CHAPTER 3: THE NAZGUL’S CRY

Morannon, the Black Gate, was a scar of jagged metal across a plain of white-grey dust and broken rocks, a dam blocking the tide of orcs behind it. As the army of the Men of the West approached it grew impossibly larger, until it seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. And they knew that unless the Valar had mercy, this would be the last sight they saw in Middle-earth.

Merry rode behind Eomer, one hand on the pommel of his new blade, a long knife from Gondor’s armoury, the other loosely clasped on around the horseman’s waist to steady himself. Near him, Pippin sat before Gandalf on Shadowfax. For all the wizard’s blustering, he had insisted that the young hobbit stay with him as they rode on the Gate. When Pippin, still hurt about his treatment by Gandalf after being caught eavesdropping, asked why he couldn’t sit with Aragorn instead, Gandalf answered, So I can keep you out of further mischief, Peregrin Took! But Merry guessed that the wizard would have allowed no one else to bear Pippin, no matter what the circumstances.

When they finally reached the Black Gate, Aragorn signalled the army to halt, and the Fellowship went forward alone. There was a deep rumbling and grinding of metal against metal and then the Gate split open to reveal an emaciated armoured horse bearing a jagged-toothed creature with a slow, deep voice. The Mouth of Sauron.

What he said about Frodo was horrible. As horrible as the Master he served.

But they would not believe it. They could not. And as Sauron’s army poured from the gate, lit from behind with the red-orange flame that was the Eye, Aragorn stood before them, hope blazing across his face: Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers. I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day. An hour of woes and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day. This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good Earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!

And then like a chorus, a rush of swords unsheathed, answered by the thunder of thousands of orc-boots marching towards them, encircling their small army.

Pippin now stood by Merry, their mounts abandoned. “I’m glad you’re with me,” Pippin whispered. He determinedly did not look at Merry, but stared ahead, at the Gate.

“Me too,” Merry said.

“No matter....” Pippin swallowed. “No matter what happens?”

“There is nowhere I’d rather be, Peregrin Took.”

Pippin nodded, then lifted his sword. “All right, then.”

Merry sucked in a deep breath. “All right.”

Aragorn walked out in front of them, his face upturned to Sauron’s Eye. He slowly turned back to them, and caught Merry’s and Pippin’s gazes. “For Frodo,” he said.

Pippin’s breath hitched, once, and then his and Merry’s voices raised as one, yells that weren’t words at all, but battle cries ripped from their throats, forming an assent deeper than civilised speech: Yes! For Frodo! as they raced after their king.

And behind them, in the breath before the rest of the Fellowship took up the cry, before the rest of the army followed, the Men of the West felt a strange stirring in their hearts to see the charge lead by the two small figures, hardly bigger than children. Only a few knew their fates rested in the hands of two hobbits just like these. But it gave them courage nonetheless to see how desperately these halflings’ hearts were thrown into this last stand, how bravely they ran to their dooms.

Gimli felt his own heart caught up in their cries and released a rumbling yell as he charged behind him, Legolas running silently by his side. And Legolas couldn’t help but wonder at the change that had come over the two hobbits. Surely warriors like this hadn’t been bred in the peaceful Shire, as carefree sons of the Master and Thain?

As the two small figures were passed by the longer strides of the Fellowship and the front lines, as they vanished into the melee of orcs, spears, and swords, perhaps the only one who was not surprised was Gandalf, whose face stirred with a sad, proud smile at the sight. Hobbits.

~~~

The fighting was the fiercest Pippin had known. It wasn’t like the battle for Minas Tirith, when there were alleys to duck into, crumbled walls and debris to hide behind, and always the faintest hope that Rohan would come and save them.

Here, on the flattened plain before the Gate, there was nowhere to hide, no hidden army that would arrive in the nick of time, nothing between them and the Eye of fire. All he and Merry could see were the stinking hides of the orcs before them and the forest of trees on sable surcoats behind.

Merry and Pippin fought side-by-side, their swords flashing in unison, Pippin still yelling his wild, ululating battle cry. The rest of the Fellowship was far ahead and they were beset on all sides by orcs which saw these small warriors as easy prey.

But the two hobbits held their own. And so, when an orc with a terrible scarred face ran at them, swinging his sword at their heads, Merry and Pippin dove away in opposite directions, only to find themselves hemmed in by more of the hulking creatures, lost to each others’ sight.

“Merry?” Pippin cried. “Merry!”

But his cousin didn’t answer, so Pippin bared his teeth and swiped his sword at the orcs nearest him. They stumbled back, growling.

For a moment, Pippin was surprised that they were so easily dissuaded. Then he heard it. A deep, rumbling roar from behind him. Hot breaths against his back.

Pippin whirled, sword held out before him.

It was a hill-troll, grey-hided, bearing a cudgel in one thick hand. He was so large that his shadow swallowed Pippin completely; he felt as if he was staring up a granite cliff-face. Pippin fell back into a defensive stance, his mouth dry. His helmet barely reached the troll’s knees.

Far above him, the troll’s small, nearsighted eyes squinted to make out the small soldier so like a mouse frozen in terror at his feet. He roared again and lumbered closer, each step reverberating in the ground beneath Pippin’s feet.

The troll swung his cudgel and Pippin stumbled to one side, his sword bouncing ineffectually off the troll’s armoured knee. Where was Merry?

But there was no time for his cousin to save him now; the troll was bringing back his fists for another swing. Pippin darted beneath arms the size of tree trunks, feeling the breeze of their passing sweep back his cloak.

He had wondered how death would come, many times, these past days. And now he knew.

This was it--he drew back his arms, aiming his sword high--this was it--he thrust upward with all of his might, felt his sword slip through a seam in the troll’s armour, pierce thick hide--this was it--the beast roared above him and stumbled forward, his bulk blocking out the sky as he loomed over Pippin--this was it--the troll’s cudgel slammed into Pippin’s shoulder as his massive form started falling over him like a crushing tidal wave--this--was--it--!

A hand on his back, fisted in the fabric of his surcoat, pulling--Pippin flew backwards onto the hard-gravelled ground just as the troll fell face-first before him with a thud that shuddered the earth, his craggy face a mere breath away from Pippin’s toes.

“That was close,” Pippin muttered as he lay in the dust, his own breath ragged in his chest. He looked up to thank his rescuer.

“Oh,” Pippin said, as he met Merry’s eyes. “It’s you.”

Merry’s hands were still fisted in his cousin’s surcoat, his face white, his mind trapped in a horrified vision of what might have happened, had he not reached Pippin in time.

“That...that was a near thing,” Merry whispered. “Very near.”

Pippin smiled weakly up at him. “It always is, isn’t it?”

Merry sighed. “Only whenever there’s a Took around.”

He released his hold on Pippin’s surcoat, though as soon as he let go, he wished he’d held on. Anything to keep his hands from trembling so.

“Look sharp, lads!” A gold-bearded soldier of Rohan was suddenly beside them, blocking the thrust of an orc’s curved blade, the weapons meeting with a clash above the hobbits’ heads before the man pushed the orc away and ran in pursuit of his now-fleeing quarry.

“On your feet,” Merry gritted between clenched teeth, placing his hands beneath Pippin’s arms and levering him upwards. “There’s still a battle to be fought.”

Pippin gasped at the sudden shock of pain through his left arm. “My shoulder. The cudgel--”

“You’re lucky that’s all you came away with,” Merry said. “An entire army of orcs of all sizes, and you, smallest of us all, decide to take on a hill-troll?”

It was, perhaps, most telling that Pippin didn’t respond indignantly to this uncomplimentary reference to his size, merely swallowing thickly before he responded: “Wasn’t my fault, I lost you, troll was coming after me--”

“Then you’re also lucky I found you again. Come along, sword up--concentrate, Pippin, you mustn’t--” Merry stopped, as if struck.

Had no time had passed at all? He was suddenly on Pelennor Field, Eowyn falling before him, his ears filled with the screeches of the Witch-king’s dying. The leader of the Nazgul’s screams pierced like a blade’s thrust, burning upwards through Merry’s sword-hilt and into his arm, leaving only dust and charred flesh, sending shockwaves of pain through his shoulder, his lungs, into his skull.

Merry’s sword dropped from his hand and his mouth froze open in a soundless cry of pain as he fought against the black abyss that opened at his feet, the cold that clamped his arm like a vise.

Pippin turned and grasped Merry as his cousin fell. “Merry, what’s wrong?”

Merry’s eyes rolled upward; his left arm clutched at his right. A sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead. “They’re here,” he whispered, and then Pippin heard it. The cry of the Nazgul, cutting high and eerie across the sounds of the battle.

Pippin felt a shock of terror, but he bit his lip against it. The wraiths cried again, and Merry made a strangled sound. “Pip--!”

Pippin leaned forward and took Merry’s right hand in both of his. Even through the thick leather of Merry’s gauntlet, he could feel the cold radiating from his cousin’s arm, held stiff with pain against Merry’s chest.

Pippin’s heart beat against his chest, his sight swam with the throbbing in his shoulder. Just his luck to be injured when Merry needed him most! Black forms wheeled in the sky above them, sweeping into their ranks, spreading death.

“Merry? You have to help me, I cannot lift you, we’ve got to get out of here--”

“No, it’s too late,” Merry said, his voice strained, sounding high and strange through his whitened lips. “He left his mark, you see, his stain spreading up my arm...They can sense it. They’re coming.”

A dark shadow passed overhead, and both Merry and Pippin shuddered. “Right,” Pippin said with sudden decisiveness, and stood up as best he could over his cousin’s crumpled form, even as the Ringwraiths swooped closer, scattering soldiers with their beasts’ talons and their horrible cries.

Merry cried out again as a black shape blotted out the dim light of the cloud-choked sky. A Black Rider approached, the wings of his mount bowling over soldiers of Gondor and Rohan, sweeping howling orcs from their feet as he dove across the field toward them.

The Nazgul’s fell beast skidded into a landing a mere stone’s throw away from Merry and Pippin, rocking the earth beneath their feet, the wind stirred by its wings sweeping their cloaks behind them. It bared its teeth and hissed at the hobbits who huddled together, almost hidden among the much-larger combatants around them.

“Don’t worry, Merry,” Pippin said hoarsely, his sword held high even though a deep, splintering pain raced through his shoulder into his own arm and collarbone. “It will not touch you.”

The fell beast’s talons tore chunks of earth from the field in its haste as it rushed them, leathery wings stretched out, clawed thumbs digging into the ground for balance. Its head moved sinuously on its long neck, sniffing them out.

Then it struck, serpent-swift.

The great blunt weight of the beast’s head bowled into Pippin, sending him tumbling across Merry, his sword spinning away into the dust. For a moment, he lay there, limp, as the fell beast recoiled onto its haunches.

Pippin coughed. He dizzily gained his hands and knees, his ribs and shoulder afire, his chest squeezed by an unseen hand. He crawled forward, trying to block Merry with his body while feeling about for his sword.

He froze when the Nazgul spoke, his words grating against each other, popping and snapping like the breaking of bones. “Halflings.”

Merry’s head was thrown back, his arm clenched in agony as he curled on the ground behind Pippin.

“Too long you have tormented us, running about these lands, slipping through our grasp, refusing to die.” The creature took another step forward, dark scales and claws digging into the dust before them. Its breath was hot and foul, smelling of carrion and waste.

“It is time to die, now.”

Pippin stretched his fingers out, agonizing inches, until he felt his mailed hand grasp his sword hilt. He struggled to feet. “No,” he gasped. “You will not touch him.”

“You first, then,” hissed the Nazgul, and his beast lunged at Pippin again, its mouth gaping open to show pale fangs glinting like swordpoints.

“No!” Merry cried, the Wraith’s words finally breaking through his haze of pain.

He gained his knees and swung his sword, left-handed, at the same time Pippin’s blade flashed toward the beast’s gaping mouth. Their strokes scored deep into the sides of its scale-armoured skull, sending twin sprays of black blood into the air.

Merry doubled over, breathing hard, his blackened sword point dragging in the ground. But his eyes were filled with a cold-burning flame as he looked up at the Nazgul. “He wants me. Get out of here, Pippin.”

Pippin clasped Merry’s shoulder, his jaw held tight against the pain in his chest as the Nazgul’s beast reared back again, shaking his head, sending drops of black blood into the dust. “I will not leave you.”

Merry laughed, bitterly. “Then are we both to die here?”

“There are worse fates. At least we’re together, Merry.”

Merry turned to look into Pippin’s face. His Took cousin smiled sadly. Merry held his gaze, and for a moment, he saw in Pippin’s face the same small hobbit that followed him everywhere in the Shire, but full grown now, and wise.

Pippin looked up, breaking the spell. The Nazgul’s beast was drawing back, wings spread, ready to strike again, just as another shadow passed over them.

Merry winced. More? Wasn’t one Nazgul more than enough to finish off two hobbits, both wounded?

But Pippin’s breath had caught in his throat. This new flying creature had dun feathers, wide wings. He’d never seen them before, but he had heard enough from Bilbo’s tales to know what they were.

“Merry!” Pippin said, eyes wide. “Eagles!”

The fell beast snapped at the hobbits, but the Nazgul jerked roughly back on his reins and lifted his head to search the sky as well. Spotting the Eagles, he screeched in anger.

Pippin held out his sword in greeting and lifted his voice in a shout that swept away pain; it didn’t matter what he was saying, he didn’t pay attention to the words, there was hope now, hope! The Eagles are coming! The Eagles!

Merry took up the shout too, his face split by a wild grin, as a giant Eagle swept down on the Nazgul before them. The fell beast roared and ponderously rose into flight, trying to escape the Eagle’s talons and ferocious curved beak.

As the two winged combatants rose higher into the sky, Merry felt his arm uncramp, ice melting from his bones, the awful pain of that final thrust into the Witch-king dimming once again into memory. The relief was so profound that it was a type of pain in itself, and Merry drew up a shaking hand to wipe away the tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes, unbidden.

Pippin yelped and jerked away, and Merry heard the clash of steel again. He looked up to see Pippin trading blows with a snarling orc, his younger cousin’s face pale but determined as he fought off the attack. Now that the Nazgul had taken to the air, the orcs were regrouping, gathering round them, drawn by the smaller, wounded soldiers.

They were, of course, sorely mistaken if they thought these hobbits were easy prey. Merry almost laughed as he whirled to stand back to back with Pippin, his blade already swinging to block an orc’s broadsword. Long ago were the days when a crew of orcs could sweep him from his feet and carry him to Isengard. He turned the orc’s thrust, then sent his own sword deep into the creature’s gut. As the first orc fell at his feet, Merry glared at the spitting face of the next.

He didn’t notice at first when it started, a low rumbling in the distance. But then the ground rocked beneath his feet, and the orc he’d locked swords with howled and stumbled away. Merry turned his eyes to the Black Gate. There, far across the plains of Mordor, Mt. Doom was erupting, the Eye ablaze, dark with agony.

“Frodo!” Merry cried, his heart leaping into his mouth. “Frodo!”