Chapter Twenty-three

Captured - Part Two -

   Bracing himself against the threat of the Orcs nearby, Strider turned left and – after he had disposed of the torch – felt his way along the rough walls. He was careful to keep the chain in one hand to avoid any noise, but every time he stumbled, the rattling seemed to roar through the narrow dell as if it were announcing the warrior's coming. He halted at every corner, searched the ground and the walls for the right turn to take, and so he only covered little ground. He slipped on some loose stones, lost his footing, and almost fell into a crevice that appeared suddenly in front of him. The chain clanked loudly against the wall as Strider desperately held tight to the edge. His legs dangled over the abyss, and the strain on his hands and wrists increased immensely. For a moment, he gathered his strength, then, knowing too well he only had a small space to pull himself up; he groped for another crack in the rock. Slowly, and with diminishing strength, he reached the edge and hauled himself up. Panting he sat near the fatal drop, but was granted no time to recover. The noise had alarmed the Orcs prowling this part of the mines. They shouted commands. Tankards were thrown to the ground, swords drawn. Strider quickly turned back the way he had come, in search of a smaller path to hide. His memory was good enough to bring him back to a small space he could press himself in and wait for his enemies to pass by. He breathed through his open mouth, avoiding any noise that might give him away. He heard the burning of torches, the primitive leather shoes on the rough ground, and the rattling of metal.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan knelt in the safety of the darkness. A short while ago a group of five Orcs had blocked the small pathway he yearned to walk on. They were quarrelling over something, but he did not understand a word. Daevan could not fight them, he knew that, but until now, he had been lucky to escape the confrontation by silently waiting for them to march by. However, the group had halted and seemed likely to stay for a while, at least until they had decided where to go or what to do. They were drinking water and eating dried meat – Daevan did not wish to know where it came from – and talked loudly to each other. Daevan braced himself. He knew Strider to have taken that way. Now would be the perfect time to gain on his friend, but the way was blocked to him.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Orcs were as numerous as they were hideous, and their sense of smell was excellent. They shuffled over the stones, waving their torches left and right, grumbling in their own, primitive language. They halted at the corner before they jumped nimbly over the crevice. Again they stood, sniffing, turning their heads to every side. The leather of their armour creaked, and some clanked their scimitars against their thighs. After a moment of hesitation a short, bellowed command resounded, and they were about to move an, when a high-pitched screeching brought them to an abrupt halt.

   “Here! Here he is, you fools!” the high voice cried in the darkness. “You missed him!”

   “This way,” the chieftain said grimly and turned to follow the narrow path Strider had taken only seconds ago.

-o-o-o-o-

   The wanderer peered into the darkness, but he did not need to see the two luminescent eyes a few yards away to know, who had betrayed him. He quickly left his hideout to follow Gollum, even if he would lead him deeper into the mines. He had not come such a long and perilous journey to give up his hunt. The enemies' torches behind him cast dancing shadows on the opposite walls, but that was all he needed. With long strides, he followed the old beast down, down the path. He could see his hunched over body as he ran away on all fours, further into the darkness.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Orcs' voices rose from growling to shouting as they alarmed their fellows. Their prey was right in front of them! The Orc-chieftain, who led the pack, could not understand how that Man might have freed himself, but it did not matter. They had to bring him back! They had to catch him, or Hrunas and Gurim would demand his head for this failure! He ran faster, forcing his minions to do the same.

   “Run, you lazy pack! Run if you want to live!”

   And they ran faster.

   Strider did not heed the increasing shouts and the noise of galloping boots behind and in front of him. Faintly he saw Gollum take the next corner, and followed him, coming to a skidding halt to evade a pair of Orcs blocking his way. With both hands he swung the only weapon he possessed: the chain. Its force felled the first Orc. The second ducked the swing and raised a club. Strider pulled back the chain, trying to tear the weapon from the creature's hands. The Orc drew back to attack again, but was too slow. Strider dived under his swinging arm and threw him from the path into the depth of the cavern. Knowing he had lost valuable time, he took up his hunt again. Blindly he chased into the cleft to his right. Darkness awaited him. The howling of the enemies was getting closer, growing in loudness and intensity. The hissing and loud breathing of Gollum was in front of him. He gained on his prey.

   The great Orc cried from afar:

   “Get me that tark! Grab him, tie him, bring him back!”

   More evil creatures poured out of clefts and pathways, and their feet scuffled behind the escapee. The made so much noise they would not have heard a Balrog approaching, but being so many, they reached the most remote corners and - sniffing and shouting – they felt their way, still behind Strider and the creature that, too, had managed to escape their grasp weeks ago. Brúnak thought it to be valuable – in contrast to the Men leading them – and decided to catch it too. With torches held up high, the Orcs hurried on, ever on, following the sideways into dead ends, which the Dwarves had once built to decoy their enemies.

-o-o-o-o-

   Gollum realised he had to leave this path or would be caught. Growling, but afraid at the same time, he squeezed himself through a hole to the left of the gorge he had entered, and stopped. There was a foul stench about this place that even he noticed. He hesitated to go on. A whine of indecision escaped his parched lips. He did not want to go there into the absolute darkness and deeper down into the mine. He truly did not. But – on the other hand – what good reason was there to stay and wait until the Orcs or that tall Man got to him, shackled him, and brought him to some unpleasant fate? No, he would not linger and face the Orcs. For too long he had suffered at their hands. He swallowed, and, with a glance back to where the Man was approaching, moved on, deeper into the heart of the mountain.

-o-o-o-o-

   Strider gritted his teeth and forced himself through the narrow cleft, but at that moment, his prey escaped into an even smaller tunnel, or maybe it was just a hole. It did not matter; he could not follow him that way. The cleft became a dead end only yards from where he stood. Panting, with the chain in his still shackled hands, and knowing he had lost track on his prey; he turned to face his pursuers. Torches behind the first row of foes illuminated the gorge, and the sight of their hideous faces would have frozen the heart of many a brave man. Strider was not fooled. They wanted him alive and would not spoil their prey. Since he could not stay here or move away from them, he approached them, remembering a cleft ten yards back. From there, he might escape the imminent danger. His heart beat fast. If he did not reach the branching, he would face captivity again. He could not endure the thought. The shouting of his enemies was deafening, amplified by the walls. Metal clattered, growls mixed with threats in the foul tongue of the beasts as the smallest Orc swung his crude sword against him. He parried with the chain held between his hands and quickly disarmed the creature. It died upon its own blade. The yelling and hissing rose in volume. Strider took out the next enemy of the crowd: even more were pouring in to get to him. He shoved them back, hewing off limbs and filling the gorge with fallen foes. They could not get closer. There was no space for them. They were actually retreating – getting away from the ferociously fighting Man - but this was a short-lived relief. Strider pressed forward, hoping he could reach that other path within the gorge. But the goblins barred his escape route; he could not play tricks on his enemies and vanish again through a Dwarf door. This time the hunt had been all too successful. Above the skirmish Brúnak cried:

   “Get him! Get him quickly! And no hacking and killing! Take him down, but leave him alive!” He could not follow; there were many of his kinsmen before him. He sensed their lust for the kill. The stench of orc-blood was in the sticky air, and he still heard the clanking of metal, and the high cries of pain. His minions paid with many lives to catch that Man again! That maggot defended himself well! The great Orc growled deep in his throat. He had to put his hands on that Man, or Hrunas and Gurim would take revenge on him. He feared them – they were in conjunction with the Great Sorcerer in the tower – so he would not cross their path.

-o-o-o-o-

   The club hit Strider's shoulder the same instant he felled another Orc to his right. He cried out in pain, but thwarted the next attack out of instinct. His vision blurred as tears came in his eyes, and the enemy in front of him punched his face with the speed of an experienced fighter. Strider's head was thrown backwards. He stumbled and fell.

   The Orcs were above and about him, but he heard their shouts of victory only through a haze. Fists and boots connected with his unprotected body and sent his consciousness to oblivion.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan had started to hold the Great Warrior in high esteem, but to challenge the Orcs to a chase through the vast pathways appeared more foolish than actions he had undertaken in his youth. He shook his head with a sigh, shouldered his belongings, and moved on quietly. If freeing his companion before might have been manageable, it would be a far greater challenge to get him out of this trouble.

-o-o-o-o-

   Gurim walked out into the light of the new day. On the plateau, which Strider and Daevan had crossed to enter Moria, Saruman's chief spy stood waiting. Gurim despised the pale, hunched figure with the heavy lids and sleek, black hair, clad in a coat of black fur and fine trousers and equally fine sewn boots. He despised what that Man was: a walking threat on the leash of the Great Sorcerer. It was he, who had made that outcast of Rohirrim bastards a person that must not be angered or overlooked. And with that mighty hand of protection above him the spy could step before Gurim as a commander and not as the meaningless weakling he actually was.

   As he approached him now, blinking at the pale grey sky overcast with rain clouds, Gurim swallowed hard on his reluctance to even talk with that scum. He wished to twist that maggot’s neck, hear the bone crack under his grip, and get rid of that nuisance. But he could not do that. He feared the sorcerer too much though he was far-off in Isengard. Yet the worst was not his fear, but that the spy knew of it.

   “You are late, Gurim,” said the spy haughtily, and the four Uruks in his company, bearing the White Hand of Saruman, growled to stress his words. “And your delivery is late! Again!”

   Gurim wiped his face and humbled himself to a minuscule bow.

   “Apologies, Grima, the maggots won't work as they should. Their digging's so slow one could…”

   “I do not wish to listen to your complaints, Gurim,” Grima Wormtongue interrupted, his eyes mere slits. His voice was low yet penetrating; there was no mistake about who was in charge. “Make them work faster! Do not try to tell me you have no means to spur those filthy rats down in the mine! You have enough slaves by now. Digging should be swift! The Great Sorcerer wants deliveries! He needs the ore for the War! While you, inept servant could be relieved of your command here with a snap! There are others waiting in line!” He looked past Gurim lifting his black brows in speculation. Hrunas stood there, three paces away, listening intently to the conversation.

   “I will make them work faster,” Gurim hurried to promise. “Yet there was… some trouble.” He did not wish to reveal all of it, but Grima Wormtongue was cunning; he had learned much of Saruman in the years of his service.

   “Well, you should tell me about it,” he said, his voice as sleek as his mocking benevolence. “What kind of trouble did you face?”

   Gurim exchanged a quick glance with Hrunas. Now that he had spilled the news - only meant as a false apology - he had to give away more than he wanted.

   “Dwarves again,” he reluctantly said.

   “Ah, but don't say you still did not get them!” Grima spat, baring his rotten teeth between thin, bloodless lips. “What are your guards for? Only eating and scurrying along the ways?” He did not say that he had never set foot into Moria and would not if it could be avoided. He hated the permanent darkness, and he hated the scurrying, ever fighting Orcs, which could not be trusted. In the deep confines of the earth, a knife meant to stab his back would appear out of thin air, and no one would ever know of it.

   “They watch, Grima, they do, but… those filth knows other ways. Secret ways. They can disappear whenever they want to!”

   “But you said last time you had four of them killed. How could they possibly swarm the mine again? Or did they grow out of stone?”

   “They had help.” Hrunas stepped forward, straightening to his full height and thus towering above the spy, but he failed to impress Grima. Yet, Saruman's minion was sly enough not to comment on that insubordinate behaviour. He had made both Hrunas and Gurim leaders of the group, and he liked it very much that they fought each other. Nothing spurred those stupid Dunlendings better than competition amongst their own ranks.

   “Help? Ah, but I doubt that.” Grima shook his head slightly, and his slanted eyes never left his minions. “Or are you talking of that creature on all fours and the two Men, who arrived here lately?” He relished on the paling faces of the Dunlendings and almost spat out of joy. “I suppose you made them prisoners by now.” Still the leaders only gaped at him, thus giving away that it was true what the spy had stated. “The Great Sorcerer knows many things,” Grima said in a low and menacing tone. Hrunas and Gurim shivered with fear. “There is nothing that can be hidden from him what he desires to know. And now, my obedient servants, tell me how you captured those three the sorcerer wants to see.”

   Grima's malice went right through to Gurim's core; he gasped and was unable to speak. Hrunas composed himself faster.

   “Aye, there was a Man… or better, there were two Men. They came into the mine some days ago. They helped the Dwarves. But we got one. The older one of them. The other can't be far-off.”

   Grima lifted his brows, content to have the Dunlendings shattered. Now they were no more than cringing flesh, ready to devour.

   “You killed him?”

   “Nay, we did not,” Hrunas replied with a fearful glance at Gurim. However, the other leader only brooded over how the sorcerer had gathered such an amount of information. “We have him secured. He's been captured, shackled and all. He can't get away.”

   “What about the thing… this beast? Where is it?” Hrunas ground his teeth and did not dare look at Gurim, who hung his head. “Answer me!” Grima spat, and the Uruks behind him jumped to attention. Their hands went to the hilts of their scimitars, and the Dunlendings felt the threat grow. “Now!”

   “We caught it,” Hrunas replied and lowered his head expecting to be beaten. “But it escaped.”

   “So where did it go? Why did you not find it again?” Hrunas made no answer, so Grima turned his attention to Gurim. “If you have lost your tongue, I might seek for ways to make you talk!”

   “The mine's vast,” Gurim stuttered. “And this thing's small. It could be anywhere.”

   “Then find it!” Grima bared his teeth and leant forward with a cold gleam in his eyes. Though he did not match the men in height, he outmatched them in his stance. “And you had better find that second Man too in the short time I will grant you!” Both Dunlendings nodded without a word. Grima straightened once more. “Does that Man you made captive know about the treasure of the Dwarves?” Hunger shone in his black eyes, a fever that would not be quenched, even by pounds of mithril.

   Hrunas almost stepped back seeing the face of Grima Wormtongue. There was wickedness in his gaunt features; greed beyond reckoning, and the thought behind all was how to get what was in the mine.

   “We questioned him,” Hrunas replied hesitantly, realising his mistake. Grima got a step closer, and the Uruks mimicked the movement; they were shadows and threats alike. Hrunas wished to be in the deep caverns of the mine again. He had acted stupidly, and now he would pay for it. “We will get the answers… sooner or later.”

   “It should be sooner, you useless son of a mountain troll! Otherwise there will be other means to break him.” And Grima added more softly, “Was there anything of value on him? What did he carry?”

   “Naught of any value,” Gurim said defensively and made a disdainful gesture. “Cloak and coat, some things in a pack, and even a broken blade.”

   “A broken blade?” Grima cocked his head and asked very slowly, “Why should a man carry a broken blade, Gurim? Was there anything engraved on it? Or on its sheath? Some signs maybe? Did he tell you why he kept it? And where are you keeping it now?”

   Gurim swallowed. He had never given the slightest thought to the use of a broken blade. Too late, he realised that all he had done had been a mistake.

   “It slid down into a crevice.” He shrugged. “Together with the rest of his belongings. I didn't ask why he kept it and, nay, I can't say what was on it. It was only shards.”

   Hrunas set his jaw, wanting to end the conversation before the sorcerer's minion decided to replace him at once. Yet as if Grima knew, he linked eyes with him, and his piercing stare made Hrunas dwindle before him once more.

   “I saw some signs on it,” he admitted grudgingly. “Just below the hilt. But… can't tell what it was. Some signs of, well, not Dwarvish.”

   Grima almost spat.

   “Why should there be Dwarvish on a Man's blade, you stupid rat? Of course it must be some other language!” He pulled his cloak tighter around his meagre frame. The chill air on the mountains did not suit him. “And you dared to cast it away! Was there anything else on him I need to know? For I tell you, I will report your slow work and make the Great Sorcerer judge what to do about you! You had better tell me everything, and I might soothe him with the tidings that you are not as worthless as he thinks you are! He knows what you do and what you do not do though you should.”

   Hrunas and Gurim trembled within. The wrath of the sorcerer was known to be fierce and ruthless. He could do horrible things without ever being close! Both Dunlendings felt fear creep deep into their bodies as they recalled their doings in the mine. Would he even know what they had talked about?

   “He has another good sword with him,” Gurim revealed and handed the blade to Grima for inspection.

   “See here what you have!” Grima's lips curled to a mocking smile as he looked at the sheath and blade, but found nothing of interest. “What else?”

   “Nothing else,” Gurim stated almost inaudibly and kept his cloak tight around his frame, hiding the jewel he had taken from the wanderer. “Only what you just saw.”

   Behind the false smile on his face, Wormtongue’s mind worked faster than an avalanche in the mountains. He would not dare to venture into the mine now; Gurim and Hrunas were both upset, he knew. And though they feared the sorcerer, they might be tempted to assault him, blaming some of those filthy creatures for his death. Saruman wanted the Men and the beast, and he would get them. Having considered the options, Grima turned grim again.

   “And you wished to withhold this blade from me? Wished to keep it for yourself, hum, Gurim?” He tossed back the sword forcefully. “Tell me what he looked like!” Grima faced Hrunas, and the Dunlending scrambled together some details until the spy was satisfied. “And I tell you this,” he then said with undisclosed menace, “I will report your negligence and your disobedience to the Great Sorcerer. And beware, I will be most thorough! I give you three days time to find the other two and lean on your captive in any way you see fit, but…” Grima held them both with his stare, and his voice sank to a threatening growl that went right through the Dunlendings' shivering bones, “You will not kill him. And you will not kill the others once you put your dirty hands on them! I get your heads served on a platter if one of you dare slit their throats. And do not try to tell me then that one of those stupid Orcs did it. I will blame only you! Did I make myself clear?”

   “Aye,” Gurim managed to squeeze through his tight throat.

   “Very well.” Grima stepped back, nodding toward his escort. “I expect your delivery to leave for Isengard in two days. And I expect you to be here in at dawn in three days with the beast and the two Men, bound securely and still able to speak. If not, there might be changes in command… or worse.” He waited for the Dunlendings to bow to him, then pivoted on his heels and went towards the stairs. The Uruk-hai bared their hideous fangs once, then followed their master.

   “You stubborn, haughty, useless ape!” Gurim spat as soon as they turned their backs to Grima, whose billowing cloak could still be seen, framed by the tall Uruk-hai with their spears in hand. “Why'd you start blurting it all out?”

   “He already knew!” Hrunas shuddered visibly. “How could he know? Do you know what it means if…”

   “No need to tell me!” Gurim glanced over his shoulder once more, but Grima had left the plateau in a hurry. “Three days! That's not enough! Not for questioning and not for finding that beast or the Man! And you let that beast go!”

   “It was Brúnak's fault!”

   “You said it's worth naught!” Gurim nudged Hrunas hard enough to make him step aside.

   “You said nothing else!” Hrunas rebuked and gave back the push.

   Gurim fell silent as they passed the doors. If he had known of the value of that ugly thing, he would never have allowed Brúnak to take care of it. Too late, he realised that his decisions had been wrong from the beginning. Now he would have to deliver three captives to soothe the sorcerer's wrath. It was a burden that he carried most unwillingly.

   “Aye, but that's meaningless now. The Great Sorcerer knows.” Gurim shook his head, still trying to compose himself. He shivered involuntarily. “I better not think…” He swallowed, then eyed his fellow again. “Well, we are in trouble indeed! Not kill that Man! He's already hardly more than dead meat! If he lasts those three days we'll be lucky!”

   “Aye, we ought be careful then…”

   “Stupid brat again! Will you ask him politely to tell you what he knows? Nay, you can't! We either press him hard enough to break him, or he'll be off to Isengard, and we get away with naught!”

   “Hum, why… now, when Grima gets here again, we could give him the one captive we have. Then Saruman will be occupied for some time… You know what they say about that tower he lives in! It's a dark place, and he uses it to torture his enemies.” Hrunas shuddered visibly. “Well, he'll be placated with that Man until the next ore arrives. We are late in digging, you know that. Two days… it's impossible!”

   “Aye, we could do that,” said Gurim with grim determination, “but I want his answers first! So mark my words: if that prisoner delivers the hoard Grima won't be the one to put his bony hands on it!”

   “Sleek spy that he is! There'll be plenty for both of us!” Hrunas stated and slyly watched Gurim's reaction. He knew his companion would not deliver a chip to him if he was not quick enough to dig his hands into the treasure, yet it surprised him to see Gurim nod at once.

   “Sure you'll get your share.”

   “Aye. Let us then hurry back. Brúnak will have made him soft as butter for us!”

-o-o-o-o-