Chapter 17 - Trapped

Rick stretches and yawns as a great heaviness lifts from his mind. He blinks up at the thatched roof, at first confused as to where he is. The empty, shadowed room and round mud walls slowly come into focus as incense whorls around his head, his mind clearing with each breath. He turns to his left and notices immediately that the other sleeping pad is empty, its occupants long gone. He sits up with a jolt and springs to his feet. He’s out the door in two quick steps, his eyes roving the village. He checks the sun and sees that it is already slanting past mid-afternoon. His friends are already gone. 

He sprints to the village center and declines as politely as he can the plate of green fruit the wise-woman holds out for him. She calls after him urgently in her strange clipped tongue, but he does not heed her any more than he does the other villagers or the laborers in the fields; the faraway movements on the edge of the plateau are nothing more than an unneeded distraction. His only thought is getting to the Blue Wizards’ fortress and finding the hobbits before too much time has passed.

He follows the river out of the village, north through gently rolling plains of tangled fauna and crooked trees. He glances up constantly to the east, trying to catch some glimpse of the Blue Wizard’s fortress beyond the hilltops, but all he can see from this vantage point are the massive slabs of sandstone that climb upward to form the summits of the hills. He slows to a sprint when he reaches the base of the hilltop. The river disappears under the foundation of the base and he sees no trail that leads up into the hills. 

Panting heavily and sweating profusely, he makes his way along the base of the hilltops, searching the sandstone walls for an opening or sign of some other trail. Even if he must climb to reach the trail he will do so, never mind the white dots that begin now to appear on his vision. He holds a hand out to brace himself against the wall as a wave of dizziness crashes over him, only now understanding why the sheikh had wanted him to eat. He reaches into his robe for his water bottle and drinks long but it does little to abate the delirium; he had run too long and too hard. The whiteness before his eyes begins to grow at an alarming rate. The dots become blurs and finally melt into each other to obscure his vision completely. A loud disorienting humming rings in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. 

He sinks to the ground and holds his head down, groping weakly for his water bottle. He drinks again, draining the bottle, and after a time his vision begins to return to him though it does not clear completely. As such, it is some time before he realizes what he is looking at, not the silent nearby forest as he would have expected, but a line of towering warriors standing shoulder to shoulder, their scimitars drawn. Rick startles to see them and slowly he rises to his feet, fighting off another wave of dizziness as he places his hand to the hilt of his sword.

The warriors are dressed in beige kilts and tunics, with white cloths covering their heads: Haradrim. Rick stares at them blankly until his eyes land upon two warriors near the middle of the line who look rather familiar. One is the night watchman who had made the signals that Semira said were protective signs to warn off dead spirits. The tallest and most muscular of the group is undoubtedly the fisherman from the Harnen bazaar. 

Rick stares at them confusedly as the white spots begin to swim in front of his eyes again. The fisherman steps forward, the long curving blade of his scimitar now pointed at Rick, and it is only now that Rick realizes the man is speaking to him. The sound of his voice is like a distant echo he cannot quite catch, but he understands the scowl and drawn scimitar well enough. Rick draws his own sword and holds it with both hands, determined to keep it from shaking in his weakness, determined not to let any of these warriors through. Whatever they are doing here, whatever their purpose is in following them, he knows it can only result in one of two things: the death of the hobbits or the death of Sauron. He is not about to let either happen. He draws himself up to his full height, his back to the stone wall for support.

Just as the fisherman is about to step within striking distance, he stops. Rick only dimly hears another voice as his knees buckle and he slides to the ground once more. His sword slips from his hands and falls uselessly to the ground next to him. He tries to reach for it again but his hand refuses to obey him. The fisherman steps forward now, his scimitar held high, pointed downward for the killing strike. Rick passes out before the strike falls.

The entrance hall of the fortress is so vast it takes up nearly the entire front half of the ground floor. The sentry turns right as soon as the hobbits have cleared the gate but he soon tires of dragging them halfway through the hall. He stops and yanks hard on the chain, forcing them to their feet. He speaks to them, though not unkindly, and while they can’t understand what he says, they know he wants them to walk the rest of the way. 

Instinctively, they hold onto each other, both of them trembling so badly that it takes the two of them together to keep on their feet. They stumble forward, the weight of the manacles digging into their wrists. 

Sam’s eyes are wide and he looks around the entrance hall as though his worst nightmare is coming true before his very eyes. He wants to sprint, to get the chain away from the sentry somehow and make a run for it. If they are to have any hope for an escape it will be now, when no one stands guard at the gate, but even as he thinks this he can hear the drawbridge being raised and the gates slamming closed behind them. He turns his head just as they reach a corridor, one of many leading out of the entrance hall, and sees the wizards commanding the gate locked with nothing more than the power of their minds, trapping them inside. Sauron and the other sentry have already disappeared under the shadow of the double staircase to another corridor near the rear of the hall.

Their sentry leads them into a dark narrow corridor off the right side of the hall. The corridor is lit only by torches and there are no doors in which they might attempt to flee. Sam grips Frodo’s shoulder harder, as though his very presence alone can protect his master from the horrible situation in which they now find themselves. He remembers with bitterness his suspicions of Sauron upon leaving the Shire. ‘Didn’t you think as Sauron was bringing us here just to be killed?’ he berates himself. He should have taken his master back to the Shire when he had a chance, should never have let him leave it, should have run Sauron through with the fireplace poker and worry about the bloodstains on the rug later. 

He shakes his head and tries to think. Lingering over ‘should haves’ would get him nowhere. He needs to take stock and figure out how to save his master, who has gone absolutely still in his arms, only his legs working to move him forward. There is still some hope: Rick. Rick knows they are coming here. He will come for them, he will see past Sauron’s lies. ‘Please, let him see past Sauron’s lies.’

They quickly reach the end of the corridor, and Sam is oddly unsurprised to see they have come to the south tower. There is a sharp turn to the left, leading to the rear of the fortress. An arched passageway in front of them leads to the tower stairway and to their right is a short flight of stairs leading downward. Sam begins down the stairs before the sentry even steps down them himself. The sentry frowns at him, says a brief word and shunts him back behind himself. They follow the sentry down the steps and jog up a short corridor.

At the end of the corridor, they reach another flight of steps leading down into the dungeons, and Sam suddenly digs his heels into the stone floor, refusing to budge as he begins to shake harder than ever. The sentry tugs on the chain impatiently but Sam only shakes his head. “There’s werewolves,” he whispers frantically to Frodo, who is now inexplicably calm. 

“There aren’t,” Frodo says with confidence. 

The sentry tugs again, prepared to drag them down the steps if need be. Frodo takes Sam’s hand and they follow the sentry down the cold stone steps. The sentry opens the thick steel door leading into the dungeon, and a foul stench assaults them before they can even wonder why there are no guards here. The hobbits cover their noses and mouths with their head cloths and hands, but this does little to block the overwhelming stink of decaying flesh and dried blood, and their unprotected eyes sting smartly from the pungent air. 

The sentry leads them into the dungeon and it soon becomes apparent why no sentry stands outside: there are no prisoners left alive to guard. Row after row of rusted cages greet their watering eyes. Inside the cages are the remains of numerous prisoners in varying degrees of decay, piled on top of each other where they had been left to die after their final torments. They pass one cage with two small forms inside, children whose blank eyes stare up at them from the shadows. Sam pinches his own eyes closed and breathes slowly through his hands to fight back the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. Next to him, Frodo is not being as successful. He grows suddenly stiff and bends over, spewing his sick all over the damp, blood-stained floor. 

The sentry waits for Frodo to stop heaving, then pulls on the chain again. He takes them to the very end of the row, to a cage empty except for the broken bones of two previous occupants. The cage sits below a row of small windows and dim rays of sunlight peak in through the grime and dust that cover them. 

The sentry unlocks the cage and pushes them inside, then fumbles with the manacles, trying to find some way to break them. Lacking that, he tugs on the manacles, attempting to pull them over the hobbits’ hands but after a few attempts, it becomes apparent that the manacles will not come off. He stands back and considers the hobbits, and Sam notices then the same dead look in the man’s eyes as he had seen in the villagers. It hits him suddenly that this is no willing servant or conspirator, but a slave bound to do his masters’ bidding lest he end up in one of these cages himself. Sam actually pities the man and doesn’t resist when he bends over and takes their swords. 

The sentry locks the cage door behind him and goes over to the corner, where there are bowls piled up. He pours water into one bowl and seeds into another and brings these back to the cage. The water looks like it has been standing in its jug for many long months, thick with dust and dead insects. The seeds are also sprinkled with dead insects and when Sam cautions to pick one up, it is hard as stone. The sentry watches as Sam puts the seed back into its bowl and for a brief moment their eyes meet. The man says something in a sad voice and leaves.

Sam watches the back of the sentry as the man makes his way down the row of cages back to the main door. The door swings shut with a solid clunk and a heavy lock slides into place. They are trapped: locked into the fortress, locked into the dungeon, locked into the cage and chained by manacles. 

There is no hope whatsoever of their escape now. Sam takes the bars in his hands and rattles them desperately, rage battling with fear, both of them so complete he wonders how they don’t consume him entirely and make him mad. Perhaps if they survive here long enough, he will go mad. Perhaps that’s what they want. 

He shakes the bars again. “He tricked us!” he shouts, finding it easier to focus on his rage than his fear. He releases the bars and turns to find his master sitting quietly on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes closed, his brow knitted in concentration. He looks, for all appearances, just as he does when he is sitting across the fire from Sauron during their training sessions.

“That dirty lying bastard tricked us! All this time he was playing us for fools, seducing us with his lies, brainwashing us… That’s it then, he did brainwash us, that overgrown excuse of a ruffian.” He then proceeds to call Sauron a string of dirty names that, had his Gaffer been there, would have earned him a mouthful of soap. He ends his tirade by rattling the bars again, the rattling made louder by the clanking of the chain against the bars. 

“How could we have been so stupid?” Sam continues, beginning to babble just to have something to do other than sit and fret. “I knew. From the start, I knew but I let myself forget, I let myself trust him despite everything in me telling me not to. And you, he must’ve known somehow that you could see his light and so he manipulated it somehow so you’d read it wrong. Giving you all those lessons, so you wouldn’t be able to see the truth, not to help you; explains your night terror in the cave that day. It was Semira that helped you then, not him. Telling us Semira is a spy to distract us from suspecting him, I bet you, and Rick’s just naïve enough to believe in the good in everyone and excuse away the bad. He can’t have had anything to do with this. Sauron knew that Rick was being more watchful of us, that’s why he got left behind in that village. And Sauron lit another of those incense sticks before we left that hut; Rick’ll be dead asleep for another hour or more, or just plain dead if those villagers have anything to do with this, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they do, living so long under the shadow of these here wizards. Let’s face it, Mr. Frodo, we’re alone in this, but we’ve got ourselves out of messes just as bad. We got to think of some way to get out of here. I don’t much reckon on becoming some new race of orc.”

“We’re not going to become orcs,” Frodo says calmly, his eyes now open and looking intently at Sam. There is a cold fire behind those eyes that makes Sam shiver at their intensity. He starts pacing just to keep himself busy as Frodo continues, “The villagers are good. The Gondorians lived under the shadow of Mordor for just as long and they remained true and noble. Semira was a spy, but I don’t think she meant us any harm. I don’t think even Sauron knows her true intentions. The lessons have helped me and I can now command my powers at will, but I mustn’t display them until the crucial moment. The night terror I had was caused by the anniversary of my stinging by Shelob, and I am always ill on that day.”

This announcement more than any other catches Sam’s full attention. He stops his pacing and stares dumbfounded at his master, the full implication of this last statement hitting him like a pile of ale casks. Anniversary? Always ill on that day? He quickly remembers back over the years since the Quest, to the times he would walk into the study and find his master staring blankly at a spot on the rug or the wall, his skin clammy and more pale than ever, and his half-mumbled proclamations that ‘it’, whatever it was, would never truly fade. But then Frodo would pull himself together and claim to be fine, and he would retreat to his room and remain there, still and quiet, for the rest of the day. Sam always tried to ignore it, as that had clearly been his master’s wish, but he did notice that these episodes always seemed to happen in the spring… and again in the autumn. 

Frodo nods and looks to be on the verge of apologizing for his deception all these years, but he thinks better of it, knowing it will only lead to a long, painful discussion they do not have the time for now. He continues, “The wizards think we are their prisoners, but we’re not.”

“We’re not?” Sam asks. This statement does not entirely drive out the previous one, but it certainly forces him to refocus. He looks at the chains and the cage bars. “Could have fooled me.”

“Hopefully, it was the wizards who were fooled,” Frodo says. “You need to listen to me Sam, and listen carefully because we don’t have a lot of time. Sauron did not betray us.”

Sam raises his eyebrows doubtfully but waits obediently for his master’s explanation.

Frodo looks intently at Sam, refusing to let his eyes stray to the cages around them or to the bones that lie just inches to his left. “We have a quest to complete, and we will do that without fail, and we will get out of here. We all have a part to play, even Rick. You have already been given your part; all you have to do is tell me where we are.”

“We’re in the dungeon,” Sam answers uncertainly, looking at his master with growing alarm. Frodo's eyes still contain that cold fire, but his brow is breaking out in a cold sweat and he is pale with fright. Worse than that, he seems to be completely unaware of his shock. Pushing aside all other worries, Sam kneels next to Frodo and takes his shoulders. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Frodo says but Sam doubts this. “It’s more horrible here than I thought it would be. Those children… But I’ll manage. We can get out of this but I need you to concentrate and tell me if any of this looks familiar to you.”

Sam sits back on his haunches and considers his master’s words. There are too many muddled thoughts running through his mind for him to make heads or tails of them. It is easier to concentrate on his master’s request, bizarre as it may be. “Well, there was a moment outside where I thought I’d seen this place before. Then back in the corridor, I knew we’d be coming down the stairs. Then again just before coming in here… I don’t know why I thought there’d be werewolves.”

“Because there were werewolves the last time you saw this place, or a place exactly like it,” Frodo says urgently. “Sam, that night Sauron attacked your mind and showed you those images, he showed you the fortress on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves on the Sirion where he kept Beren captive. Sauron said the memories would not haunt you, but you can bring them up at need and see them clearly. Do you remember?”

Sam nods slowly, only vaguely remembering that vision and wondering what that had to do with their current situation. He does not have to wait long to find out.

“The other night, Sauron said this fortress was built in replica of one of his former strongholds,” Frodo continues. “That stronghold was Minas Tirith of old. Can you remember it?”

Sam nods. “I can try,” he says, realization coming slowly to him and settling in his belly like a cold stone. The more he is told, the less sense this all makes, unless… He looks at his master long and hard. Frodo is too calm, he knows too much, but he wouldn’t have? Would he? “You planned this? The person Sauron knew who would let us into the fortress… it was the wizards the whole time? And you knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You couldn’t know until now,” Frodo says regrettably. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but if the wizards knew it was all a ruse, we’d be dead right now.”

“You thought I couldn’t keep it a secret from them?” Sam says. “Mr. Frodo, do I have to remind you that I kept a Conspiracy going under your very nose for six months and you never once caught on about anything?”

“I’m not a wizard, Sam,” Frodo says. “The wizards wouldn’t be fooled by play-acting alone. I can block my true thoughts easily enough, but it’s harder when I extend my abilities too much. I couldn’t risk the chance that my powers might slip, especially with everything being so hectic. I can tell you now though.”

“So what is this plan then?” Sam asks cautiously, unable to forget their rather fragile situation and thinking that whatever this plan is, it can’t be going very well.

“First, Sauron captures us and hands us over to the wizards,” Frodo begins. “It was the best way of getting into the fortress without rousing suspicion.”

“This is very disturbing logic,” Sam says, not any happier with the plan so far. He looks closer at Frodo, wondering what the signs are of someone having been brainwashed.

“Second, Sauron is going to retrieve a sword that he gave to the Wizards as a gift once. He has been trying to gain the Wizards’ trust since he returned from Valinor, but they had heard that he has turned sides and they did not believe his gift to be sincere. They wanted him to prove his loyalty to them first by brining them a prize beyond worth,” Frodo continues. 

“Let me guess,” Sam says and Frodo nods.

Frodo continues, “They wanted us, the Ring-bearers, Bilbo too had he not sailed already. Turns out, it was Sauron who had impressed upon Gandalf the importance of convincing Bilbo to go to the Undying Lands without me, knowing that it might come to this. He knew Bilbo would not be able to withstand such a journey or a shock. 

“It was only when Sauron swore to bring us, binding his word to them by a blood oath, that they began to trust him again. In the process of making the oath, he was able to glean from them through crafts of stealth the secret location of their rings. He would have destroyed them then and worried about the consequences of breaking the oath later, but they never left him alone long enough for him to do so. He had no other choice but to fulfill the oath, but in doing so he knew he could lay the foundation of their downfall. Just as with him, their greed and overconfidence will be their destruction.

“At this very moment, Sauron is alone in the fortress, with only the sentry for company, and soon he will have the sword he is looking for. The sword has a diamond in it which can magnify the power of sunlight a thousand fold, as near to the heat of a volcano in these lands as you can get. With that diamond, he can destroy the Wizards’ rings, which they hide in the west tower; they don’t wear them unless they leave the fortress for the power in the rings is too unstable. When their rings are destroyed, much of their power will be destroyed also.”

“But only those powers that they’ve acquired since getting the rings,” Sam says. He shakes his head. “I still don’t understand. What are we supposed to be doing? I thought you were only supposed to keep the wizards distracted. How? By letting them torture us?”

Frodo holds up his hands and rattles the chains of the manacles. “This is the chain Angainer that Aulë crafted to bind Melkor and take him for judgment in Valinor. The chain was entrusted to Sauron when he left Valinor and returned to Middle-earth, and he’s kept it safely hidden in the Dwimoberg until now. As you know, he was sent back to undo as much of his evil as he can. The Blue Wizards are his first task. It’s taken a long time, but Sauron has finally figured out how to complete it.”

“By using us as bait,” Sam concludes, still not liking the sound of this plan very much and wondering if this is all simply a lie that Sauron invented to make Frodo go along with it. “Mr. Frodo, we can’t trust him.”

“We can and we must,” Frodo insists. Seeing Sam’s doubt, he slips a hand into his robe and withdraws a small key. He fits the key into one of the manacles and unlocks it. “Sauron slipped it me when he grabbed me,” he explains, then locks the manacles again and slips the key back into his pocket. 

“Great,” Sam says, not impressed. “So you got a key for the manacles. What about this door here, or the door leading back to the corridor? How are we supposed to get back to the gate? And these chains don’t look to be anything special to me, just plain tarnished metal.”

“The sentry will return soon to take us to the torture chamber,” Frodo persists. “We must get away from him and hide, as far away from the west tower as we can, keep the wizards’ attention focused on finding us until Sauron can destroy the rings. When that happens, we will be able to slip the manacles onto the wizards and bind them.”

“And how are we supposed to get away from the sentry?” Sam asks.

Frodo again puts his hand into his robe and withdraws the snake fang necklace of the shamaness. He holds it up for Sam to see. “I will only need to show him this, and he will let us pass. A Khand will not allow one of his shamans to be defiled.”

“Couldn’t you have done that before he brought us here?” Sam asks.

“We had to give Sauron time to retrieve the sword. He will have done so by now,” Frodo says. He puts the necklace away.  

“What about Rick?” Sam asks next.

“The incense stick Sauron lit before we left the hut was to revive Rick, not to keep him asleep. He would have awaken fifteen minutes after we left the village. He couldn’t be there when Sauron pretended to turn against us. As you just said yourself, there’s no way you would have believed Rick capable of such malicious intent.” 

Sam can’t argue that point, but it irks him to know he had been the only one not informed of the plan. Why? Because only he would have seen the deception in it?

“Rick will meet us at the drawbridge to help Sauron release the servants,” Frodo finishes. “Sam, we don’t have much time. Can you remember the fortress or not? If you can’t, we’ll just have to do the best we can.”

Sam reluctantly closes his eyes and concentrates on the nearly-forgotten memory. He dregs it up from the shadows of his mind and goes through it slowly. Again, he sees the outside of the fortress and the pathway leading to the dungeon. He realizes now that their cage is in the same spot as Beren’s and that out the window they would be able to see the drawbridge, where Luthien had sung, if the bridge had been lowered. He tries to see more, to see beyond the limits of the vision to the rest of the stronghold. 

Before he can do so, the sound of the lock slipping from its braces interrupts him. He opens his eyes to find Frodo on his feet, watching the dungeon door with rapt attention. Sam turns to look also, holding his breath as his stomach coils and his heart pounds in his throat. This is the moment of truth, he knows. If the sentry sees the necklace and lets them go, that will be saying something for this insane plan and Sauron’s loyalties. If the sentry does anything else, then there will be little choice but to accept that Frodo had been fooled and that they will need to find their own way out or else die here. 

The dungeon door creaks open, and the hobbits ready themselves for the sentry to collect them, Frodo coming to stand next to Sam. Only then does Sam realize that Frodo too is trembling. For all his apparent confidence, his master is as worried and fearful as he is. This both comforts and frightens Sam, and he reaches out to take Frodo’s hand. 

Footsteps approach and to their well-tuned ears, there are at least two guards and possibly a third. Their captors’ forms come into view at the end of the aisle and Frodo’s trembling increases. “No,” he whispers in disbelief, yet he still manages more of a protest than Sam does. Sam cannot speak at all. His throat closes, drier than the desert floor of Near Harad.

What they see coming down the aisle dismays them more than anything else they have encountered thus far. Sea blue robes come into view out of the dimness, and they look up into the cold, hard eyes of Alatar and Pallando and the dim, brown eyes of a young maid-child held at knifepoint by Alatar. They stop in front of the hobbits’ cage and the wizards sneer down at them. 

“Give us trouble,” Alatar says in a low hiss, “and she dies.”

To be continued…

GF 6/18/07