Chapter 20 - Confrontations

Rick and Semira reach the bridge posts and look up at the imposing and silent fortress. It is quite unlike Orthanc, much larger in scale if not as dark or ominous, nor is it akin to the Dwimorberg, less frightening to look upon but filled with a maliciousness of its own. Rick doesn’t know what to make of it but he wastes no time figuring it out now. He follows the length of the west tower to the pointed turret but it is too high above them for him to discern if Sauron has reached it yet or not. For all he knows, the rings might already be destroyed, the task complete. Whatever the case, they can see and hear no sign of movement within. 

“So now what?” Rick whispers, lowering his gaze to the barred gate.

“You call them forth,” Semira whispers back, not moving her lips and doing her best to look like a hostage.

“How do I do that?” Rick asks.

“Raise your voice and speak loudly,” Semira answers unhelpfully.

“You know, this isn’t a very good plan,” Rick points out.

“We are out of time,” Semira replies, as though this is answer enough. 

As if on cue, an anguished scream emanates from the fortress, drawing their eyes in horror to the small windows beneath the raised drawbridge. The scream tapers to a pathetic end, sending chills up Rick’s spine. No, that can’t have been the hobbits!

“Do it now!” Semira commands.

Rick quickly gathers his wits and holds Semira in front of him. He clears his throat and hollers across the lake with more conviction than he would have thought possible just moments before, “Blue Wizards of Khand, the most mighty of the Maia upon Middle Earth, I, Childeric, son of Theuderic of Rohan, call upon you to give you a most luscious gift, the beautiful Sultana Semira, wife of the mighty Sultan Amros of the House of the Sun of Harad.”

They look up at the fortress waiting for some hint of an answer, but after several moments nothing so much as stirs. The foreboding begins to build in Rick’s gut. Surely, Sauron’s plan hasn’t failed? He tears his eyes away from the little windows and looks again to the west tower, wishing he could see from this angle. “Where is he?”

At first, Sam is not entirely sure what is happening. His master stands in front of him, effectively blocking his view of the wizards, and Sam has to lean around him to get a good look at his master’s profile and the wizards. 

In all his years, he has never seen his master so angered as he is now. That icy cold glare, seen on rare occasions in his childhood years and usually aimed at Merry or Pippin, had always been hard to bear but also something easily joked about – that is, once his master had left the room. The glare he sees now is cold enough to send a shiver up his spine and clench his heart with dread, and he is glad that it is not directed at him. The wizards do not appear perturbed by it, yet they are also not moving. Then again, neither is Frodo. 

A thin line of sweat breaks out on Frodo’s brow and his breathing is heavy and haggard, as though he is struggling under a great weight. This is nothing like Sam has seen before during his master’s sessions with Sauron, and Sam wonders if that is simply because there are two opponents now instead of one or because Sauron did not test Frodo as hard as he should have. He is not sure. The only thing he knows for certain is that Frodo cannot withstand this for long.

Sam is afraid to move, even if he could, afraid to speak, afraid to do anything that might distract his master and break his concentration. He stays as still and unobtrusive as he can, thinking himself out of the way and ignored. He soon learns different. His skin begins to prickle painfully and a searing heat crawls up his arms and around his scalp, as if he has been set on fire. He is so surprised and terrified by this sudden assault that he does not even have time to react before Frodo clenches his fists tighter and steps forward, his glare growing icier still. As suddenly as it began, the pain is gone and Sam finds he is now free to move. He scrambles back behind Frodo and checks his skin for burns as best he can in the dim light. He does not appear to be harmed and the odd burning, prickling sensation had been so brief that he would have been tempted to believe he imagined it had he not known better.

Sam is not aware of how much time has passed since they entered chamber. Time here seems not to exist or be of any importance. If not for the sweat that now drips down Frodo’s face and gathers at the nape of his neck, Sam wouldn’t have thought any time has passed at all. Has it been one minute or ten, or an hour, that his master has been battling with the wizards’ minds?

He looks up at his master’s form and sees that Frodo is beginning to tremble under the strain as his body starts to give in to the pressure. Sam peeks around his master’s legs and sees the wizards staring cruel and hard at Frodo, not blinking or backing down in the least. They appear to not even be bothered by this confrontation, and Sam has the sickening impression that they are playing cat and mouse, toying with their dinner until it no longer has the energy to run away and they are hungry enough to consume it.

Sam clutches his hands into fists and grinds them on the floor, longing to get up and punch them both in the face or, better still, to run them through with one of the knives hanging from the wall. Yet he dares not move and the knowledge that he can do nothing to help his master makes him feel more useless than he ever has before. Even in Mordor, he had been able to do something, yet here he cannot even lift a finger. Here, he is the burden hanging around Frodo’s neck, weighing him down. He clutches at the restraining chain, yearning to unlock the manacles and slap them over the wizards’ hands.

Suddenly, Frodo lets out a great gasp and collapses to his hands and knees. Sam hurries to wrap a protective arm around him, even as the wizards laugh.

“A nice attempt, Ring-bearer,” Pallando says, holding up the saw again. “Now, be good, so we can tie the tourniquet around your arms. We don’t want you passing out from lack of blood before we’ve even had opportunity to get acquainted.”

Frodo and Sam can only watch as Alatar approaches with the cords. The wizard reaches out and takes Sam’s arm, feeling for the pressure point. The wizard’s fingers are dry and cracked with thick, calloused skin that reminds Sam of tree bark. Those long twig-like fingers dig into his skin with bruising force and Sam tries to reel back, to slip away from the wizard’s grip, but Alatar’s hold on him is too strong.

Then Frodo moves quick as lightning, wrapping the chain around Alatar’s arms, pulling it taunt. Alatar screams in pain and Pallando advances, all pretense of mind games abandoned. He will wrap his hands around the Ring-bearer’s skinny little neck until he passes out and then they can separate the hobbits without further interference. He reaches out for Frodo, but as he does so Frodo releases Alatar, who writhes on the ground in mute anguish as he recovers from the assault. Frodo holds the chain in front of himself, blocking Pallando’s attempts to grab him. Pallando extends an injured hand towards the wall and a club with many spikes flies into it. He wields the club, ready to strike, when an odd call sounds from outside.

“Blue Wizards of Khand, the most mighty of the Maia upon Middle Earth…”

The wizards pause for the briefest of moments, surprised by this unexpected intrusion to their lands, and that is all the opportunity that Frodo needs.

‘Now Sam!’ Frodo’s voice says urgently in Sam’s mind, and Sam, working on instinct alone, scrambles to his feet. Before he can understand what is happening, both wizards are flying backward through the air, as if pushed by a great force. They collide with one of their torture contraptions, which instantly tips over, pinning them to the floor. The next instant, the door to the chamber slams open and Frodo is on his feet, tugging at the chain for Sam to follow.

Sam doesn’t need telling twice. He runs after Frodo, grateful to leave the chamber behind. He hears the door slam closed behind them as they pound hastily up the long, dimly-lit corridor but no sound of pursuit follows. More of the cell doors stand open now than before, but Sam pays no attention to this, too numb with shock at what had nearly happened to him. It is all he can do to keep his feet moving towards to other end of the passage and the small wooden door to the dungeon. 

The wooden door is just within reach when the door to the torture chamber crashes open behind them. Frodo and Sam put forth all their speed, dashing through the wooden door as it springs open before them. The door closes again when they have passed through and one of the smaller cages slides across the floor to bar the way. Frodo leads Sam through the dungeon to the main door.

“We must get hid,” Frodo pants. “They can’t use their powers against us if they don’t know where we are.”

Sam thinks hard as a detailed map of the passageways of the fortress unfolds before his mind’s eye with startling clarity. He sees again the corridor from the main gate and the path they had taken to get to the dungeon. He sees the other passages and corridors in the fortress, all five levels, as well as the rooms that branch off of those corridors. “There’s a room round near the back of the fortress on the third floor. It’s the furthest from either entrance to the west tower as we can get. We might be able to make it.”

“You’re a marvel, Sam,” Frodo says as the main dungeon door opens in front of them. “Lead the way.”

Sam goes in front and up the stairs and runs headlong into the sentry who stands guard in the corridor. The hobbits are seized instantly.

The Variags come crashing towards Sauron. He dodges the lieutenant in front of him, grabbing one of the warriors attacking on his left and throwing him into two others. The lieutenant rebounds and turns to attack again as Sauron quickly drops two more warriors, slitting their throats with one fell slash of his sword. He then grabs the remaining standing warrior and spins about, the lieutenant’s scimitar easily slicing through the armor and mail to inflict its killing strike. 

The lieutenant pauses, looking in stunned amazement as his pulls his scimitar from his comrade, but he quickly recovers to discover Sauron parrying with the last three of his fighters. Rather than charge into the fray again, the lieutenant positions himself beneath the trap door to the turret and waits for Sauron to come to him. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

Sauron doesn’t waste time with these last three warriors and quickly cuts through them, spilling their blood on the drenched floor. He turns and faces off with the lieutenant, who constantly dodges out of striking distance, refusing even to parry. Sauron quickly realizes he is being toyed with and that the Variags must be here solely to delay him from completing his task. So far they are succeeding. However, for all their brilliant deviousness there is one thing the Blue Wizards have overlooked. Sauron has so far refrained from using his gifts because he did not want the wizards to know what he is doing, but if they already know…

Sauron stops, lowers his weapons and sneers. The lieutenant also pauses, wondering what sort of trick his former master is using now. This cannot be a stall tactic but he cannot think what else it might be. He keeps his scimitar poised in front of him, ready to block whatever might be coming. The next moment, he is being pulled backward by some unseen force. He crashes into the wall and falls to the ground, his scimitar falling from his hand. He shakes his head, dazed by the hit, and never sees the stroke that ends his life. 

His way now open, Sauron quickly raises the ladder and runs up it into the turret attic. He then draws the ladder into the attic with him and closes the trap door, locking it behind him.

The room is small and circular, the cone-shaped roof tapering to its point a couple of feet above his head. In the center of the room is a pedestal assembled of many blocks of sandstone. The blocks are etched with Khand runes, telling the story of the kingdom’s slow demise. The top of the pedestal is bare. There is only one window in the attic and through it Sauron can see the setting sun as it rests just above the hilltops. He has only moments to spare. 

In two quick strides, he reaches the window and rams the scimitar against the wall. The blue diamond dislodges from the hilt and he catches it easily as it falls. He holds the diamond up to the window and the sunlight streams through it to the top of the pedestal, instantly beginning to bake the sandstone with its intense heat. Satisfied, Sauron searches the pedestal for the block that looks like a tree with the sun and the moon on either side and pushes it. A compartment near the base of the pedestal opens, revealing the golden rings set with sparkling amethysts.

Sauron reaches in and withdraws the rings. Erratic though their power may be, power it still is, and it emanates from the rings into Sauron’s very core. He clutches his fist around them, feeling their poisonous power as it courses through him, overwhelming him with its intensity. He has not expected to feel this way again and he stands there enraptured as the sun sinks lower.

The sentry looks down at the hobbits, surprised to discover that the prisoners have escaped from the wizards. Frodo takes opportunity of the sentry’s hesitance to reach into his shirt and bring out the shamaness’s necklace. The sentry’s eyes widen in wonder to see the familiar token adorning the neck of a being so small and pale. 

‘Let us pass,’ Frodo thinks, showing the sentry a vision of him letting the hobbits go. 

The sentry tightens his hold on the hobbits’ shoulders and looks at them uncertainly, just as the wooden door to the dungeon slams open and the metal cage crashes into the wall, making the passage vibrate with the force of its impact. In just a few short seconds, it will be too late. 

‘Please!’ Frodo pleads.

The sentry quickly makes up his mind. He pushes the hobbits in front of him and farther down the passage, then drawing his scimitar turns to face the dungeon door. The hobbits bolt up the steps to the tower entry and pass through the archway just as the main dungeon door bangs open. They run up the circling steps as they hear the scimitar of the sentry singing through the air, hear metal contacting with stone and the mangled cries of the man.

“They’re going to kill that guard,” Sam puffs tiredly. 

“I know,” Frodo says, feeling a guilt so overwhelming it nearly chokes him. An instant later, a nearly inhuman pain-filled cry rents through the air up the tower stairwell and is quickly silenced. 

Frodo closes his eyes, trying not to be sick again as he struggles to keep up with Sam. His confrontation with the wizards has drained him, and he knows he does not have much energy left to fight them again. He finds only minimal comfort in the presence of Rick outside, knowing the lad will likely be killed next if he is not careful. Just what is Rick thinking anyway?

Sam leads Frodo to the third floor and not a moment too soon. They can hear the pursuit of the wizards behind them, their longer legs carrying them up the stairs more swiftly than their own. Sam pulls Frodo behind him, up the corridor leading to the east tower. Halfway up the corridor, he turns left and takes them through another passage that angles towards the center of the fortress. They come to a crossway and Sam turns right down another corridor. As they near the end of this corridor, he turns suddenly to the right and takes Frodo through a set of double doors into a small storage room. He draws Frodo inside and closes the door behind him, leaving it just slightly ajar so he can keep a look out for the wizards’ approach. 

Frodo takes the key from his robe pocket and quickly unlocks the manacles as he struggles to regain his breath and strength. He will not have enough time to recover if the wizards aren’t somehow delayed in finding them. “When they find us, we have to be ready,” he says, focusing on the present moment. 

“We best get ready now then,” says Sam as he peeks out the crack in the door. Is that an approaching shadow?

Sure enough, the wizards appear at the crossway and after only a moment’s hesitation they turn right, coming down the corridor towards them. Sam signals silently to Frodo, taking one set of manacles and holding them ready while Frodo does the same with the other. Frodo quickly shows Sam the plan in a series of visions: they will leap from the room just as the wizards reach it, and Frodo will have just enough energy left to hold them captive long enough to clap the manacles in place. It is their one and only chance. Sam nods in understanding and slips his foot into the crack of the door so he can wrench it open at the exact moment. 

The wizards look into each room as they pass, moving silently, their sea blue robes swaying as waves of the ocean with each step they take. They are three rooms away; Frodo and Sam prepare to spring to their feet. The wizards are two doors away; Sam checks his hold on the manacles while readying to open the door. The wizards are one door away. It’s now or never. 

After several more moments tick by, Rick shrugs at Semira, not knowing what else to do. “Maybe they don’t understand Westron,” he suggests.

Semira gives him a doubtful look. “I do not know why that would stop them from being curious,” she says, “even if they are already tormenting the Ring-bearers. They would send somebody, if only to kill us. Try again.”

“But if they don’t understand,” Rick starts to protest, not even bothering to point out that getting themselves killed had not been the original plan.

“I will say it in Southron,” Semira offers. “Just repeat what I say as best you can.”

Rick nods and tries again, repeating Semira’s muttered words, struggling to wrap his tongue around the odd sounds.

The girl creeps out from the kitchen where she has taken the other children and the women to hide as the little pale shaman with the blue eyes had asked her to in his vision. Her caretaker grabs for her but she shakes her head and holds a finger to her lips. She had thought she heard something while they had been running through the entrance hall and she sneaks down the passages to the hall again. She listens within the safety of the corridor, keeping an eye and ear on anything stirring in the hall. 

After a moment she hears it again, a man shouting outside, only this time instead of speaking nonsense sounds he speaks in jilted Southron, the accent so thick she has trouble understanding him. She peeks into the entrance hall and seeing nothing dashes up to the main gate and looks out the window. 

Standing on the bank of the lake are a beautiful Haradrim woman and a very pale man. The girl squints to get a better look at the man, and she gasps with excitement. That man had been in the vision the little shaman had shown her! That man is a friend of the little shaman, and the girl knows that the little shaman is in trouble. 

She does not stop to consider the woman that the pale man holds captive. The woman is not important to her. She only cares about saving the little shaman. Looking around once more to make sure there are no sentries returning to their posts, the girl opens the main gate and cranks the pulley to lower the drawbridge. When the bridge is down, the girl runs out a few steps and calls to the pale man, waving frantically, “The little shaman! The little shaman! They are going to kill him and his little friend! Hurry!”

Semira and Rick pause at this unexpected sight, then Semira holds up her hands for Rick to cut the cords. She then draws her scimitar from Rick’s side and raises it straight into the air, crying a single word that Rick can only surmise is a war cry. A moment later, the cry is repeated en masse as the warriors come out of their cover and run down the bank towards them. 

Rick draws his sword and raises it also. “Death!” he cries and together they charge over the bridge and past the girl into the fortress. 

Sauron has his eyes closed now, struggling to ignore the sensations passing through him to open his hand and drop the rings onto the pedestal. His hand does not want to cooperate and for a moment he loathes himself for this weakness within him. Then a sudden war cry from outside reaches his ears and he turns his head to listen. Another louder war cry follows the first and Sauron knows the Haradrim have arrived at long last, but neither sound is the one he is waiting to hear. A third cry, faint but clear to his sharp ears, reaches him. Death!

Rick! He has come with the Haradrim and Sauron knows the only reason his friend yet lives is because of his affection for Semira. Hard and commanding though she may be, she has a soft spot for Rick and would not have allowed him to come to harm. Sauron had seen it their final night camping with her and had known he could entrust Rick to her hands when she followed with her husband and the Elite Guard.

Sauron chuckles to himself as he imagines what Rick will say when he learns that he has once again been left out of the full details of the plan, and Sauron finds he can now pry his hand open with relative ease. He holds his hand over the pedestal and turns it palm downward. The rings slide off his hand, landing with gentle clinks onto the pedestal, one atop the other. 

Sauron withdraws to the window. The sun is now half hidden by the hills. He raises the diamond to the window and aims the fading sunlight at the rings, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction as they begin to sizzle from the heat. He only hopes now that there is enough sunlight left to melt them and release the dark powers that lay within. 

The Blue Wizards suddenly stop in their pursuit, their heads lifted as though searching for something along the ceiling, hissing under their breaths like wind blowing through the treetops. As one, they turn and run up the passage, past the room where the hobbits lay hid and towards the rear passageway that leads to the north and east towers.

“They’re going away,” Sam hisses. “I think they heard something.”

“That would be Sauron,” Frodo sighs with relief, but it is short-lived. “They’re going to try to stop him. We can’t let them!”

Sam grabs the chain to keep his master from bearing the weight of it, then springs through the door, pursuing the wizards who have already gained the stairwell to the east tower. Frodo puts forth his final effort, forcing the wizards to a standstill as he and Sam catch up. The wizards are just recovering when the hobbits reach them and a mighty noise erupts up the stairwell from below, echoing off the stone walls. Chaos is breaking on the ground floor and the wizards growl at the hobbits in anger. They raise their hands as if to strike.

The rings begin to boil as smoke rises from the golden bands and, sooner than Sauron could have hoped, the metal is bubbling and melting. The sun sinks into the wedge between two hilltops, concentrating its powerful rays, and the diamond radiates with blinding light as the sun’s rays funnel through the gem. Sauron’s fingers begin to burn but he holds onto the gem still as the rings continue to melt and boil until vapors of enchantments rise into the air and evaporate into nothingness. The rings are destroyed.

Sam dodges Pallando’s strike and tries to clap the manacles over the wizard’s wrists. Across from him, Frodo is doing the same with Alatar. 

Suddenly, the wizards stop and drop to their knees, howling in anger and writhing in pain, filling the tunnels and passages of the fortress with their potent cries of rage. The hobbits clap the manacles over the wizards’ wrists, the final stroke. The wizards quail away from them, pure hatred in their eyes, but they can do little more than kneel, motionless, as the pain of their defeat and the binding power of the chain enfold them.

Another thunderous roar sounds through the stairwell, drawn by the wails of the Blue Wizards. From above come those guards who have recovered from their fight with Sauron. They stop in the bend of the stairwell, looking down at the wizards and hobbits with wonder and fear. From below come the stampeding approach of the Haradrim. Semira and Amros gain the tower entry first and they look upon the wizards with wonder and spite.

Frodo and Sam quickly retreat into the shadows, but not before Rick, following Semira onto the landing, can spot them. He dashes over to them, taking them both in with one quick look, relieved to find them unharmed. He sheaths his sword and crouches in front of the hobbits as Semira, Amros and the fortress guards descend upon the wizards. From behind, in the direction of the south tower, come more of the Haradrim, their scimitars raised high. 

“No!” Frodo cries suddenly. “They are to be taken to Valinor to face their judgment.”

“They will face their judgment now,” Semira says. She holds out her scimitar to the fortress guards and their leader steps forward, taking it with hesitance. Then he spies the token of the shamaness peeking out from Frodo’s robe and turns an enraged scowl at his masters. Amros stands beside him and together they bring down their scimitars upon the wizards’ necks.

Frodo and Sam look away, hiding their faces in Rick’s torso as the wizards’ limp bodies drop to the cold stone floor. A moment later, their remains begin to sizzle and burst into flames. Everyone jumps back to a safe distance and when the flames die down there are no remains left, not a hint of the sea blue robes or a pile of ashes or a whiff of smoke. The Blue Wizards are no more.

To be continued…

GF 7/4/07