Chapter V: The Empty Pass

The first grey light of dawn was filtering through the low cloud cover when Aragorn at last picked himself up, bracing his body against the rock wall with his off-hand while his right clutched his side where the orc's left boot had struck. His head swam, but a moment's stern focus drove back the dizziness. Having no desire to return to this spot ever again, he looked about at once for anything of use. The sabre of the orc who had so injured his chest lay near the edge. He used the toe of his boot to push it off of the path, watching as it tumbled away. There was blood – man and orc both, now – on the stones, but as he could not dispose of the bodies lying just around the corner there seemed little enough point in disguising what had happened here.

With leaden feet he shuffled around the dangerous corner, almost tripping over the first carcass. Slowly he knelt, and was then obliged to release his aching ribs as he went about the unpleasant task of despoiling his fallen foes. At the best of times orcs stank of rottenness and unspeakably foul secretions, but these three were already beginning to reek with the first gaseous emissions of decay. More than once Aragorn had to stop, turning his head away as he fought the urge to vomit. In the end, however, he had a heap of goods assembled, and he crawled away from the last of the corpses to sort through it.

There was an assortment of belts and straps and buckles, and he chose the broadest of these and two narrow lengths of leather that might be of use should he need a tourniquet or some other slender binding. He had recovered his own knife from amid the carnage, and he wiped it carefully on a length of cloth torn from the tunic of the Tower-orc. Orc-clothing was of no use for bandages, but at least it was clean enough for this. One of them had carried a little pot of grease in a belt-pouch, and with this he carefully oiled his Elven blade. Of the orc-weapons, the scimitars were too large and unwieldy for his purposes, and consoling though it would have been to have a longer blade he knew it was counterproductive to exhaust himself hauling about a sword that he could not properly use. There was a wide variety of smaller daggers to choose from, indeed far too many for three soldiers to carry, but his own knife was still the best of the lot. He took three slender blades little more than a handspan in length, obviously meant for throwing, and he left the rest.

Then there were the packs to search. Orcs travelled light, and apart from a few crude trinkets of questionable provenance there was little of interest in their bags. Each had a parcel of greasy, vile-smelling meat, and knowing as he did what orcs liked best to eat, Aragorn cast it away with convulsive distaste. There were also a few hunks of dense, black bread. These he kept. In one bag, to his horror, he found a little leather sack filled with bleached bones that he recognized as human phalanges. He cast these away also, but he did take two copper bangles carved with unsightly figures: one never knew when a piece of malleable metal might prove useful.

His plundering was finished then save for the water-skins, of which there were seven that had not been wrung dry or burst when their bearers fell upon them. By this time he was acutely aware of a tormenting thirst, and he realized that he had not taken the time to drink since before lying down to sleep the previous afternoon. A moment of desperate dehydration was no time to attempt to assess the safety of orc liquids, and so he moved to where he had stowed his own pack, thankfully well away from the fighting, and retrieved his bottles. The first held only silt and the last dregs of the murky water he had gathered in the valley, but from the second he took several unpleasant mouthfuls. The taste was more foul now than it had been, but in his thirst he cared little for that.

Faced with the reality of his dwindling store of water, he returned to the orcs' skins nourishing the desperate hope that one of them at least might contain something fit for consumption. He had seen no sign of a stream yesterday, and in this dry air he could not long sustain his pace or his life on a single bottle of stale, dirty water.

The first two skins contained a loathesome-smelling liquor. Aragorn wrinkled his nose. He had had the misfortune of sampling this unholy brew before under great duress, and he had no intention of doing so voluntarily, but it might be of use in cleaning his wounds. He cast one sack aside, but kept the other. The next skin was almost empty, and the fourth, though gorged with liquid, smelled strongly of sulphur. In the fifth he found a clear fluid only faintly redolent of tannins and burned hair. Gingerly he tipped a little into his lip and held it there. When it did not burn or sting, he rolled it around his mouth. Though it was bitter, it seemed to be water. Regretfully, that skin was little more than half-full, but he bunged with care and laid it gently to the side. The sixth also held the goblin-cordial, and the last was filled with water so vile that he wondered that even an orc might find it palatable.

He kept that last sack, too, however, for he was crusted with black cruor and he could not spare potable water for washing. Dragging the three skins with him he returned to his pack. His left side was searing with pain now, and he knew he could no longer delay an assessment of his injuries. His arms and shoulders were stiff from exertion followed by prolonged inaction, and it was no mean feat to wrestle out of his cote and shirt. Bare to the waist he next untied his hose, rolling them down over the tops of his boots. The cloth at the knees was shredded, and the flesh beneath was skinned raw, but otherwise his legs were unscathed. That was a blessing, for they had many countless leagues to cover.

He turned his attention now to his left flank. There was an ugly purple bruise spreading across his abdomen, but though it ached upon palpation he did not think that any of the soft organs beneath had been damaged. His ribs were gloriously black, and it was from there that the worst of his pain was radiating. Gritting his teeth, he pressed upon the battered ridges. Hot anguish shot through his torso, but the bones did not yield under the pressure of his hand. Tears of pain and relief sprang unshed into his eyes: the ribs were not broken.

Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to discern where else he was hurting. His back was sore, and with a little creative contortion and considerable craning of his neck he contrived to catch sight of the wicked contusion on his right side, where he had hurled the full weight of his body upon an ill-placed stone. He spared a moment to hope that he had not done serious damage to his kidney, but there was nothing that he could do if he had, and so there was no sense fretting about it. All the same, he did not dare to ration his water too frugally now; he had to find a fresh source, and soon.

He felt each arm and shoulder with care, but found nothing save the odd scratch or bruise. His left underarm was scored in several places, and upon examining his garments he found identical rents in tunic and shirt: the work of the small orc's claws.

That reminded him of the wounds to his scalp, but he dared not touch those with such filthy hands. With neither soap nor sand there was little he could do save lave them in the foul water from the last skin, but that he did, and then doused them with a dram or two of the orc-liquor. Carefully, wary lest his untrimmed nails inflict further harm, he felt his temple, following the deep scratches up into the hair. So thickly were his tresses matted with blood that it was impossible to gauge the extent of the damage, but he took some consolation from the knowledge that not all the gore was his own.

He could not risk an infected wound, so he did not use the foul water to wash his head. Instead he rummaged in his pack for his last clean rags, and drenched them with the orcs' cordial. The alcohol burned in the wounds and ran down his face. He screwed his eyes shut to protect them from the stinging fluid and locked his jaw against what might have become a harsh shriek of pain as the fire began in earnest. His hands fell into his lap and he bowed over them, bent double in agony as the liquor bit deep, smouldering in the open gashes and purging away the filth of the orc's claws.

At last the searing anguish abated a little and Aragorn groped for the water-skin, rinsing his hands blindly and splashing the vile fluid on his face to wash away the blood and the liquor and the traitorous tears that he could not entirely contain. When at last he dared to open his eyes he was quivering with enervation.

He used the rags once more, to clean the grit from his chafed knees. Then he washed his hands again. The wounds to his scalp were bleeding copiously now, thin red fluid trickling down his face and onto his shoulder. He had to bandage the wound, but his stock of spare cloth was depleted. Cursing silently, Aragorn set his mouth and steeled his will against unfortunate necessity. He would be courting death if he applied the orcs' foul cloth to his head: he would have to cannibalize his own garments.

In northern lands he might have been less reluctant: there was often some other Ranger willing to offer his spare shirt to a comrade who had been pressed to destroy his own linens, and at direst need (for he was loath to burden his folk with his upkeep) the women of the Dúnedain would no more deny him than they would their own husbands and sons. Such simple garments could even be purchased ready-made, at admittedly exorbitant prices, in Bree-land. Indeed, Aragorn was even able to return to Rivendell to replace lost clothing. But here, on the fences of Sauron's domain, cloth – clean cloth – was as unattainable as fine wine or athelas. If he shredded his shirt, he would have to go without until such a time as he had leisure to return to less inclement lands.

For reasons of comfort, health and hygiene, he was reluctant to make that sacrifice. Who could say how many months he might wander here, seeking the elusive Gollum? Yet a shirt would avail him nothing if he bled to death, or grew so giddy from the trickling wounds that he lost his footing on some mountain path and plunged to his death. So he picked up the stained and malodorous garment, which though hardly clean at least did not reek of decay and orcish filth, and with his long knife cut a small rent next to the left shoulder seam. Digging his fingers into the hole, he tore. There was a sharp whistle of ripping linen as the sleeve came away.

In the same way he removed the cuff, which he folded into a pad to be pressed over the worst of the wounds. The rest of the sleeve he reduced swiftly to narrow strips. It was as well that he had long arms: the pieces of cloth wrapped neatly around his head, with plenty of room for careful knotting. Keeping his hair out of the way proved a challenge, but in the end he deemed that the bandages would stand up to workaday abuses. He imagined he looked quite the fool, with one strap beneath his chin and another around his crown and a third running behind his head, but the pressure soothed the stinging ache, and he felt less faint now.

His jaw ached from the clenching, and he reflected grimly that he was fortunate he had not broken any teeth. If he did not begin to take greater care, this adventure might well be his last. With a disgusted sigh, Aragorn donned his one-sleeved shirt. Taking the broad belt that he had appropriated from his dead foe, he fastened it about his chest, drawing it snug so that it pressed soothingly upon his bruised ribs. With one of the smaller straps he fashioned a halter, so that his shoulder would support the belt and keep it from slipping down to his waist. Satisfied with this makeshift dressing, he set about replacing the rest of his clothing.

He unlaced his cote so that he did not have to tug it over his bandaged head. Lacing was clumsy work, for his burned left hand was stiff and his chape had at some point been lost, but in the end he was clothed again. His hose would have to wait to be mended, for he was growing increasingly uncomfortable here with his kills piled at his feet. Carrion would soon begin to gather, and then there would be danger of discovery. He got unsteadily to his feet and gathered up his possessions. As his pack settled into place the pressure on his bruises gave him pause, but he snugged up the right strap a little, which helped considerably. Arranging the two water-skins – for he had decided to keep the one filled with orc-cordial – so that they did not aggravate his hurts took more wrangling, but in the end he was ready to march.

He walked more slowly than was his wont, for he could not breathe deeply without pain and his limbs were stiff. When at last he reached the place where the path broadened he returned to the cave. He attempted to stoop, but the act of bending sent knives of anguish from his bruised chest into his viscera, and so Aragorn got down on hands and knees to navigate the low entrance. His torches lay untouched where he had left them.

He hesitated, eyeing the cleared ground at the back of the shallow alcove with a transient longing. His body was begging softly for rest, and weary as he was he doubted that he would be visited by dark dreams. Yet he dared not linger here. He cursed his short-sighted failure to interrogate the orc more thoroughly. He might have demanded the numbers and location of other patrols in the mountains, and more importantly, how long it would be before the five he had encountered would be missed by their fellows. Without this information he had to press blindly on, unsure of what dangers lurked around the next corner.

He could not bear the added weight of the torches upon his back, and so he carried them before him, mindful not to worry his ribs. Soon his arms began to ache with the unaccustomed burden, but he dared not cast them aside. Onward he walked, as quickly as his battered body would allow. The path turned and twisted, but ever it carried him northwards.

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That night he sheltered for a few short hours between a boulder and the rock wall. He dared not steal more than a couple hours of sleep, for he knew that he had been fortunate to escape detection once and had no hope that his luck would hold. Before dawn he rose and continued on his way. All that day and the next he saw no sign of spies, nor did he hear any echo of orcs. His mind settled into the new rhythm, and he no longer started like a frightened rabbit at the faintest echo, but ever he remained alert, eyes searching the path and the rocks and the bleak grey sky.

On the third day, he halted at what he supposed was midday. He used his penknife to cut four squares of wool from the disintegrating hem of his cloak, each a little longer than the palm of his hand. With these he mended the knees of his hose, backing each patch with another. The missing cloth was scarcely noticable amid the yards of fabric that comprised his outermost garment, but upon his knees the scraps provided protection from injury and the elements alike. Feeling rather smug, he opened his pack and selected a frugal dinner from his still-generous cache of food.

It was when he had eaten that he discovered he had come to the end of his water. Since clambering out of the gully he had seen no sign of rill or stream. Fresh fear gripped his heart. Hardy though he was he could not survive long without water, and high in these desolate hills there was neither vegetation nor wildlife to guide him towards any source of drink. Fortunately he had still a good supply of wild apples, and those would furnish him with fluid for a time, but if he did not soon find some mountain spring, or standing pool, or puddle amid the rocks, he would not long survive.

That day he ate half a dozen apples at intervals throughout his march, but though they offered water their sour flesh filled his mouth with an unpleasant taste and sat uneasily in his otherwise empty belly. He did not dare to eat his strips of dried meat or the hard orc-bread, for that would only parch him further, but without ballast he grew swiftly nauseated and he did not sleep at all that night. The following day he ate nothing, but chewed on the fruit until all the moisture was gone and then spat out the waxy remains. In this way he drove off thirst for a few more miles.

By the sixth day since his skirmish with the orcs, Aragorn was plagued with an aching head that had nothing to do with the wounds he had sustained. His temples throbbed and his vision pulsed in time to the beating of his heart. His mouth was raw and sore from endless ruminating upon the now-hated apples. Worse, all that he could think of was water; clear, cool water free from silt and contaminants, untainted with pectin and sharp acidic juice, fresh water drawn from a well or lapped up from a stream or caught on the tongue in the midst of a clean spring downpour.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of the hunt. He had been walking for six days, and he had yet to find the fork in the path where Third Voice had instructed him to turn to the left. Since he had said that the mountain pools (pools of cold runoff, wet and silent and deep...) where the "sneak" had liked to hide were seven or eight days from the root of the path, Aragorn surmised that he was moving more slowly than the wont of the orcs. This was not encouraging. Though he was weary, he pushed on through the night, striving to make up for lost time.

Before dawn, he spat out the residue of his last crab-apple.

The seventh day slipped vaguely by, and the eighth passed in a torment of thirst. He scarcely felt the ache in his side now, so all-consuming was the dryness in his mouth and his throat. Onward he stumbled, for he knew not what else to do. His tongue was swollen in his mouth, and the skin of liquor hanging at his side tortured him with its sloshing. It enticed him, and he longed to drink the vile concoction, but he knew that this would not slake his thirst, and might well quicken his death from dehydration. Ever his ears strained for the sound of a mountain stream. Ever his eyes searched for any darkening of the stones that might indicate the presence of moisture. Ever his heart hoped desperately for rain.

Still he walked, his head reeling and his hand gripping the rock wall beside him to support his unsteady body. His bruised kidney was burning, throbbing against his back. His knees shook. His lips were cracked and parched. Though the air was cold his flesh seemed to burn with an inner fire. Seldom had he felt such thirst, and never had he endured so long without water. He knew he was no longer alert enough to scent danger, and if an enemy came upon him now it would take him virtually unaware, and yet he could focus on nothing but vague thoughts of water...

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Hours before sunset he fell to his knees, unable to move any farther. His head drooped low over his lap, bowed in desolation. Aragorn had seen the tributaries that flowed down from these hills, westward into Poros in the south and the Morgulduin in the north, and eastward into the streams that fed the Sea of Nûrn. The Ephel Dûath were not without their springs and falls, and yet it seemed that in this place there was nothing. He wondered what devilry this was, that the mountains brought forth no runoff and the skies held no clouds low enough to wet the stones. In his fever of privation, he half believed that it was an artifice of the Enemy, aimed solely at such trespassers as he.

He knelt there long in the middle of the path, panting through lips that he could no longer force closed. His torches, borne these many miles without any hint of a subterranean way to light, slipped from his aching hands and clattered on the stones, scattering chips of dried pitch as they fell. His chest rose and fell with a habitual rhythm, clinging infuriatingly to life despite the dryness that coated his throat with dust and made his lungs ache.

Aragorn wanted to cry out to Ulmo, of all the Valar most friendly towards Men, to beg him to reveal his bounty in this high and desolate place. He longed to call on Manwë to send winds to blow heavy-laden rain clouds that might anoint these barren mountains. He ached to shout for Aulë, to charge him to open up the stones that water might pour forth, but he had no voice. He had no strength. He had no will.

His hands and feet were tingling, and the muscles in his legs began to cramp and twitch. It was this pain at last that forced him to move, and he slipped to one side, drawing his feet out from under his body. Numb hands kneaded his calves, and he blinked stupidly, trying to clear the mist from his vision. Frustrated at the failure of that attempt, he scrubbed at his eyes with a wayward fist. Still, his sight was obscured by a thickening curtain of grey.

Irrationally angry, he rubbed more vigorously, like a petulant child incapable of understanding the source of his frustration. Only when the first cool droplets began to condense on his brow and his cheeks and his sluggishly bleeding lips did he realize that the mists were not some vision conjured up by his weary eyes or his failing mind. The path was obscured in a thick vapour that settled upon his skin and his garments and the stones beneath him. He drew in a deep, gasping breath that pulled the heavy haze into his mouth and down through his aching chest. Droplets began to form over the surface of his face and bead his lashes and wet his hair. A harsh barking sound tore loose from his raw throat, and though it grated unpleasantly upon his ears it wakened a spark of joy in his weary spirit. Hoarsely and discordantly, but with delight unlooked-for, Aragorn laughed.

The fog was rolling in.