Chapter Nine

“I will go and search for him,” Legolas said immediately.

“No,” Aragorn replied, shifting Frodo’s unconscious form in his arms. “Samwise is a sensible hobbit, and you are needed here. None of us can match your Elven sight, nor your skill with the bow. I would not send our best archer from us with goblins about.”

“Then I will go,” Gimli said, swinging his great axe over his shoulder. “I see in the dark as well as Master Legolas, and better a Dwarf to walk amongst enemies. If I am fortunate, some of them will show their cowardly heads – briefly, before I part them from their shoulders.”

“I would rather that you collect Sam and the pony and join up with us as quickly as possible,” Gandalf told him tersely. “Boromir will go with you. The hobbits and I will douse the fire while Legolas keeps the guard. Aragorn will carry Frodo.”

“He should perhaps not be moved yet,” Aragorn objected. “He is still very cold, and the leeches have not finished their work.”

“They’re not…” Merry trailed off, pushing aside the layers of blankets in which Frodo was wrapped to peer closer. In the pale light of the moon and the muted glow of Gandalf’s staff, the creatures looked like black burns on Frodo’s white skin. “Aragorn? Should the leeches be finished … feeding?”

The Ranger looked down. “They will drop off of their own when sated, Merry. At least we can spare Frodo the pain of having them pulled off.”

“But…” Merry nudged one gingerly with a forefinger. It rocked slightly then dropped off, landing on its back in the mound of blankets. “It hasn’t been near a half hour yet. This one is dead. So is this one … and this one.”

“Dead?” His staff brightening again, Gandalf pushed Merry aside and knelt at Aragorn’s side. Merry scurried around Aragorn’s back and fetched up opposite him against Pippin, refusing to give ground as the Fellowship crowded around them.

Aragorn depressed the pale flesh at Frodo’s shoulder but there was no need to break the leech’s hold. As he touched it, the bloated black form simply fell off. Aragorn fished it carefully from Frodo’s blankets and held it up to examine it.

“What’s wrong with it?” Pippin leaned closer, curiosity overcoming his revulsion.

“Other than being dead, you mean?” Merry asked.

Pippin ignored him. “Look! They are all … Aragorn, why are they dying?”

Aragorn flicked the black forms from Frodo’s body. They dislodged easily and were lost in the shadows. “They are dying from the poison. It is to be hoped that the poison has been drawn into them, and from Frodo.”

“But–” Merry began, to be interrupted by a shifting in the blankets. “Frodo?” asked Pippin, his voice rising. “Frodo?”

Aragorn pushed back the blanket draping Frodo’s head. Enormous blue eyes, black in the moonlight, squinted at them then winced away from the blaze of the glowing staff. Gandalf instantly stilled it.

“Hello, Frodo,” Aragorn said gravely.

Gandalf reached past Aragorn and cupped Frodo’s chin, his touch very gentle. “How do you feel, my dear lad?”

Frodo blinked up at them. “Cold,” Frodo replied, his voice weak and cracking. “Itchy. I feel dreadful.” Pippin pressed his water bottle into Aragorn’s hand, and Aragorn leaned Frodo against him, supporting him with one hand while raising the water bottle to his lips. Eyes closing, Frodo swallowed, then choked, coughing painfully for some moments. Breathing heavily, he looked around at them, obviously confused.

Then his expression changed, and his hand flew to his throat. “Where – Where is it? Where is it?”

“Be easy, Frodo,” Aragorn hastened to say. “Do not move. You have been hurt–”

Frodo seemed not to hear him. He struggled in the blankets, his fear turning to panic as he discovered he was trapped. “Where is it?”

“Frodo! Frodo – here!” Merry shoved the bundle of damp clothing into Frodo’s arms, guiding his hand to the small bulge in a pocket. Frodo looked at him wildly, then suddenly relaxed, trembling. Still keeping tight hold of the pocket and its contents, he drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“Merry?”

“Right here, Cousin. I’m right here. Pip’s here, too. We’re both here.”

“Merry…” Frodo sagged back against Aragorn, then stiffened and looked up in alarm as his warm support moved.

“Be easy,” Aragorn repeated. “You are safe now.” Frodo nodded and relaxed, too spent for the moment to speak. Aragorn drew the blankets around him again and tucked them in until only Frodo’s head showed. “Would you like another drink of water?”

 “No,” Frodo whispered. “My throat hurts.” After a moment, he added, “Why haven’t I any clothes on?”

“I’m not going to tell him,” Pippin informed everyone.

“Frodo,” Aragorn said, “do you remember what happened? The lake? The water-goblins?”

Frodo frowned at him,struggling to focus. He looked around, obviously counting faces. “Sam? I want Sam.” With a final inarticulate murmur, he sagged against Aragorn. Head drooping, he nestled into the blankets and slid into sleep.

“Come, Master Boromir,” Gimli said in as quiet a voice as he could manage, “as we are sworn to obey the Ring-bearer, we will fetch his Samwise. The moon has risen enough to light the way for eyes less night-gifted than a Dwarf’s.”

Boromir checked his weapons and settled his great shield on his arm. “We will meet you all on the road.”

Aragorn looked up from loosening the tourniquet around Frodo’s arm. “Open one of the medicinal kits and apply the salve in the pouch marked with stinging insects. It will do well enough for leeches.”

Boromir clenched his fist, grimacing as the bites pulled. “Frodo–”

“There is more. Use it. Wash your hand well first.”

“Go carefully,” Gandalf warned them. “And watch your backs.”

Cradling Frodo with immense care, Aragorn climbed to his feet. Merry and Pippin gathered up the trailing blankets and tucked them under Frodo, ensuring that Aragorn would not trip over them.

“Mayn’t we wait for Sam and Boromir and Gimli just a little longer?” Merry asked.

“Do you really want Frodo to wake up in this place?” Gandalf said, gesturing with his staff towards the shadowed, stiffening forms around them. Merry glanced at one, nearly cleaved in two with a sword, and shuddered. Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder. “Do not worry, Merry. They will catch up with us soon enough. Help Pippin douse the fire, and let us be off.”

* * *

“Master Samwise!” Gimli called, trying to make his voice carry without volume. His words travelled oddly over the bleak landscape, and the night seemed to lean in and listen. “Sam! Samwise!”

“He should be able to hear us,” Boromir said softly. “Hobbits have excellent hearing. And we left the pony just below the crest of the hill – no more than a few minutes’ brisk walk. Even if he stopped to tighten Bill’s packs, he should have been back before now.”

“Perhaps he was prevented.”

Boromir nodded. “One of us should have gone with him.”

“Aye. A mistake, that.”

Ahead of them rose the knoll where they had left the pony. It was deserted. Gimli leaned on his great axe while Boromir knelt and examined the earth, but the dim light of the moon and stars and his own lack of tracking skill denied them the knowledge of what had happened there.

“I cannot tell even if Sam came back here,” Boromir confessed, raking his fingers along the unrevealing ground. “I can find no footprints of his at all. But … yes, here is a hoof-print.” He found another in the darkness then looked ahead of them, to where the moon shone over the hill, the unseen water below it casting a pale glow like mist on a sheet of silver glass.

“Why over the hill and not away from it, towards us?” Gimli asked.

Boromir straightened and in his hand was a black-fletched arrow. “I fear I can guess.”

A shrill whinny cut through the air, followed by a sound that neither of the two had ever heard before, the bellow of an enraged hobbit. “Get your filthy paws off him! Get off, I say!” Sam’s cry was followed by a deep ringing clang, and the splash of something large falling into water.

Gimli on his heels, Boromir crested the hill and was running down the other side as another clang rang out, followed by a scream and ugly shouts. Below them, they saw the shortened figure of a hobbit waist-deep in the water, the pony behind him, holding off a ring of spear-bearing goblins with a short sword in one hand and a frying pan in the other.

One darted forward and cast its spear. With quickness neither would have credited the stocky hobbit, Sam pivoted and the cast that would have downed him instead slammed into the pan, ringing loudly like a badly cast bell. The spear shattered and fell into the water and Sam batted it away, holding up the frying pan like a shield.

Now they understood why he had retreated into the water. Behind Sam were planted several of the massive boulders, narrowing the space from which the goblins could come at him and hampering their advance. Bill too was contained by the half-circle of rock, and stood trembling on the end of his lead as Sam defended them both.

“Help! Help, sirs!”

Boromir and Gimli hit the water together, deliberately making as much noise and tumult as they could. Intent on their trapped prey, the goblins were slow to react. Those nearest dived to the side but others were already turning to fight. Boromir and Gimli gave them no chance to rally.

“Gondor!” Boromir cried, crashing into those in the shallows with his weight behind his great shield. His charge knocked smaller goblins off their feet and sent the nearest diving to the sides to escape him. Those closer to Sam swung around, surprise writ on their black faces, and he brought his sword around in a two-handed stroke. The goblin before him jumped back, its spear slashed in two. Boromir followed; his second blow cut the creature’s legs from under it. It fell, screaming, and the water closed over it.  He could hear Gimli roaring as his great war-axe rose and fell; if there were words in his song, Boromir could not make them out.

One of the goblins lunged around Sam, snatching for the pony’s bridle. Distracted by the rescue and hampered by the water, Sam lost his footing, going down in a spray of water. The goblin swung back towards him, grinning. Sam could only flounder helplessly at it as it raised its sword to strike. Then it stiffened and its sword dropped from its claws. It leaned towards him, then toppled forward. It floated a moment, just long enough for Sam to see one of Gimli’s throwing axes imbedded in its back.

“Sam! Make for shore! Make for shore!” Boromir turned to meet another goblin, this one nearly as large as an orc. He ducked its blade and swung low, eviscerating it. The goblin dropped its sword, steaming handfuls of entrails spilling from it as it collapsed and sank under the surface.

Hauling on Bill’s reins, Sam towed the pony through the water. Bill was squealing shrilly, terrified by the shouts and screams and clash of steel. A thin line of blood gleamed on his flank. When his hooves touched dry ground he bolted forward, dragging the hobbit onto the shore. Sam dug in his heels and pulled the pony’s head down, bringing Bill to a stamping halt.

Boromir withdrew his sword from a last opponent, watching dispassionately as the body slid off it into the shallows. Meeting Sam’s gaze, he exchanged a look of grim satisfaction with the hobbit then looked about for Gimli. The dwarf did not need his help. As Boromir watched, Gimli wrenched his weapon from the back of a black body, lifting it entirely from the water to free the double-bladed war axe. It splashed back and tangled with two others at the dwarf’s feet, all three of them bobbing gently in the slowly calming waters.

Gimli looked about regretfully. “That warmed the blood a little. Pity the others ran. Are you hurt, Master Samwise?”

Sam shook his head, still stroking Bill’s neck automatically. “They wanted to eat my Bill,” he told them indignantly as Boromir splashed out of the lake and joined him. “Look, they hurt him! Monsters! What kind of thing would want to eat a poor pony?”

“Hungry things,” Boromir said slowly. With the tip of his sword he turned one of the bodies over and it rolled easily on the curve of its too-prominent ribcage. Beneath its rag-tag armour and the leather strips that made up its clothing, they could see wasted flesh and limbs made thin by hunger.

“They’re starving,” Sam said, horror and pity in his voice.

“Orcs and goblins are fond of horse-flesh,” Boromir told him, refraining from adding that such wicked creatures would equally relish hobbit-flesh. “Bill is lucky to have no more than a scratch. Both of you were very, very lucky.”

Gimli lumbered up to meet them with all the grace of a rampaging oliphaunt, both of his throwing axes now restored to his belt. Water streamed from his hair and beard and his carefully-braided moustaches had come awry, making him resemble one of the legendary Wild Men of the Woods. Inexplicably, he had removed his helmet and in it carried a good quantity of lake water.

“If’n you’re thirsty, sir,” Sam said doubtfully, “there’s all the water bottles full and the barrel, too. We’re not short on water, if you take my meaning.”

Gimli chuckled, swirling his helmet so that some of its contents sloshed out and ran down his armour. As he was already drenched, it made little difference. “It is regrettable that I did not go into the water when all this started,” he said, “but as I said then, my people are not known for their swimming ability. It would have explained much.”

“Explained what?” Boromir asked, tugging at his sodden clothing distastefully.

“Why all of this has happened,” Gimli rumbled. “For now, best we get back to the others. Samwise, Master Frodo has asked for you. Do you need a moment to rest before we go back?”

“He spoke, then? He’s awake?” Sam asked, a catch in his throat. “Just let me tie up this pan… There, there, Bill, we’ll be out of this dreadful place quick enough … there’s a good lad…”

“You should at least change into dry clothes,” Gimli pressed, looking at him with concern.

“Thank you, sir,” Sam replied, “but Gamgees don’t hardly ever get sick. Mr. Frodo will be needing me. Bill and I are fine. May we go now?” He sheathed his sword but Boromir and Gimli kept their weapons drawn and the hobbit and the pony between them as they began retracing their steps.

* TBC *