Chapter 4

Another arrow whistled between the sheltering walls, gouging out a great scar in the ruined stone before spending itself harmlessly in the ground.  “Get down!” cried Sam and the hobbits dropped to their bellies, the wizard not far behind.  Sam pushed his master against the wall and lay before him, and Merry did the same with Pippin.  Frodo struggled, trying to crawl over Sam.  “No sir,” the stocky hobbit said fiercely, “you just stay there.”

“Sam -”

“No, I tell you!”  Shocked, Frodo fell back, silent.

The sounds of battle were growing louder, the clash of steel ringing out to blend with the singing of the Elf’s bow in deadly melody.  Legolas lay prone on the roof and chose his targets with care, taking out the bowmen of their attackers.  None of his arrows missed its chosen target and the hail of arrows above the hobbits’ heads slowed and ceased.  Coldly and methodically, the Elf turned his attention to the fighting men.

Pippin buried his head in Merry’s back as another Man screamed, agony evident in his tortured death-cry.  Then Merry was shouting in his ear, calling to Gandalf and the others that they must rise and fight.  No more arrows sought to pin them against the walls.  The tweenager could see brief glimpses of Boromir and Gimli as they surged back and forth before the ruined alley’s narrow opening.  Boromir was closing with large, dark-featured man who bore a white hand on his surcoat.  Even as he watched, the Gondorian twisted and riposted, in one powerful thrust driving his great sword through the man’s chest.

Gimli swung back into his view for the briefest of moments, his great, double-headed axe swinging, and Pippin saw another man’s head part his shoulders, a great gout of bright red blood shooting upwards from the severed neck.  The body threw its arms into the air, almost in supplication, before it fell backwards onto the bloody earth.

Vomit rose in the young hobbit’s throat; he tasted it burning in his mouth.  But he had no more time for his stomach’s rebellion as Merry was dragging him to his feet by his collar, shaking him.  “Wake up, Pip!  They’re coming!”

Turning after Merry, Pippin saw that Aragorn was nowhere to been seen.  Men swirled before the other end of the alley, dust and dirt and blood covering them so that their individual features could not been made out.  Where was the Ranger?  Then another Man was looking into the alley, his scarred features breaking into a grin as he beheld one old man and four small warriors no larger than children.  That smile faded when Gandalf raised Glamdring, his great elven sword, and stepped before the hobbits.

“Come and die,” the wizard invited softly, no trace of fear on his lined face, his hands steady in a two-handed grip on the great sword.  The Man slowed, his eyes on the wizard’s face, considering.  Then he turned and ran.

Pippin sagged into Merry, a half-hysterical giggle on his lips.  Frodo appeared dumbstruck, Sam grimly relieved.  That soft little giggle died its own death when two Men appeared in the unguarded opening, the one that ran and another. 

“Cowards,” growled the wizard, shifting to a one-handed grip for greater freedom of movement.  The two men sneered at him, their attention on him and the great sword.  Pippin felt Merry move beside him and the scarred man staggered backwards, his hands going to his neck.  Merry’s dagger quivered like some obscene leech there, sucking out his life.  For a moment the man lowered his astonished gaze to the grim eyes of the small one who had thrown it, then fell dead at his comrade’s feet.

With a snarling cry, the remaining man surged forward, clearing his fellow soldier’s body with a leap.  He engaged the wizard, striving to overpower him with strength.  A most deadly mistake.  His face never changing, Gandalf twisted his blade to the side, carrying the other with it.  While the man struggled to regain his balance, the wizard took one step to the side, pulling the man off his feet.  The soldier measured his length on the ground, cursing.  When he sought to spring to his feet he felt the cold hardness of razor-sharp metal at his throat and looked to the side.  One of the little ones held a small sword to his throat, no mercy in his grey eyes.   “You move, sir,” the small one said softly, “and I’ll cut you.”   

The soldier considered his options and met again the eyes of the small one, seeing in their steel-grey depths no doubt or hesitation.  Then he released his sword and spread his hands, laying them gently before him on the earth.  The dark-haired one behind them was in an instant pulling away the sword and binding his hands and legs with lacings pulled from the man’s own belt, small hands sure on the knots.  Merry shoved his sword into Pippin’s free hand and bent to help his cousin.

With a start, Pippin dragged his attention from their prisoner and was shocked to hear that the sounds of battle were less around them.  No more men reeled past the alley openings, but Boromir and Gimli were not to be seen.  Where were they?  Where was Strider?  Pippin edged along the wall, trying to expand his field of vision.  He stopped at the entrance to the alleyway, looking out upon a battlefield.

Gimli stood over a fallen man, his great axe bloody to the hilt.  Aragorn and Boromir knelt opposite him next to the man’s side, the Ranger shaking his head.  The man on the ground was gasping, a queer, whistling sound, and as the tweenager took a step closer, he realized that the soldier’s ribs were crushed, the bones driven into his lungs.  The man was slowly suffocating in his own blood. 

Boromir’s eyes were attracted by the movement of Pippin’s forward step. “’Ware the young one,” he whispered to Aragorn and Gimli.  Gimli nodded without turning around and moved his thick body before Pippin’s line of sight.  A moment later the Ranger rose, sheathing his long knife.  The man no longer gasped.

Tears unbidden sprang into the young hobbit’s eyes.  Merry’s sword, and his own, thudded into the dust.  Aragorn saw this.  “Pippin,” he called gently.  “Go back to the others.  You cannot help us here.  Tell Gandalf we are unharmed and will join you in moment.”

Pippin stood without moving, his eyes roving over the scenes of painful death.  The lightest of sounds came from above him and then the Elf landed beside him, jumping down from the ruined roof in a single graceful leap.  Legolas gathered up the dropped swords and pressed them carefully into Pippin’s arms.  “Go inside, little one,” the Elf whispered.  “You do not need to see this.”

Obeying numbly, Pippin carried the swords back.  He was scarcely two steps into the alley when Merry and Frodo both grasped his arms, making him almost drop the swords again.  “Pippin!  What are you doing?” cried Merry, turning him around to make certain he was unhurt.

“The battle’s over,” the tweenager reported dazedly.  “Strider said to tell you they were unharmed and they will come back shortly.”

Frodo took his sword from him and led him over to the wall, pushing him down against it and laying the sword in his unresponsive hand.  Sam looked at the tweenager  briefly, but did not withdraw the knife from near the throat of the prisoner.  Merry took his own sword and went to the entrance, to be met there by the returning warriors.

Aragorn’s sharp gaze took in the tied man then checked each of them over.  “It would have gone ill for us did we not have a Greenwood Elf with us,” he commented.  Legolas, checking his unstrung bow for damage, raised his head and smiled at him briefly.  Then Aragorn turned to Gandalf.  “They are all dead, that I saw.  If any deserted, I did not see them run.  We are unharmed.  Are any hurt here?”

Gandalf shook his head, sheathing the great elven sword at last.  “None here.  Only two came into the alley, and they are as you see them.”  A gesture took in the corpse and the prisoner.

Frodo regarded them anxiously.  “Are you all truly unhurt?”

Aragorn grinned at him through the mask of sweat and dirt coating his face.  “A warrior, Frodo, does not complain of scrapes and cuts and bruises.”  His face softened.  “Yes … we are unhurt.  We were all most fortunate.”

“These were not men I would care to captain,” remarked Boromir, his eyes coolly contemptuous. 

The man on the ground stared up on them, stifled fury on his face.  He dropped his eyes when Aragorn knelt before him, staring at the ground.  The Ranger leaned over him and checked the bonds.  “Well done, Frodo, Merry.  Sam, you can move that sword now.”

This Sam did, but he did not sheath it, keeping it ready in his hand.  Then his round faced blanched.  “Bill!” he fairly howled.  “I forgot Bill!  Oh, me poor lad.”

Sam would have darted out of the alley but Legolas caught his shoulder, halting him.  “One moment, Samwise!  I will go with you.  I need to recover my arrows.”   The two left, Sam practically dragging the Elf behind him.

Aragorn leaned down and pointedly cleaned his long sword on the prisoner’s surcoat, wiping blood across the white hand emblazoned on it, his dark eyes locking on the man’s.  “You,” he said softly, his voice flat and emotionless, “what was your troop’s purpose here?”

The man’s eyes followed the gleaming steel as it rubbed across his chest.  With a gulp he looked up.  “We were given orders to seek out your band and take captive the little folk.  They were not to be harmed.”

There was nothing in the Ranger’s eyes.  “And the rest of us?”  The man was silent, beads of perspiration gathering in his hair and sliding down his face.  “And the rest of us,” asked Aragorn again.  The very tip of his sword angled and sliced easily through the cloth and leather, and the material around the small hole began to darken.  

The man licked his lips, looking from the darkening spot to the Ranger.  “You were to be killed.”

Now Gandalf moved forward, ignoring the man’s flinch.  “Why did you pursue us?”

“We were told one of the halflings carried something of great value,” the man said quickly.  “I don’t know what it is.  I don’t think my captain knew.  Several companies of us, Orcs and Men both, were sent.   Rich reward was to go to the troop that brought back the halflings.”

“And the one who gave the orders?”  The man paled, and the wizard could almost see the thoughts racing through the man’s mind.  Did they know whose livery he wore?   Did they know the chief of the White Hand?

When the man did not respond, Aragorn tipped his sword again and set against the man’s chest.  Frodo could not bear it.  “Stop!” the hobbit cried.  “You cannot torture him!”

“Frodo, be still,” murmured Aragorn, never taking his eyes from the man.  “This does not concern you.”

“Then who does it concern, if not me?”

Gandalf met the Ranger’s grim eyes and then looked at the Ring-bearer.  Frodo’s naturally fair complexion was deathly white.  He pressed himself against the wall, frightened, as the man’s eyes turned to him.  “You?” the prisoner whispered.  A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. “You.”

Gandalf glared at the man, then his face softened into sorrowful resignation.  “This man cannot be freed, Aragorn.  He must not take back the knowledge of our whereabouts to Isengard.”  Aragorn nodded in reply and stood, taking a step back.

“No, you can’t,” gasped the Ring-bearer.  “You cannot murder him -”

“We must do whatever we must to safeguard you, Frodo.”  There was no mercy in the Ranger’s eyes. 

Frodo looked like he was going to faint.  Quickly, Merry went to cross the narrow way to catch his arm.  In his fear for his cousin, he forgot the danger of the man and crossed between him and the Ranger’s sword.  In a heartbeat the man rocked forward, his tied arms sliding over Merry’s head, pulling him down, his hands twisting sideways to wrap around the hobbit’s throat. 

* TBC *