing track of the world around him when suddenly a cry went up.

'That's 'im! That's 'im! That's the one!'

The kicking stopped, but Aragorn could do no more than lie curled on his flank, his vision flooded with pulsating darkness and his core wracked with pain.

'Whadda you mean, "him"?' Ghashmaz snarled.

'The Man! The tark from the mountains! That's 'im!'

Aragorn closed his eyes, bracing himself. Third Voice had arrived. There was a clattering noise of cast-off firewood. So they had sent the little one for fuel... but this was no time to be answering old questions. He was about to be repaid in full for his folly and his imprudent act of clemency.

'So what if it is?' snapped Ghashmaz. 'I'm going to kill 'im!'

'Y'can't,' Third Voice said.

The only sound was the ringing of blood in Aragorn's ears. When again Ghashmaz spoke his voice was low and deadly, Westron forgotten. 'Whadda you mean I can't?'

'I got my orders. They want to meet 'im. Want to know how a tark knows our speech. Want to know 'is business in our mountains.'

'I was gonna find out 'is business!' Ghashmaz exclaimed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice now. The fear of the Nazgûl was more powerful than the need to assert his supremacy over the small, wily one.

'They'll be right displeased if we bring 'im back too weak for questioning,' Third Voice said stoutly. 'An' if you kill 'im, well, I wouldn' be in your place for all the wealth of the Elves!'

Aragorn's eyes were functioning properly again, and though he did not dare move he shifted his gaze to Ghashmaz. The towering orc looked suddenly shrunken, uncertain. Then he scowled.

'Fine, then! Since you're the cursed expert on all that they would want, the prisoner's yours! Do what you like with 'im, an' if aught goes wrong, it'll be your head that's for it, not mine! Understood? And the rest of you! Little maggot's givin' the orders now: hark to 'im. And let's see about some supper: it'll be dawn soon! Move it!'

The Uruks dispersed, and Aragorn's attention shifted to his new jailer. As his eyes locked with the cold eyes of the approaching orc, Aragorn's heart grew cold within him. It seemed he was going to pay a high price indeed for the folly of mercy.

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When the grey dawn came, the orcs retreated into the shelter of the cave. Aragorn was left by its mouth, bound at wrists, ankles and knees with the noose still trailing from around his neck. The embers of the dying fire afforded no warmth to the shivering captive, and his cloak lay some rangar away, discarded among the scattered and trampled contents of his pack. From the look of things, Ghashmaz and his soldiers had found little of interest among the Ranger's belongings. The copper bracelet was gone, and the rushlight, but as far as Aragorn could tell everything else was there, strewn about like so much trash. There was his knife, half-wrapped in a scrap torn from his cloak: such creatures of evil could not bear to touch steel wrought by the Noldorin smiths of Imladris. Even his scant supply of food had proved beneath their notice, though ground into the dust and the grime of an orc-camp, he doubted that any of it was edible. They had found it monstrously amusing that a tark should carry with him a supply of their liquor, and they had taken great pleasure in slicing open both skins and emptying his bottles over his garments. Damp in the cold winter wind, Aragorn had to struggle to keep from slipping from consciousness.

He was bleeding sluggishly from the nose, and his lip was split and swelling. His abdomen was rigid with bruises that prevented him from curling up for warmth. Lying on his side with his face in the dirt, he was struggling to force his bloated fingers to obey him.

Third Voice had done little enough: on the whole he had fared better than he could have hoped. Yes, the nimble fingers had dug themselves into some very sensitive places, but the wounds in his shoulder would heal and he could still hear out of both ears. It might have been far worse. The small orc had claimed the silver star that held his cloak, gloating over the treasure as if it were his first plunder. Upon reflection, Aragorn realized that such might indeed be the case. Then having yanked off his boots to ensure that the prisoner was concealing no blade within them, Third Voice had bound the Ranger's legs as tightly as he could. Commandeering the services of two of his larger fellows, he had ordered his captive deposited on the threshold of the cave, where he had left him.

There was no one about now, save for a dozing sentry well within the shadows of the rocks. Aragorn's perseverance was paying off, and he was now able to move his fingers and to grasp. He would have found any precise task a trial at this moment, but he hoped he would have enough dexterity for this. He curled his right wrist, trying desperately to reach into his left sleeve. Sharp pain lanced up his arm, and he knew he could not manage it. Instead he rolled further onto his belly and began to shake his arms as fiercely as he could.

There was a rustling in the gorse-bushes, and Aragorn froze, his eyes seeking out the movement. There was something hidden there, watching him. Another orc? Some spy of the Enemy? Or merely a fox or a badger going about its morning business with no more regard for the trussed-up man than it would have had for a stone?

But he had seen no game animals in all his northward journey, and why would a spy of Sauron shy away from a camp full of orcs? Unless, of course, it was some servant of the Tower bent on striking the next blow in the senseless but very useful feud between the servants of the Witch-king and those who took their orders straight from the Barad-dûr.

He resumed his struggle to shake loose the weight in each sleeve. By the most extraordinary stroke of luck, both had survived his rough handling and the search efforts of Third Voice. That alone doubled his chance of success, or at least he tried to believe that it did.

There it was again! There was something very large hiding in that hedge. Aragorn tried to bring into focus the shadows beneath the gorse. At last he saw them: two keen eyes, bright and piercing, staring straight at him. Once he had a reference point, the rest of the figure came into focus: a face masked in green, cloak and hood dyed in variegated woodland hues, left hand braced against the trunk of the bush, right hand tucked out of sight and doubtless concealing a sword. A Ranger of Ithilien.

The Man saw the recognition in the prisoner's eyes, and he raised his gloved hand, one finger to his lips. Aragorn nodded. He should have been grateful of the sight of an ally, but he was not. If the man was alone, he had no chance of overcoming the orcs. If he was not, Aragorn would soon find himself a prisoner of the Steward, for nothing that he was free to admit would exculpate him of the crime of wandering unbidden in Ithilien, prisoner of orcs or no. He did not relish attempting to explain himself to a dour woodland captain, and utmost calamity would strike if there was one in the company old enough to know him.

The Ranger lifted his mask a little, exposing his lips. They moved in a silent question, but at this distance it was difficult for Aragorn to read the motions. He shook his head once, and the man tried a second time, pointing at the mouth of the cave.

Ah. How many? He wanted an estimate of the enemy's numbers. Aragorn mouthed back: fifteen. The Man shook his head. The motion was hampered by the swollen lip. Carefully Aragorn repeated himself again, and a third time, and a fourth. Finally the soldier nodded in comprehension, and flashed his open fingers three times to represent the number. Aragorn bobbed his head emphatically. The man mouthed his thanks, and something more that might have been a promise of aid. Then he covered his mouth and vanished into the trees.

It was not long before Aragorn heard the trilling noise of a whistle. He knew well the code, and he understood. The Ranger was communicating that the enemy was near, fifteen in number, and that aid and one with healing skills was needed. Then he heard the signal for 'prisoner'. The answering call came, faint but clear. It was a relaying voice. Aragorn listened as the second whistler repeat the message, and then for a long time there was silence. At last the answer came: help was coming, and would arrive in less than half an hour. Was the scout in immediate danger?

Aragorn did not concentrate any further upon the communications of his would-be rescuers. He redoubled his efforts with greater desperation. Half an hour. He had hoped for an entire day.

There was no time to waste.