Chapter Twelve - Descending

Still breathing heavily from his near strangulation, Faramir stared at Wormtongue.

“Can I take it, that since you are here helping me,” he said dryly. “I am winning?”

Wormtongue shifted uneasily. “Hurry,” he hissed. “Saruman will be here soon.”

Faramir moved to where the Prince lay. He shook him gently and asked, “Prince Eldarion, are you all right?”

The boy groaned weakly and opened his eyes. “My head hurts. . . but it is not too bad,” he muttered as he sat up with the older man’s help.

“You did very well, my Prince,” Faramir tried to reassure him.

Eldarion snorted. “I don’t think so,” he retorted.

“I know few unarmed men who would dare to take on an Uruk in single combat. They will sing songs of your courage throughout Gondor in future years. Can you stand?”

The last was said as Wormtongue fidgeted impatiently behind them. Eldarion nodded and climbed painfully to his feet.

“At last,” Wormtongue muttered. “Now can we go?”

“No,” Faramir said as he turned to confront the whining snake. He seized hold of Wormtongue’s collar, lifted him and banged him bodily against the nearest wall, first squeezing his wrist so that the hammer dropped harmlessly to the floor.

“I have had enough of your shifts in allegiance, Grima,” he spat. “Now you explain to me exactly what is happening here.”

Wormtongue began to shudder with fear as he once again saw the resolve in Faramir’s eyes.

“You are hurting me,” he moaned.

Faramir banged his head against the wall again. “Yes, I am,” he agreed. “And the only way to stop me hurting you more is to start talking, and keep talking.”

“Saruman has no army,” Wormtongue said. His tongue seemed to be too big for his dry mouth and his eyes flashed dangerously. “He has misled you all along. His purpose is simply to kill your King. The wizard is in league with the Easterlings. They want Elessar dead and he has promised to accomplish it. In return they supplied men and equipment to help him rebuild Barad-dur. Saruman also found some of Sauron's mountain trolls and beasts of burden who survived the end of the Ring. Saruman had to entice the King out of the protective walls of the White City, but with no more than two hundred Uruks at his disposal he had to be clever. The Prince is his bargaining piece. You came too soon for him to re-create an army but no matter. He had planned to send an anonymous message for the King to come alone to save the boy. Thanks to you, the King came in force, but Saruman still has the King trapped. Once Elessar is gone, Saruman plans to simply walk into Minas Tirith with the Prince at his side, and entrench himself there as King Eldarion's trusted advisor. ”

'And Saruman believed that Arwen would stand by and allow him entry?' Faramir wondered to himself. But he would have to address that later, he must first deal with more immediate threats, such as his own vulnerability to Saruman's power.

“I came too soon?” Faramir questioned. “So he did not call me to him? He does not have enough power to bespell me?”

Wormtongue shrugged nervously.

Faramir was not surprised at the revelation. He had begun to suspect that it may be the case, following his latest interview with the wizard. But Wormtongue had been false all along. Could he believe what he was being told now? Could he put the fear that the wizard could make him strike his King again behind him?

“Go on,” Faramir prompted.

Wormtongue licked his lips again before continuing. His frayed voice lost all restraint, and he began to pant and sob as he gushed out a torrent of words. “You heard him say he would let you kill me! I don’t want to die. He has treated me like a slave - it’s not fair! I have given him my life, my countrymen, King Theoden - everything I was, everything. And now he would supplant me with you, who took Eowyn, you who have all that I should have had.” His body was suddenly wracked with sobs. “I hope he fails in this too. Everything that I have become is because of him. I was young and innocent once, I was bespelled just like you. It is only right that I should be on your side. I am not to blame for any of this!”

Faramir looked on the wretch with disgust. “You chose your own course, Grima,” he said. “At least have the decency to accept responsibility for your failure.”

Wormtongue shook his head violently. “No,” he replied, shaking. “It is not my fault. I hate Saruman more than you. I hope his tower falls around his ears! I hope all his plans fall to dust. It’s not my fault, it is not! I can help him no more. I will help him no more!”

Faramir let the shuddering traitor fall to the floor, where he lay weeping. Whether the tears were real or not, Faramir realised he would learn nothing more of value from Wormtongue.

Faramir moved towards the nearest Uruk and took his sword and dagger. The Uruk's sword was actually a heavy, one-handed weapon fashioned more like a butcher's cleaver than a true sword. The weapon was three feet long, and had a spike on the back of its single-edged blade. It was identical to the weapons Saruman had forged at Isengard for his Uruks' attack on Helm's Deep during the War of the Ring. Faramir had seen several such blades at Meduseld; and Eomer had spoken humorously of having gifted the cook with one to use for cutting beef from large game and cattle. He wished he had his own trusty sword in his hand; but Saruman had taken it from him and it doubtless resided in the wizard's armoury by now. He considered giving a weapon to Eldarion but decided against it when he observed how the boy’s hands were shaking as he leaned against the table and watched Faramir.

“Prince Eldarion,” Faramir called softly. “Let us go.”

The boy nodded and came to him.

“What about me?” Wormtongue moaned. He sniffled, then lifted his head and stared at them from the floor. “Will you take me with you?”

“Come or stay,” Faramir snapped impatiently. “I care not. But for the moment, that hammer shall be safer in my hands than yours.” He bent down and took the hammer from the floor where it had fallen at Wormtongue's side, as quickly as possible. He would trust a sickened dog more than he would ever trust Grima Wormtongue.

Wormtongue, still muttering about the defeat he wished would befall Saruman, pulled himself to his feet and followed the others but only at a discreet distance.

They moved into the darkened, confined area of the circular winding stairway that stretched from the tower's top to its lowest floor. Faramir glanced upwards and seriously considered searching for Saruman, but the Prince's safety was more important. Faramir promised himself that he would restore Eldarion to his father or die trying. The wizard would have to wait.

Faramir lead the way down keeping a paternal eye on Eldarion. The boy was pale and drawn but he seemed to have his fear under control, at least for the moment. In his haste Faramir did not notice that Wormtongue no longer followed them and in fact was not on the stairs at all.

As they reached a lower level, the young Prince let out a gasp of horror, as he saw a dozen Uruk-Hai ascending the stairs towards them.

Faramir raised his sword, balancing its unfamiliar weight in his hand, and held Grima's hammer in the other. He quickly passed the dagger to Eldarion. Shaky or not, he would not leave his Prince weaponless. He realised that while they were on the cramped stairs, he held the advantage since there was only room for one Uruk to attack him at a time. And only one of the Uruks, a larger beast at the back of the group, was outfitted with a hauberk; the rest wore leather surcoats or jerkins; and only a few bore vambraces. 'Oh, Saruman; you truly were unready for my coming', Faramir thought; 'And you shall have neither my king nor his son!'

Crying, "For Gondor!" Faramir leapt forward and swung the hammer down on the first Uruk's unprotected skull.

It was a muscle-numbing and exhausting fight for Faramir as he grimly cut and clubbed his way down the stair. No sooner had he finished one than the next Uruk charged up to take its place. He quickly tired of using both weapons, and stored the hammer in his belt. His arm began to ache from using the unfamiliar and over-heavy sword and sweat beaded on his brow. He had killed or mortally wounded four Uruks and disabled three when he took a cut on his forehead from the tall, armed Uruk who had shoved his way to the forefront by knocking two of his own soldiers off the stair. The wound streamed blood down Faramir's face, compromising his sight. He managed a quick glance downwards to see that he only had two more flights before the bottom, however, the rest of the Uruks were waiting angrily for him.

The Uruk noted his foe's lapse in concentration and pressed his advantage with a mighty roar. Ten seconds later, his spiked blade pinned Faramir’s exposed throat against the wall. Faramir heard the Prince cry out in defiance, and yelled "Stay back, my Prince!"

If the boy tried to fight the Uruk, the bloodthirsty monster might well kill him. Thankfully, the Uruk was pressing the dull side of the blade against him. But now two more Uruks came up behind their armed comrade; all three growling. The armed one, probably the captain, leaned close enough to Faramir's face that he could see its large yellow teeth, and, worse, smell its foul breath. Faramir turned as much as he could and kicked out at the Uruk's knee; only to nearly choke as the Uruk pressed the weapon harder against his neck. His strength was leaving him; he desperately needed just a minute or two to rest. But he would be dead by then!

“Stop!” the authoritive voice boomed down the stairwell, its awesome power forcing all to stop and heed it. "Do not kill him, not yet; and do not touch the boy!" commanded an unfortunately familiar voice.

Gulping, Faramir stood defenceless as the blood continued to flow down his face from the head wound. Moving his head very slowly, he managed to look up. Saruman looked down upon them from the top of the stairs. He fixed Faramir with his predatory stare.

“Am I to assume from this show of petulance that you do not accept my proposal, son of Gondor?” His voice was at its most melodious and dangerous.

Faramir felt as if fingers of darkness reached through his mind. It mattered not if this was one of Saruman's tricks or his own fears, he had not the time to entertain such illusions. Before brushing off the sensation like cobwebs, he wondered how much of Saruman's power now rested in his voice, and the way the wizard used it. He could think of nothing appropriate to say and so remained defiantly silent.

“You disappoint me, Faramir,” Saruman continued. “I thought you had begun to understand. I thought you had the vision to see. But sadly, you have fallen below my expectations and I really have little use for you at all.”

Faramir leaned back on the wall as a shiver rushed through him. His head was throbbing and he could feel his strength continue to seep away as the blood ran from his wound. The Uruk growled menacingly at him and held the blade rigidly at his neck. Its point pierced the skin and more blood began to trickle lazily down towards the man’s shirt.

As if he had dismissed the former Steward, Saruman turned his attention elsewhere.

“Eldarion,” he commanded. “Come to me now.”

A flash of green light emanated from the wizard. Faramir saw the young Prince stiffen as his eyes glazed.

“Eldarion!” he shouted, desperate to move forward but held securely in place by the Uruk’s blade. “Do not listen to him. He seeks to enthral you once more. Think of something else. Think of your father!”

Saruman laughed. “His father is the very root of the weakness I use to bind him to me. Aragorn is the fuel that feeds the fire of the spell. You obviously do not understand their relationship.

Unsure of what Saruman meant, Faramir concentrated his attention on the young Prince.

“Eldarion!” he shouted again but the boy had turned and was beginning to shuffle back up the stairs towards the wizard.

“No!” Faramir cried. He could do nothing but watch. The Uruk bared his teeth at the obvious desperation of the man in front of him. Faramir realized that the ugly expression on the monster’s face must have passed as a smile for Uruk-kind.

As Eldarion moved closer to the wizard, Wormtongue suddenly rushed through a door leading on to the stairs. He stopped as his beady eyes took in the scene before him. Wormtongue moved to intercept the young Prince on his climb.

“No, Saruman, not this time!” he shouted.

“Worm? What are you. . .” Saruman began but the words stuck in his throat as Wormtongue grabbed the young Prince.

“You will not supplant me!” Wormtongue spat. “Do you think I would allow you to use me for so many years and then cast me aside like garbage when you find fresher meat for your use?”

“Worm, you are a fool!” Saruman replied dismissively. “Crawl back under the stone where I found you. You have no business influencing the plans of your betters!”

Wormtongue was breathing heavily. He shook his head and pulled the young Prince closer. “No,” he said. “Now it is time for you to listen to me, Saruman! Behold! I hold the most valuable piece in your game! And I will kill him if I have to.”

“No!” Faramir said firmly. With renewed vigour he surged against the Uruk, who was watching events over his muscle-knotted shoulder and had let his hold on the sword lapse. Faramir raised his hand and knocked the blade away.

He raced up the steps; heart pounding. Eldarion was his to protect in Aragorn's absence, and no crawling snake would threaten the boy's life while Faramir still drew breath.

A shocked silence descended over the stairs and the remaining Uruks, confused by Saruman's orders, let him go without moving.

“Stay where you are!” Wormtongue screamed.

But Faramir would not be denied. "I'm coming, Eldarion!" he called out to the Prince.

As Faramir approached him, Wormtongue began to quake. Eldarion's eyes blinked and then opened, wide and bright. Taking strength from Faramir's approach and Wormtongue's sudden weakness, he began to struggle.

Captor and captive lurched dangerously close to the edge of the stairs in a deadly dance. Saruman was screaming at Wormtongue to desist, but was completely ignored.

Faramir reached them as the pair struggled tottering alarmingly. Suddenly Wormtongue seized and raised the knife that Faramir had given Eldarion. Wormtongue was suddenly a far more dangerous opponent. He turned on the boy, slashing wildly at him. Eldarion twisted to avoid falling off the stairs, then screamed in pain as the blade opened a long, deep gash on his right arm.

Faramir grimaced. He took hold of the Prince and bundled the boy behind him, toward the wall and away from the frenzied attack and the edge of the staircase. Eldarion was taken by surprise and stumbled as Faramir let him go. He slid down the few stairs and tumbled rear-first onto the landing, yelping in surprise at his fall.

Satisfied that the Prince was relatively safe, at least for the moment Faramir turned back to the spitting, knife-wielding fury that Wormtongue had become, just as the Worm thrust with his dagger. Faramir saw the manoeuvre but was off balance and though he tried to sidestep to miss the blade, succeeded only in deflected it into his left thigh.

The blade struck bone and was jarred from Wormtongue’s grip. The Gondorian gasped in sudden pain, but it was not enough to stop him. Wormtongue shivered as fear gripped him. Faramir stood bathed in blood, from his slashed forehead on down, dagger handle protruding from his bleeding leg, blood-spattered Uruk sword in hand. He was indeed a terrifying sight but it was his eyes that drew and held Wormtongue’s frightened gaze. Those eyes glittered with cold fury. Wormtongue knew he would find no mercy there. And Saruman would be angry; oh, where could he go now?

Faramir took a painful step towards his prey. Wormtongue screamed, turned, and fled back through the room from where he had come. Faramir staggered to the wall and held himself upright, breathing heavily. He raised the sword and glared up at Saruman as the wizard calmly descended the steps.

“How very courageous of you, Lord Faramir,” Saruman purred patronisingly. “Such a shame that all your efforts have come to naught.”

Faramir leaned back on the wall as a shiver chilled through his body. His head was throbbing and he could feel his strength ebb once more as the blood ran from his thigh wound. He forced himself to look down the stairs.

Eldarion was sitting, cradling his bleeding arm in his lap, his face contorted in pain, and, for the first time, anger. "You leave Lord Faramir alone, wizard!" Eldarion yelled, his voice changing from angry shout to squeak as his voice shifted in mid-sentence.

Faramir had to smile; remembering the embarrassment of the voice change from his early teens. But he was glad to see the Prince show some spirit. The King's son might become an eagle after all, if the squawking eaglet survived long enough.

“Enough of this!” Saruman snapped, then turned to his Uruks. “Take the boy. Clean and bind his wound,” he ordered an Uruk. “Somebody find the Worm and bring him to me quickly!”

His gaze then turned to Faramir, who he favoured with an unpleasant smile. “You have almost outlived your usefulness, son of Gondor,” he said. “But there is one more service you can do for me. Your King is here. Would you not like to see him before you die?”

Five or six Uruk-Hai approached Faramir. He could not be sure of their number, his eyes were tiring and could barely focus. He raised the blade one more time, but his arm could barely hold it; and an Uruk easily struck it from his grasp. The weapon clanged on the stone stairs with a dull metallic thud. The Uruk closest to him bared his teeth at the obvious desolation of the man in front of him. Faramir supposed he should be grateful that Saruman was not allowing the Uruks to eat him. Not yet; he told himself, recalling the tales of his halfling friend Peregrin, and felt his stomach lurch and twist.

“You will save the Prince?” Faramir demanded with all the strength he could muster. As long as Eldarion stayed alive, there was hope that his father would retrieve him from Saruman's hold. And 'Hope' was, after all, one of the King's many names.

Saruman’s eyes brightened with victory. “Oh yes,” he said. “I am a very conservative player, Faramir; I dispose of my powerful pieces only as a final resort. Now I shall see if I can win by sacrificing a secondary, less important piece. I shall hold the heir to the throne of Gondor in reserve. Who knows what I will accomplish when I come to use him? The only certainty is that you will not be alive to witness the end of my game!”

King Elessar frowned as he regarded the tower standing rebelliously before him in the dusty air of Mordor. He felt a sense of dread as he recalled the last time he had faced this wizard in his tower. Gandalf had been at his side to guide and strengthen his resolve. The conclusion to their confrontation with Saruman had been a satisfactory one. Aragorn found he had an itching fear that this time the ending would be very different.

He also remembered the horrific construction that had been the original Barad-Dur. While this tower before him was only a small imitation of the mighty fortress that had once stood there, it still worried him that he had allowed such a tower to be erected in Mordor once more. How could Saruman have found the labour to build this? How could he, the King of Gondor, have allowed it to happen? Saruman must have allies or, and this thought concerned him even more, the wizard had regained some of his powers. Could that be the case?

Aragorn snorted. “Gandalf, my friend,” he muttered. “How I wish you were still here. I have need of your counsel now.”

He turned back to consider his men's positions once more; his keen, experienced eyes making sure that everyone was exactly where he intended them to be.

Legolas and Gimli moved to stand beside him. The elf squinted at the tower. “He is here,” he said softly. “I sense him working to some evil purpose. It is very close.”

Aragorn nodded. “He will want to push his advantage. He will want to gloat.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, “but he will do it from the safety of his tower. Much as I would like to break his head open on my axe, I fear he will not allow us to get close enough.”

“I don’t need to be close,” said Legolas. “All I need is one clear shot.”

Aragorn sighed. He looked over to where Eowyn and her son sat ahorse waiting, their faces etched with worry.

“He comes,” said Legolas with a shudder.

Aragorn turned back to the tower. The light was hazy and it seemed to make all things indistinct but by squinting he could see figures on the top balcony of the tower.

“Come, Gimli,” he said. “Let us see what the wizard has to say. Legolas, should a clear shot arise, bring him down with it.”

The elf nodded and taking his bow in hand skipped expertly across the rocky outcrop behind which Faramir had once hidden, to find a suitable position.

Aragorn and Gimli moved forwards while Eowyn remained behind with the army.

As they came nearer the faces of the figures on the balcony could be clearly made out.

“Faramir is there,” Gimli snorted.

Aragorn nodded. The former Steward was standing in front of Saruman’s imposing figure, his head pulled back so they could clearly see the dagger that the wizard held to his throat. It was difficult to make out anything else about Faramir’s condition as they were unable to see his face. Aragorn thought he could see a dark stain on the former Steward’s left shoulder which he feared was blood, but the distance was too great for him to be sure.

He moved his gaze from his friend's helpless form to the other figures. Behind the wizard stood four or five massive Uruk-Hai and the black-cloaked Wormtongue, who seemed to be slinking around on the edge.

“Greetings, King Elessar,” Saruman’s voice was dulcet, but Aragorn knew it carried danger.

“What do you want?” Aragorn shouted as he and the dwarf came to a stop below the tower.

“Oh come now, Ranger-King,” Saruman smirked. “It is I who should ask you that. Is it not that I have something you value and you have come to claim it back?”

As he spoke the wizard pressed the dagger harder into Faramir’s neck. Aragorn saw his friend’s body stiffen noticeably. At least he is alive, Aragorn thought grimly, for until that point it had been difficult to tell.

Aragorn resisted the desire to glance back and see where Legolas had positioned himself. He knew the elf would do all in his power to loose a shot off but Saruman seemed to have been prepared. He kept his own body protected behind that of Faramir. Aragorn knew that Legolas could not risk a shot. He had to find away to prise the wizard away from his shield.

“What must I do for you to return Faramir to me?” Aragorn asked.

Saruman laughed. “Is that it?” he mocked. “The great King of the West reduced to begging? And all to save the life of his miserable, traitorous former Steward.”

“I am not begging!” Aragorn snapped. “I seek to find out what you want, wizard. I did not say you could have it!”

“Easy lad,” Gimli cautioned. “Do not be rash now.”

“I know, Gimli,” he muttered softly. “I must play this carefully, for I will not have Faramir’s blood on my hands.”

Aragorn suppressed the rush of frustrated anger that threatened to engulf him. He clasped his hands and let out a long breath. He had to trust himself to find a path out of this perilous situation.

But at the moment he was at a loss to see it and he knew time was escaping him.