The Captain and the King
By plasticChevy 
claireab@pacbell.net


Summary : AU story - Saruman believes Isildur's Heir is carrying the 
Ring, so he sends his orcs to capture the Men of the Fellowship. 
Aragorn and Boromir are taken prisoner at Parth Galen. 





Chapter One
A Journey into Darkness


"Boromir. Boromir!" The familiar voice came from very near, an urgent 
whisper in the darkness. He turned his head to find it, as it hissed 
again, "Boromir!"

"Aragorn?" His entire face hurt, so that he could barely move his lips 
and could not open his jaw at all. He was surprised when the man 
beside him understood the muttered word well enough to answer,

"Don't use that name. Call me Strider."

"What happened? Where are we?"

"The orcs took us."

Boromir tried to sit up, but he found that he could not move. The left 
side of his body felt as if it had been trampled by iron-shod hooves, 
and a terrible lassitude filled him.

"Lie still," Aragorn said. "They cut the arrows out and bound the 
wounds, but you shed much blood first."

"Arrows..."

Boromir collapsed back against the harsh stones and tried to think. To 
remember. The last memory he had, before waking up in this cold, 
pain-filled darkness, was fighting for his life among a hoard of foul 
orcs, slashing and hacking and howling his defiance in the face of 
their overwhelming numbers. The halflings were behind him, retreating 
slowly into the trees, reluctant to leave him yet terrified of a foe 
too great for their small swords.

And then... then the first arrow had hit him, and he had shouted at 
Merry to run... run while he could... and take Pippin with him! Merry 
was the sensible one of the pair. He could be trusted to understand 
the need for flight, and he would protect Pippin.

Another arrow. He remembered another arrow hitting home with 
shattering force, driving him to his knees, and the look of horror on 
the halflings' faces as he fell. But he was sure they had run, in the 
end... if that image was not merely his desperate hope betraying him. 
He could swear that he remembered seeing them turn their backs and 
vanish into the trees. Then he had braced himself for the final blow, 
the death blow.

Why had they not killed him? What was he forgetting? He remembered a 
voice, deep and harsh, shouting, "Take the Man!" And then? Then a huge 
figure looming over him, its sword raised to strike, and a slashing 
blow that fell, not against his neck, but...

Boromir shuddered and turned to find Aragorn beside him. He did not 
remember Aragorn being in the battle, but he did remember blowing his 
great horn. Perhaps the sound had brought the Ranger to his aid... and 
thus delivered him into the clutches of the orcs.

"I'm sorry, Strider," he murmured, hesitating over the strange and 
disrespectful name.

"Nay, Boromir, it is I who am sorry. I came too late to save either 
one of us."

Aragorn said nothing of his shock and horror, when he had run into the 
glade at Parth Galen in time to see the orc chieftain bring the flat 
of his monstrous sword down across Boromir's face, crushing bone and 
flesh together, sending blood and gore spurting from beneath the 
blade, even as the valiant warrior crumpled, lifeless, to the ground. 
Aragorn had fought his last, desperate battle in the certainty that 
Boromir was dead. And now, as he lay among the barren stones of the 
Emyn Muil, holding a whispered conversation with that same man, he 
could not stifle the tiny, betraying thought that Boromir would have 
done better to die under that ravening blade.

Boromir lay very still, absorbing his words, then whispered in a 
fearful tone, "The halflings?"

"They were not taken. I... I do not know for certain what happened to 
them, but they are not here."

"Please... let them be safely away!"

"You did your best for them, Boromir. It is out of our hands, now."

Before the other man could answer, a huge figure loomed over them and 
a harsh voice growled, gleefully, "Having a nice chat, lads?"

Aragorn looked up into the flat, scaled, hideous face of Uglúk, the 
captain of Saruman's forces, and groaned inwardly. "Leave him be, 
Uglúk," he said.

"Can't do that, can I? Bring the Men alive, that's my orders. And if I 
leave soldier-boy be, he might die on me." Uglúk fastened a fist in 
Boromir's collar and hauled him effortlessly away from the ground. 
Boromir gave an involuntary gasp, as pain ignited in his body and 
head, and Uglúk shoved the neck of a bottle between his teeth. "Drink 
up, like a good little soldier."

Boromir had no choice. He had either to swallow or choke on the 
burning liquid poured into his mouth. He swallowed, then cried out in 
agony, as Uglúk opened his fist and dropped his limp, battered body to 
the rocky ground. He was too stunned and sickened by Uglúk's rough 
treatment to notice, when the orc began peeling up the bandages that 
covered the arrow wounds in his shoulder and side. Uglúk seemed 
pleased with what he found, because he jerked the bandages back into 
place and gave Boromir a pat on the cheek that would have felled a 
cave troll.

"Splendid. You know, if you hadn't hacked up so many of my lads, I 
think I'd get to like you, little soldier. Too bad you're only a Man, 
and headed for the dungeons of Isengard, at that." One wicked claw 
plucked at the thick bandage on Boromir's face. "Too bad. But Lurtz 
didn't leave much, anyway."

Uglúk turned abruptly on Aragorn and lashed out at him with one, horny 
foot. The blow took Aragorn in the midriff, forcing a grunt of pain 
from him, then a second kick struck him in the face. "Then you went 
and lopped off his head, curse you!"

Aragorn spat out a mouthful of blood and turned aloof, emotionless 
eyes on Uglúk. "I'll do the same for you, Uglúk."

"That's gratitude for you, after I save your miserable life and lug 
you through these cursed hills. Time to leg it, boys!" Turning to one 
of his band, he waved in Aragorn's direction and growled, "Lugdush, 
you haul this piece of carrion the first shift. You," he grabbed the 
front of Boromir's cloak and dragged him nearly to his feet, "can 
walk."

Boromir staggered and dropped to his knees, earning himself another 
vicious kick from the orc. This time, the hand fastened on his left 
arm, and when the orc hauled him upright, he gave a tearing cry of 
pain that made Uglúk laugh.

"You think it hurts now, wait 'til you've legged it all the way to 
Orthanc."

A moment later, Boromir felt a loop of rope tighten around his neck, 
then a tug on the other end of the rope nearly pulled him off his feet 
again. "Strider?" he called, as the orc holding his leash started 
dragging him away.

"I'm right here."

The voice came from very nearby, but something about it bothered 
Boromir. It sounded muffled and was coming from the wrong height. It 
took him a moment to realize that Aragorn was being carried over an 
orc's shoulder.

"What did they do to you?" Boromir demanded. "Why can't you wa..." The 
noose cut off his air and stifled his words, as the orc jerked 
viciously on the end of the rope.

"'Tis nothing. A sword cut to the leg."

Boromir regained his balance and had the presence of mind to fasten 
his right fist around the rope, easing the tension on the noose and 
protecting his throat from his jailer's excess of enthusiasm. 
"Strider," he called again, "have you any idea where we are?"

"Near the western edge of Emyn Muil, I think."

"Quiet, you," an orc growled from very close by.

"How long has it been?" Boromir asked, ignoring the orc.

"Since the b... No!" Aragorn broke off to shout, real panic in his 
voice. "Not in the face!"

"I said, quiet!"

Then a sudden, howling agony exploded in Boromir's head, and he 
crumpled to the ground. For some uncountable time, Boromir knew 
nothing but terrible pain and a gibbering, shrieking fear that this 
was death, and he would have to endure an eternity of it. Very slowly, 
he became aware of his own hands clutching his face, of fresh blood 
running between his fingers, and of someone or something whimpering 
nearby. It sounded like a wounded animal - a creature too mortally 
hurt to make any real sound but too desperate in its pain to keep 
silent. He wanted to help the creature, to cut its throat and put it 
out of its agony, but he could not move to find it. His entire body 
was rigid and trembling, his muscles locked in place, his mind 
paralyzed. And then he knew. He knew that the dreadful sound came from 
his own throat, fighting its way up from lungs that would not breathe, 
past a jaw clamped tight against the rising tide of panic.

Iron-clawed hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him onto his back and 
pinning him to the stones. Then more claws tore at his wrists, pulling 
his hands away from his face.

A familiar voice snarled, from somewhere just above him, "Fool! 
They're to be delivered alive!"

The bottle neck was forced between his teeth again, and Boromir choked 
on a second draught of the foul orc liquor.

"If you've killed this one, I'll skin you myself, Snaga, and feed you 
to the lads for supper!"

"You said they weren't to talk," Snaga whined.

"If he talks, you tickle him with your whip! Teach him some manners! 
You don't kill him, you cursed ape! Now, you get to lug him as far as 
the stair."

"Gah. These whiteskins are heavy. Too heavy to pack all the way to 
Isengard."

"That'll teach you to be more careful. Get him up, and get moving, or 
you'll be tasting my whip fast enough!"

Boromir felt strong arms lift him, then he was flung over a broad, 
scaled, brutally hard shoulder. His torso hung down the orc's back, 
both arms dangling over his head and every movement sending a fresh 
stab of pain through the wounds in his left side. But he was grateful 
not to have to stand and walk on his own, grateful for the solid 
strength of the orc supporting him, and grateful to still be alive. He 
let his head rest against the orc's back and tried to ignore the blood 
running freely over his face, dripping to the stones below.

The whole troop of orcs set off again at a fast trot that jarred 
Boromir's aching bones. He bit back a cry of pain and told himself 
that he could endure this. He could endure anything, if it meant his 
friends in the Fellowship had escaped the clutches of the orcs.

Uglúk called a halt when the orc band reached the western cliff of 
Emyn Muil. They had traveled through the night and well into the 
morning, much to the distress of some of the smaller orcs, and they 
now faced the threat of the open fields of Rohan. Uglúk wanted to make 
straight for Isengard, but with the added burden of the two prisoners 
and the Rohirrim patrolling the plains, he doubted his lads could make 
it that far. While the orcs rested and debated their road, waiting for 
the sun to set, their prisoners lay together on the harsh stones and 
tried to recruit their strength for the next leg of the journey.

For Boromir, the halt was no respite. He no longer felt the jolting of 
the orc's strides in his wounded body, and he was grateful for this 
small comfort, but still his only companions were darkness, illness 
and pain. His thoughts offered no solace, either, for they drifted 
ever backward, to the glades of Amon Hen, to his moment of weakness 
and betrayal.

He had destroyed so much, in that one moment, so much that could never 
be mended. Bitter self-hatred welled up in him, as he saw again the 
sick horror in Frodo's eyes, heard the fear in his voice, watched the 
halfling scramble desperately away from his clutching hands. That 
memory, alone, was enough to make him burn with shame. He needed not 
the added knowledge that he had broken his vow, befouled his honor and 
his good name, fallen prey to the whispered lies of the Enemy, and led 
his king into captivity, perhaps even into death, at the hands of 
Saruman to spur his conscience. All of that was but salt in the 
cruelest of wounds.

Beside him, Aragorn stirred, his body grating against loose stones and 
gravel. A soft grunt of pain escaped the other man, and Boromir 
wondered, yet again, what wounds he had suffered that he would not 
admit. It seemed impossible that any mob of orcs could take the Ranger 
alive, much less hold him captive, yet Aragorn had made no move to 
escape. So either he had injuries too dire to allow for flight, or he 
had his own reasons for staying. Boromir did not like to consider what 
those reasons might be. Such thoughts only added to his burden of 
guilt.

Aragorn shifted again, until his shoulder pressed against Boromir's 
arm, and his head lay so close that Boromir could feel the heat of his 
breath when he whispered, "How fare you?"

"Well enough," Boromir answered, his voice so low that it barely 
carried past his own lips. "And you?"

"Ill enough." He paused, then added, "The next lap of the journey will 
be hard. You should take some rest."

"I cannot."

"Nor can I."

A silence fell between them, as each man lay listening to the sounds 
of the orc camp and dwelling in his own thoughts. After a time, 
Boromir stirred and spoke of what sat heaviest on his mind.

"They have gone on to the Black Land without us. Into the very heart 
of the Shadow."

"That was always the path they meant to take, whether we tread it with 
them, or not."

"It is too dark a road for the little ones. They will come to grief. 
They will be lost to the Shadow. And I... I who should have warded 
them against all evil..." He broke off, unable to voice his own 
failure.

"You fought for them, even unto death," Aragorn murmured. "No man 
could have done more."

Boromir felt the bitterness rise in him at Aragorn's words. He heard 
the understanding, the desire to heal and forgive in the other man's 
voice, and he devoutly wished that he was deserving of such 
generosity. But he was not, and the offer of it galled him. He tried 
to find the words to tell Aragorn of his treachery, but none seemed 
foul enough to convey the truth, and he was still floundering in 
silence when Aragorn spoke again.

"I knew what enemy you faced, and I left you to fight alone. When you 
called me, I came too late. I am sorry, Boromir. Sorry I failed you."

"You did not. You had orcs enough of your own to fight."

"I do not speak of orcs." He paused, giving Boromir a moment to absorb 
his meaning, then he repeated, softly, "I am sorry, my friend."

"Nay." Boromir turned his head away in denial, his voice roughening 
with emotion. "Do not call me friend. You do not know what I've done."

"I do. I spoke to Frodo."

Boromir swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat, struggling to 
conceal the depth of his emotion from the other man. "I would have 
hurt him, Strider. I would have done anything, only to hold it for a 
moment."

"I know."

The real pain and sympathy in the Ranger's voice only intensified 
Boromir's distress. "I betrayed the Fellowship. I attacked the 
ringbearer. I shamed myself and my people. All of this," he gestured 
vaguely with his hand, "is only what I deserve."

"Do not say such things! There is no shame in being human," Aragorn 
murmured, his voice heavy with tears. "I, of all men, should know 
that. And what blame may have fallen on you has been lifted by your 
willingness to fight and die for your companions. If there is any 
blame here, it is mine. I was the leader of the Fellowship, 
responsible for the welfare of every one of its members, including 
yours. I was the one summoned to battle, who came too late. And I am 
the one the orcs sought, the one for whom you have been made to pay 
such a price."

"And I am the one who drew you into their trap." Turning again to face 
the Ranger, Boromir asked, "Why does Saruman want you, Aragorn?"

"Because I am Aragorn, and Isildur's Heir. He must believe I carry the 
Ring, or else he hopes to learn its whereabouts from me."

"Then he knows who you are."

"Aye."

"Your face, or your name only? Will he know which of us is his true 
prize?"

"He will know."

"The orcs do not." Boromir did not phrase it as a question. Common 
sense dictated that Saruman would tell his minions no more than he 
must, and the fact that they wanted both men alive proved that they 
did not know which of them the wizard valued. "Strider, you must not 
go to Isengard."

Aragorn gave a humorless chuckle. "It seems I have little choice in 
the matter."

"You must not. Saruman will not keep you long. Sauron will come for 
you, and you will end your life in torment, in the black pits of 
Barad-dûr."

"I know what fate awaits me, Boromir."

"You must escape, before we reach Isengard. Perhaps I can convince the 
orcs that I am Saruman's prize, and they will guard you less 
carefully..."

"Nay. I will not escape, if it means leaving you to Saruman's 
mercies."

"You must. I will find a way!"

Aragorn did not answer for a moment, and Boromir got the impression 
that the Ranger was taken aback by his vehemence. Finally, into the 
tense silence, Aragorn murmured, "Find one that gets both of us out 
alive."

Boromir said nothing. He would not argue the point with Aragorn, but 
he had little hope of escape and even less desire for it. His life, as 
he had known it, was over - dishonored and debased by his attack on 
the ringbearer, crushed by the falling sword of an orc - so what did 
it matter if he breathed his last in the dungeons of Orthanc? So long 
as Aragorn lived, free, to lead the armies of the West against Sauron, 
Boromir could count his life well spent.

He lay still and quiet, pretending to sleep, while he turned over 
plans for Aragorn's rescue in his mind, using this urgent task to shut 
out all memory. The task gave him something solid on which to lean, a 
new confidence and purpose, familiar ground under his feet. Plots and 
strategies, life and death choices, the harsh necessities of war, 
these were the meat that sustained a commander in the field, and they 
sustained Boromir now.

At sunset, Uglúk roused his troops and kicked the prisoners into 
wakefulness. They were fed a hasty meal that neither man could easily 
stomach. Then Aragorn was tossed over the shoulder of a large orc, 
while Boromir, now strong enough to stand on his own feet, was 
tethered to his jailer with a rope about his neck and told to mind his 
manners. At a shout from Ulgúk and the whistling crack of a whip, the 
band set off down a steep, rocky cleft in the hills, headed for the 
sweet plains of Rohan.


~~~~



Chapter Two
The Plains of Rohan



Merry started up, awakened suddenly from a troubled sleep. As he 
stared about him in confusion, he thought he heard the wild music of a 
horn, but it was only the dying echoes of a dream in his ears. Slowly, 
he lay back down in the grass and pulled his cloak more tightly about 
him.

It was the very blackest hour of the morning, long after the moon had 
set, when the first promise of dawn had not yet touched the eastern 
sky. Low clouds muffled the stars, and the fields of Rohan lay in 
heavy darkness. Merry curled up in the meager warmth of his elven 
cloak and stared at the sky that he knew hung somewhere above his 
head, even if he could not see it.

For a tantalizing and painful moment, the cold breeze seemed to carry 
the haunting echo of the horn again. He strained to catch it, but it 
turned to the rustle of tall grasses. Nothing more.

The figure beside him stirred, and Pippin's voice came to him in a low 
whisper. "You awake then, Merry?" When Merry did not answer, he rolled 
over and propped himself up on one elbow to gaze at his friend. "Can't 
sleep?"

"I can sleep all right," Merry muttered, "but I'd rather not."

"I heard you call out in your dream." Again, he got no answer. "I had 
the same one."

Merry shivered and closed his eyes, but that proved to be a mistake. 
When he traded the black of night for the privacy of his own mind, he 
saw the images that had haunted him for nearly two days, that had 
sparked the vivid horror of his dream, playing out behind his eyelids. 
He saw orcs everywhere, swarming through the trees, boiling up from 
the very rocks, teeth bared, eyes blazing, swords hacking at anything 
that moved. He saw Boromir standing straight and tall, a living shield 
between the hobbits and the seething mass of the enemy, his sword 
claiming another orc with every mighty stroke. But still they came, 
and came, until even such a sword, in the hand of such a warrior, 
could not stem the tide. And Boromir lifted his horn to summon help, 
blowing it until the sound echoed back from the peak of Amon Hen and 
made the orcs quail before him.

Merry saw again how the orcs faltered, giving the three defenders time 
to retreat into the trees, Boromir keeping the hobbits behind him and 
sheltered by his fearsome presence. But no help came, and the 
attackers found new courage. Boromir slew them as they came, 
ceaselessly, tirelessly, until the moment the first arrow struck him 
and Merry saw the impossible happen. He saw Boromir falter. The man 
kept his feet, but his sword dropped and he staggered, as his blood 
ran bright and hot from the wound. Merry gripped his sword, ready to 
throw himself into the fray, but a look from Boromir stopped him.

He remembered it now with such clarity that it struck like an arrow in 
his own breast. The look of defeat in the face of a soldier. Boromir's 
eyes met his for that dreadful moment, and then he called, in a voice 
as powerful and compelling as the horn's,

"Run! Run while you can!"

Merry shook his head, refusing to obey, but Boromir was no longer 
watching and did not see it. He had flung himself back into the 
battle, his sword flying once again, and as he fought he shouted, 
"Take Pippin and run!"

So he ran. He grabbed Pip by the arm, dragging him bodily from the 
glade, and ran as if all The Nine were at his heels. As he turned his 
back on the clearing, he heard the vicious whine of another arrow, 
heard the sickening thud of it striking home, heard the orc 
chieftain's snarl of triumph, but he dared not turn around to look. If 
he turned, he would lose the will to run, and Boromir had told him to 
run. So he ran.

"We shouldn't have run," Pippin whispered, softly, as if he had 
watched Merry's memories with him.

"What else could we do?"

"Stay and fight. It's not like we've never fought orcs. Why did you 
make me run, Merry?"

Merry shivered again, with fear and horror at what he had done. Pippin 
was right. They should have stayed, even if it meant capture or death. 
That was the knowledge that had tormented Merry since the moment he 
had returned to the clearing, with Legolas and Gimli, to find Boromir 
gone. Perhaps he would have died. But perhaps he could have pierced 
just one foot to slow a charge, knocked just one arm aside to prevent 
a blow, killed just one orc to thin their ranks, and allowed Boromir 
to stand until Aragorn came. For Merry was utterly sure that the two 
men together could have held off any army.

Instead, he had run away and taken Pippin with him, and Boromir had 
fallen. When Aragorn came, he too had to face the enemy alone. Now 
both men were gone, and in the depths of his sorrow, Meriadoc 
Brandybuck blamed himself for their loss.

"I'm sorry, Pip," he whispered, tears thick in his voice. "I'm sorry."

Pippin said nothing for a moment, and Merry felt the tears begin to 
slide down his cheeks. Then Pip chirped, in his drollest tone, "Ah, 
we'd only have gotten ourselves skewered, anyway. Likely we still 
will, if we ever catch those fellows."

Merry couldn't help laughing. Pip made it impossible not to laugh, no 
matter how miserable Merry thought he was. "No fear of that," he 
retorted. "We'll never catch them, with you slowing us down."

Pippin gave a derisive snort. "I may not have great, long legs like an 
elf, but I'm still faster than you."

"Faster to the table, maybe."

Merry had little stomach for such jokes, and the banter sounded forced 
to his ears, but he welcomed it as a sign that all was right between 
them. Secure in this knowledge, Merry settled back on the grass to 
wait out the night. He would not risk sleep again, for he could not 
bear another dream, but he would rest and watch the east for some hint 
of coming day.

In spite of himself, he dropped off to sleep, and it seemed only 
moments later that Legolas shook him awake.

"Dawn approaches," the elf said, in his firm, quiet way, "and we must 
resume the hunt. Come, Merry."

Pippin sat up and yawned, knuckling his eyes. "What's for breakfast?"

"The same thing you had for supper," Legolas answered.

Pippin groaned. "Lembas, water, and sore feet."

"Aye." Legolas offered him a hand up, then turned to Gimli and added, 
more seriously, "My heart misgives me. The orcs have not rested and 
may, even now, be drawing near to Fangorn."

"Then we're too late," the dwarf growled, a challenge in his eyes, 
"but still we must try."

"We must." Legolas turned to gaze at the two small, cold, miserable 
hobbits, his brow creased in a slight frown. "There is little chance 
we can outrun them, so we must find the means to out-maneuver them."

"What do you propose? That we storm the very walls of Isengard?"

"Only if we have no choice. I know little of Saruman, and without 
Mithrandir to advise us, I am loath to grasp that serpent by the tail. 
But this I do know. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, must not fall into the 
hands of the Enemy. If he comes to Orthanc, we must find the means to 
free him, even if it means we storm the walls."

Merry watched this exchange in glum silence, until he heard Legolas's 
final words. Then the hobbit could not contain himself, and he piped 
in, "What of Boromir?"

Legolas glanced at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. "What of 
him? He, too, is in the hands of the orcs. We will find him when we 
find Aragorn."

"You talk as though Saruman is a danger to Aragorn..."

"Aye, that he is," Gimli assured the hobbit.

"But what will he do to Boromir?"

Legolas gazed down at Merry with such understanding in his face that 
Merry felt sure the elf could see straight through to the shame and 
sorrow in his heart. "I know not. It were best we rescue them both, 
before we find out."

Pippin tossed away an empty mallorn leaf and dusted the last crumbs of 
lembas from his fingers. "What are we waiting for?" he demanded, with 
his usual impertinence.

Legolas smiled, as he turned to lead them back to the orc trail. "Only 
for the halflings to finish their breakfast. Come."

And so the four companions set out again on their hunt.

*** *** ***

Aragorn felt a surge of relief, when he heard Uglúk call for the band 
to halt. The sun was near its zenith, and they had traveled, almost 
without pause, since dusk the night before. His entire body hurt from 
the jolting strides of the orc who carried him, the wound in his thigh 
burned fiercely, and his cracked ribs sent pain stabbing through him 
with every breath. But worst of all was the aching cold in his arms. 
It crept up from his bound wrists to fill his shoulders with 
needle-sharp pains, and down into his hands to turn his fingers chill 
and dead. Uglúk had not allowed his hands to be untied, except for the 
few short minutes it took him to choke down a meal, since his capture. 
In that time, the blood had ceased to flow through his cramped, 
tortured limbs, and they had become a cold weight of useless flesh 
against his back.

Lugdush staggered to a halt and heaved Aragorn down from his shoulder, 
with no thought to how he landed. The man's weight came down on his 
wounded leg, and with a gasp of pain, he crumpled to the trampled, 
blackened grass. He made no attempt to sit up, but simply lay where he 
fell, savoring the feel of the unmoving ground beneath him and 
banishing from his mind all thought of bodily distress.

He opened his eyes, when he heard the heavy footsteps of another orc 
approaching. This one held the end of a rope tether in one fist, with 
Boromir walking at the end of it. As the orc reached Aragorn, he 
turned and gathered up the slack in the rope, forcing Boromir to stop 
when his fist closed on the loop about the man's throat. The orc gave 
the rope a vicious twist, held it tight for a moment, then flung 
Boromir back a step or two with a muttered curse.

"Sit down, soldier boy," the orc spat. "Better rest while you can, 
because I won't carry your filthy carcass any farther today!"

Boromir, who had not shown any reaction to the orc's rough treatment, 
allowed his legs to collapse and dropped down to sit in the grass near 
Aragorn's head. He did not move or speak, even when the orc vented a 
bit more of his spleen by giving him a solid kick to the ribs, just 
sat with his head down and his elbows resting on his knees. Aragorn 
could not tell whether he was waiting for something, shielding his 
face and thoughts from the eyes of the guards, or merely too exhausted 
to move. He seemed completely still and withdrawn, into some place 
where neither his captors nor his fellow prisoner could reach him.

Aragorn had watched his friend through the long, grueling march from 
Emyn Muil. Boromir had covered most of the distance on his own legs, 
though the orcs had been forced to carry him through short stretches, 
when his strength failed and Uglúk would not halt. Oddly enough, Uglúk 
had not seen fit to bind his hands. Aragorn had been quick to realize 
that the orcs thought of their prisoner as helpless, and that Boromir, 
as he regained some of his strength through Uglúk's rough and ready 
medicines, did his utmost to encourage that view.

Aragorn had no doubt that some of his visible weakness was real 
enough. He had suffered terrible wounds, only recently stanched and 
bandaged, and he had taken a massive blow to the head that had knocked 
him senseless for many long hours. The sight of his face, once so 
proud and fair, made Aragorn flinch, and the knowledge of what that 
wicked blade had done to him made the Ranger want to weep.

Boromir had not spoken of it. He had not, by so much as a word or 
gesture, made reference to the mess of crushed bone and flesh that had 
once been his right cheekbone and eye, to the deep bruise that 
blackened the entire right side of his face to the jaw line, or to the 
strip of bloodied cloth that covered both his eyes. Aragorn did not 
know exactly what that bandage concealed, but he had seen the 
backhanded slash that had felled the warrior, and he knew that nothing 
short of a miracle could salvage anything from the wreckage left by 
Lurtz's blade.

Aragorn might look upon the damage done to his friend with sorrow and 
pity. He might wonder what thoughts passed through Boromir's mind as 
he sat, so quietly, upon the plains of Rohan. He might question how 
deep the pain of those injuries went and how greatly Boromir suffered 
because of them. But so long as those thoughts and that pain stayed 
shut up behind the other man's impassive face, Aragorn knew that he 
dared not approach them. He could only watch and wait, and hope that 
Boromir, who had shown him much of what was in his heart of late, 
would trust him that little bit farther.

The Ranger was still trying to decide just how beaten and cowed his 
friend really was, and how much of it was a ruse to keep his freedom, 
when his thoughts were interrupted by the return of Lugdush at the 
head of a troop of noisy orcs.

"I'm telling you, lads!" Lugdush shouted, gleefully, to his cronies, 
"the longshanks will move fast enough, if we give him good reason!"

The guards posted to watch the prisoners eyed Lugdush doubtfully, but 
he was the trusted lieutenant of Uglúk, and they dared not interfere 
with his fun. He snatched a spear from the nearest guard and leered at 
Aragorn.

"On your feet!"

Aragorn eyed the wicked point of the weapon and wondered how far Uglúk 
would let this go, before he intervened. Slowly, his body protesting 
every movement, the Ranger twisted onto his right side to get his 
uninjured leg beneath him, and tried to sit up. Lugdush laughed aloud, 
then fastened a hand in his hair and dragged him upright. Aragorn sat 
unsteadily on his folded right leg, his left leg stretched awkwardly 
before him on the grass, fighting the sudden vertigo that gripped him.

The orcs jeered and clapped, stomping their iron-shod feet in delight. 
Lugdush, encouraged by their raucous shouts, began lunging and 
feinting with the spear, bringing it ever closer to the bound and 
defenseless Ranger.

"I said, on your feet, whiteskin!"

Aragorn tensed himself for the first touch of the blade and managed 
not to cry out, as it pierced clothing and flesh to send blood 
trickling down his side. Lugdush leered at him, feinted with the spear 
again, then thrust it viciously forward. Aragorn could not help 
himself. He flinched away from the sharp point and earned himself a 
gash along his ribs, as the spear slid between his bound arms and his 
back. His recoil and the fresh blood that painted his skin, visible 
through the rents in his clothing, brought more howls of laughter from 
the watching orcs.

With the spear pinned against his back, jutting out to either side of 
him, Aragorn swayed and started to fall. The point of the spear stuck 
in the earth, halting his sideways movement and pitching him face down 
onto the grass. Lugdush and Snaga rushed forward, to a chorus of 
shouts from their fellows, and grabbed either end of the spear. 
Bearing his weight on the wooden shaft, the orcs dragged Aragorn to 
his feet.

Pain lanced up his arms, from wrists to shoulders. He lurched forward, 
trying to relieve the pressure on tortured limbs, only to bring all 
his weight down on his injured leg. Pain blossomed into howling agony, 
his muscles turned to water, and he crumpled with a tearing cry.

For a sickening moment, Aragorn's mind swam into blackness, and he 
teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. But then a new sound reached 
him, rising above the frenzied howls of the orcs, a sound that dragged 
him back to awareness, in spite of his longing for oblivion, and 
forced his eyes to open. It was Boromir, shouting in rage and 
defiance. Lifting his head, Aragorn blinked away the encroaching mists 
in time to see Boromir lunge at Lugdush, striking the orc in the chest 
with his shoulder.

"Stop!" Aragorn shouted. "Boromir, stop!"

No one heeded him - neither man nor orc - and the cheers of the 
spectators drowned his protests. Lugdush roared his fury and made to 
grab the smaller man in his enormous arms, but Boromir did not give 
him time to close his grip. With a soldier's reflexes, he ducked 
beneath one flailing arm and spun away, having found and snatched 
Lugdush's wicked dagger from his belt.

Boromir stopped only a few paces from the orc, holding the knife 
expertly in his right hand, poised and ready. In spite of the ragged, 
filthy state of his clothes, the caked and blackened blood on his 
face, and the livid bandage bound across his eyes, he looked exactly 
what he was - a warrior, as fierce and proud and fell as any hero out 
of legend.

"If you lay hands on him again, you'll die," Boromir snarled.

The orc cursed and spat. "I'll snap your legs like twigs and drag you 
by the heels to Isengard, soldier-boy!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when he leapt at Boromir. His 
speed was astonishing, and Aragorn did not have time to cry a warning, 
before the orc crashed into the man and bore them both to the ground 
in a struggling, flailing heap. A cheer went up from the watching 
hoard, but it choked off in disbelief, when Lugdush abruptly rolled 
away from Boromir, a knife hilt protruding from his chest. The orcs 
let out a collective howl of rage, and they rushed in on Boromir in a 
stamping, snarling mob that completely hid him from Aragorn's sight.

The Ranger struggled to pull himself upright, but with his leg a 
deadweight beneath him, his arms numbed to uselessness, and the spear 
impeding his movements, he could do no more than crane his neck to 
peer through the thicket of orc legs.

Another, louder roar announced the arrival of Uglúk. He came charging 
into the fray, swinging his whip and cursing anyone who stepped into 
range. The lesser orcs quickly fell back, giving him room, until he 
stood glaring down at a squirming tangle of bodies at his feet. 
Aragorn could now see that two orcs had Boromir pinned to the ground 
and were trying to restrain him, while the man, with a strength born 
of rage, threatened to break free at any moment.

Uglúk strode up to them, kicking aside the errant thrashing leg, and 
brought his whip whistling down across all three bodies 
indiscriminately. The vicious crack brought silence and stillness.

"Let him up!" Uglúk growled.

The orcs scrambled quickly away, as wary of their captain's whip as of 
the prisoner. Boromir promptly rolled onto his side to push himself 
upright with his good arm, but Uglúk struck out again with his whip. 
The lash cut across Boromir's shoulders, and while his layers of 
clothing and mail protected him, the force of the blow knocked him 
flat. He lay face down on the churned earth and bruised grass, 
breathing heavily, content now to wait.

The orc captain stomped one enormous, booted foot down on Boromir's 
wounded shoulder, effectively pinning him to the ground, and leaned 
over to hiss, "You're not too bright, are you, little soldier? I let 
you keep your hands free, out of the goodness of my heart, so you 
won't run face-first into every rock and tree, and how do you pay me 
back? By sticking one of my lads."

Stepping back to give himself room, Uglúk swung the whip again. The 
lash flicked over Boromir's face and laid his cheek open to the bone. 
A gasp of pain escaped the man's lips, and he clapped a hand over the 
wicked, dripping cut. Uglúk gave a sour laugh.

"That's just a taste of what I've got waiting for you. Bring them 
alive, he says, but nothing about keeping them in one piece. Oh, no. 
And I'll make a good little soldier out of you, if I have to leave 
pieces of you from here to Isengard!" Bending even lower and dropping 
his voice to an evil hiss, he added, "Sooner or later, the White Hand 
will be done with you, and then you're mine. Understand? Of course you 
don't, you weak, foolish whiteskin, but you'll learn. You'll learn the 
price of killing an Uruk-hai."

Turning to the nearest orc, Uglúk bellowed, "Tie him! And make it 
hurt!"

The orc obeyed, dragging Boromir's arms behind his back and binding 
his wrists, being none too gentle about it, while another made short 
work of tying his ankles. By the time they had finished, the man had 
gone limp and still. Uglúk eyed him suspiciously, then grabbed a 
fistful of his cloak and dragged him over to where Aragorn lay. 
Tossing Boromir down with a contemptuous gesture, he fixed his flat, 
cruel gaze on the Ranger.

He bent to slide the spear shaft from beneath Aragorn's arms, then he 
reversed it to bring the point close to the man's blazing eyes. "Am I 
going to have trouble from you, too?" he demanded.

When Aragorn refused to answer, merely gazing up at Uglúk in silence, 
the orc used the spearhead to lift his chin, then pressed the blade 
against his throat. Blood trickled from beneath the edge, but still 
Aragorn betrayed no emotion.

"I'll be watching you two. And I'll be waiting for a chance to pay you 
out. Don't think a few lashes makes up for Lugdush, and don't think I 
believe it was all the soldier's idea." Uglúk's eyes narrowed 
shrewdly. "You're trouble. I can smell it. That one may do your 
killing, but you're trouble, right enough."

He gave Aragorn another moment to answer, then flashed his yellowed 
tusks in a horrific smile and growled, "Too smart, by half. And eyes 
like a cursed elf." He spat eloquently into the dirt, then stumped 
away, shouting to the guards, "No food for them! Keep them tied until 
their hands fall off! And if they twitch, stomp 'em!"

Aragorn maintained his impassive silence, until Uglúk had vanished 
into the milling crowd of orcs and only the guards remained to watch 
him. Then he cautiously rolled over to face Boromir's motionless form 
and whispered, urgently,

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Boromir did not move, but 
Aragorn sensed that he was listening. "You might have been killed, for 
one act of foolish bravery."

When Boromir answered, his voice was low and hard with suppressed 
anger. "You should have run, when you had the chance."

"You did not kill that orc to allow me to escape." It was not a 
question, but a statement of blank disbelief.

"Perhaps. In part." Boromir hesitated, his face grim beneath its mask 
of blood and bruises, then repeated, "You should have run."

"I cannot run. I cannot even walk. And I will not leave you here."

Boromir said nothing, but his bitterness hung palpably in the air 
between them.

"There will be another time," Aragorn urged, softly, "and if there is 
not, then we will face death as we did life, with honor."

"I have no honor."

"You are wrong. Your crime is long since forgiven, Boromir. How can I 
make you see that?"

"I do not ask forgiveness, only the chance to mend some small part of 
what I have broken."

"Must you die to do it?"

"I have no wish to die. This is not about death, or even honor. It 
is..." He broke off, and Aragorn could see him struggling to find the 
words that would make plain his heart. When he finally spoke, his 
voice was but a rough whisper that Aragorn had to strain to catch. 
"All my life, I have watched my father rule Gondor from the Steward's 
chair, while the throne stands empty behind him. All my life, I have 
longed for nothing more than to serve my land, my city, my people in 
whatever way is given to me. But always... always the throne stands 
empty, as a reminder that I and my father and my brother are not 
enough. We struggle, fight and die so that other lands may live in 
innocence of the great Shadow, and still, we are not worthy to rule as 
kings.

"I know that my birth is not high enough to raise me to that throne. I 
know it. But it is my blood only, not my heart, that falls short. If 
love for a people makes a king, then Gondor has a king."

"She has a great champion, whether or not he wears a crown," Aragorn 
murmured.

"No more. I am finished. But even now, I can strike a blow for my 
people. I can send them the champion they need, send them a king! By 
blood, by right, and by worth, you are Gondor's King, Aragorn."

Aragorn gazed at him in wonder, moved by the utter conviction in his 
voice. "I did not think to hear you say those words."

"You are Gondor's King, and you belong at the head of her armies, not 
screaming your life out in the dungeons of Isengard."

Aragorn lay in silence, absorbing Boromir's words and pondering the 
gift he had been given. It was not the offer of a life to buy his 
freedom that touched him, for honor and the orcs would not allow such 
a bargain, but the greater gift of respect and acceptance. Not until 
Boromir spoke, calling him King, did Aragorn realize how he had longed 
for the other man's esteem. Now he had it, but the despair that hung 
on Boromir's words made the triumph bitter.

"We will ride to the White City together," Aragorn said, firmly, "and 
together, we will lead our armies against the Enemy."

"They are your armies, now."

"If I am to rule in Gondor, I will need my Steward beside me."

"Denethor is Steward of Gondor, and Faramir after him. I will never 
sit in my father's chair."

"Then I will have no Steward."

Boromir turned toward Aragorn, an arrested look on his face, and 
opened his mouth to speak, but Aragorn forestalled him.

"A king must have those he trusts to support him, and I will trust no 
one else to sit at my right hand or head my councils. I swear to you, 
Boromir, by the blood of Isildur and Elendil that flows in my veins, 
by the love I bear my people, there will be only one Steward in 
Gondor, so long as I am King. I will have you as my Steward, or I will 
have none."

Now it was Boromir's turn to fall into stunned silence. He lay with 
his face turned up to the sky, so that Aragorn could not read the 
expression on his bloodied features, and only his rapid breathing 
betrayed how greatly Aragorn's words had moved him. Finally, in a 
harsh voice that could not conceal his true emotions from the Ranger, 
he muttered,

"You may regret this day's work."

"Aye. I regret that I didn't run, when I had the chance."

Boromir smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but a sudden ruckus 
among the orcs distracted them both and caused Aragorn to twist 
around, hunting for the source of the disturbance. Several orcs were 
running for the southern edge of the camp, while others scrambled to 
their feet and snatched up their weapons. A shout arose from the 
outlying sentries, and Aragorn picked out the words, "Whiteskins! The 
horse-boys have spotted us!"

Uglúk's great voice rose above the rest, bellowing, "Steady now, 
there's only two of them, lads! Wait 'til they taste the arrows of the 
fighting Uruk-hai!"

A hail of arrows flew at the approaching horsemen. One toppled from 
the saddle, bringing a raucous cheer from the orcs, but the other 
wheeled his mount and galloped swiftly away to the south. The orcs 
shot a mass of useless arrows after him, until Uglúk stayed them with 
another stentorian bellow.

"Hold your fire, curse you! He's gotten away! We're for it now, if we 
can't reach the forest before the horsebreeders catch us! On your 
feet!" He waded among the milling, howling throng, kicking any who 
still sat on the grass and striking about him with his whip. "Up, you 
sluggards, if you value your skins!"

For all the chaos and shouting, the orcs moved with frantic speed. 
They scrambled to their feet, slung weapons, shouldered packs, and 
followed the first scouts away from the camp at a dead run. Iron hands 
grabbed the two prisoners and hoisted them unceremoniously over the 
nearest orc shoulder. Then the entire mass of orcs was away and 
running in a ragged line toward the distant, looming shadow of the 
forest. They kept their heads down and their mighty legs pumping in an 
endless, tireless, brutal rhythm that ate up the leagues beneath their 
feet. Uglúk came last, his whip biting the heels of the hindmost and 
his voice carrying to the front of the pack.

"Move it, you rabble! Run! Run, or die!"




~~~~



Chapter Three
Uglúk's Battle




Boromir squirmed in his bonds but only succeeded in worsening his 
discomfort. The ropes that lashed him to the wide trunk chafed his 
wounds, while the gnarled bark of the tree dug into his aching 
shoulders, arms and wrists. Aragorn sat beside him, bound to another 
curve of the great trunk, but the clamor of orc voices and ring of 
axes against ancient wood made speech difficult, and the two men felt 
isolated in spite of their nearness to each other.

With a despairing sigh, Boromir tilted his head back against the tree 
and wished he could close his eyes to sleep. Since the fall of this 
accursed darkness, tired as he was, he had found it oddly hard to 
sleep. He knew that it had much to do with the fear lurking in the 
back of his mind - the fear that he would not awaken, or worse, that 
in the unchanging darkness, he would not know whether he was awake or 
asleep, alive or dead. It was a childish fear, when the waking world 
greeted him with so much pain and ugliness, but still it haunted him. 
And still, perversely, he longed for the simple and restful act of 
closing his eyes to shut out reality.

He sighed again, squirmed again, and winced as the ropes cut into the 
arrow wound in his side.

As if summoned by the man's inaudible whisper of pain, Uglúk came 
striding past the tree and stopped briefly to taunt his prisoners. 
"Don't get too comfortable, boys!" he chortled. "As soon as it's dark, 
and Mauhúr's lads arrive, we'll be off."

Boromir grimaced at the orc, the closest he could come to a 
challenging glare with his eyes bandaged, and said, "Not if the Riders 
find you, first. They'll spit you on their lances and roast you over 
your own campfires, Uglúk."

Uglúk thought that supremely funny. "Let them come! I'm ready for the 
horse-breeders and their bright lances. Let them come, I say!"

He stomped off into the din, still laughing, leaving Boromir to 
wonder, yet again, what the orcs had planned for the Rohirrim. It 
chilled Boromir to think that the fair Sons of Eorl might die beneath 
the blades of these vile creatures, and it galled him to know that he 
must sit idly by while it happened. He ground his teeth in frustration 
at his own uselessness. Boromir of Gondor detested feeling useless. It 
made him angry, which made him restless, which only increased his 
desire to be up and doing.

Unable to sit in impotent silence any longer, he pitched his voice to 
carry over the roar of activity and called, "Strider?"

"Aye."

"What are they building?"

"A barricade. It is nearly the height of a man, already, and curves 
back into the trees to guard their flanks."

It took Boromir no more than a few seconds to grasp Uglúk's strategy. 
The orc captain would place his archers behind the high, wooden 
barricade and pick off the mounted soldiers at will, covering the rest 
of the band as they retreated into the forest. It was a simple and 
efficient plan, but something about it unsettled the man. Then it came 
to him.

"When did orcs learn to build?" he asked Aragorn. "I thought they knew 
nothing but how to kill and destroy."

"Is that not what they are doing? Felling trees, so they can shoot 
Riders?"

"Aye... but don't you find it strange? An orc planning strategy? I 
would expect Uglúk to simply flee into the forest, trusting that the 
Riders would not dare to follow. Yet he halts here to build his 
barricade, cover his retreat, harry the enemy..."

"He fights like a man," Aragorn said. "Like a soldier."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Aragorn added, darkly, 
"Another of Saruman's treacheries. Gandalf warned that Saruman bred 
these creatures for strength and endurance. It seems he gave them more 
than even Gandalf knew."

"And so the Rohirrim ride to their death, unawares. They hunt a 
rabble. They will meet an army."

On that bitter note, both men fell silent. They had nothing else to 
say, no comfort to offer each other, as they faced the death of their 
hopes, along with that of the Riders. Neither had spoken of it aloud, 
but each had privately hoped that the coming of the Rohirrim meant 
rescue. Now they feared that it meant only more suffering and loss to 
add to Saruman's account. More blood on the wizard's hands.

The orcs labored on, felling tree after tree to raise their barricade 
high. Uglúk strode among them, shouting orders and laying on the lash 
of his whip where the work did not move fast enough to suit him. Ever, 
the eyes of the orcs turned to the downs that marched away from the 
edge of the forest, hunting for the first galloping figures upon their 
grassy slopes. And every now and again, another one would grumble,

"What's Uglúk's game, I'd like to know? We should be deep in the cool, 
dark forest by now, where the cursed horse-boys can't find us, not 
waiting for a spear through the gullet! What's he playing at?"

Then Uglúk's would snarl, "Playing, am I? I'll show you how the 
Uruk-hai play, you ape! And when the horse-boys are all dead, you'll 
be thanking old Uglúk that you aren't legging it all the way home with 
them snapping at your heels! Now move your lazy carcass, before I flay 
it for you! Move!"

The orcs moved, the trees fell, and the barricade slowly rose about 
them. As the sun slipped down behind the mountains to the west, 
another group of orcs came marching into the hasty camp from the 
forest behind. They arrived in a babel of shouts, laughter and 
clashing swords, and they were welcomed with enthusiasm by Uglúk's 
band.

"Mauhúr!" Uglúk bellowed. "Where have you maggots been hiding? There's 
killing to be done!"

Mauhúr, a much smaller orc than Uglúk, with eyes that blinked rapidly 
and shied away from the dying light, met this sally with an ugly 
laugh. "Maggots, is it? Well, you'll be glad enough of us maggots, 
when you reach the mountains. Waited for sunset, we did. You'll not 
catch my lads cooking their heads under the nasty, bright sun, when 
there's a lovely forest handy to shade them."

With a growl of disgust for such weakness, Uglúk sent the mountain 
orcs off to help his Uruk-hai with the barricade, while he drew Mauhúr 
aside for a private chat.

The activity built to a fever pitch, fueled by the energy of the new 
arrivals and by the orcs' relief from the suns painful rays. But 
suddenly, in the midst of all the noise and bustle, an unnatural quiet 
gripped the host. No orc shouted, no axe bit, no leaf rustled. 
Fangorn, itself, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

In the eerie stillness, Boromir felt a deep drumming in the ground 
beneath him. Hooves.

"They come," Aragorn murmured, and as if his words had freed their 
voices, every orc began to howl at once.

"Ai!! The horse-boys! The whiteskins are upon us!"

"Archers to the barricade!" Uglúk bellowed, his voice rising 
powerfully above the din. "Snaga, you're on the right flank, Dúrbhak 
on the left! Look sharp now, lads!"

The orcs obeyed, dropping whatever they carried to snatch up their 
weapons and rush to the barricade. For all their noise, they seemed to 
understand what was expected of them, and Uglúk's orders came at them 
in a steady stream, calming panic, quieting their shouts, and filling 
them with fierce, determined rage.

"Keep your heads down, and hold your fire! Wait for it, boys, wait for 
it! Wait 'til they've cleared the downs, then give it to 'em! Steady, 
now..."

 

On the open plains, the Riders came in a swift-moving column, riding 
three abreast. They carried their lances upright, the hafts resting on 
their booted feet and the burnished points lifted to the sky. A 
handful of archers, riding along the column's flank, had their bows 
strung and ready, but no arrow at the string, for they were following 
the trail of a fleeing rabble and expected no attack. In the dying 
sunlight, with their mail flashing silver and their pale hair 
streaming from beneath their helms, they looked both fair and deadly.

As they drew near the northern edge of the downs and saw the looming 
shadow of Fangorn before them, their leader rose up in his stirrups to 
gaze along the orc trail. It curved through the sweet grass of Rohan, 
angling to meet the muddy shallows of the Entwash, where the river 
flowed down from the forest. Then it followed the eastern bank of the 
river under the eaves of the forest. The Rider settled back into his 
saddle and turned his head, proud beneath its shining, crested helm, 
to speak a single word to his second. At that word, seemingly without 
effort, the entire column swung to its right and followed the 
blackened swathe of grass toward the forest.

The sun had dropped behind the towering peaks to their left, and the 
first night shadows fell across the forest at mountains' feet. The sky 
above still glowed with evening light, but the fields were dim and the 
forest a threatening darkness ahead. Still the Riders galloped on, 
unconcerned so long as they had a clear trail to follow.

Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, had hunted orcs since he could 
sit a horse. He knew that they would not turn and fight mounted 
soldiers, unless they outnumbered the Riders three to one, or unless 
cornered and forced into battle. These orcs had no such numbers, and 
if they had reached the eaves of Fangorn, they had all its shadowed 
dales in which to hide. They would not fight. They would flee, and 
Éomer's duty would end when he had assured himself that their foul 
feet no longer trod the grasses of the Mark.

The éored swept up the eastern bank of the river, toward the first 
outlying trees. Éomer again rose in his stirrups to survey their 
trail, but he could see naught beneath the forest's branches. The orc 
trail stayed close beside the Entwash, plunging with it between the 
trees and into a kind of clinging darkness. The Rider frowned, as he 
resumed his seat. He did not fear the forest, though he treated it 
with due respect, but as he gazed at that impenetrable shadow, placed 
exactly where his Riders must go to find passage for their horses 
among the trees, he remembered the tales told him as a child and felt 
an unaccustomed chill upon his flesh.

Shaking off his unease, Éomer signaled the éored forward and guided 
his own mount into the thickening trees. As he passed beneath the 
first branches, the shadow loomed up before him. He was still riding 
straight toward it, when he realized, with a shock, that it was solid. 
A great wall of rough-hewn logs, flung across their path. With a cry 
of warning, he lifted his hand to halt the Riders, but his voice was 
drowned by an earsplitting storm of shrieks and howls from atop the 
wall. Arrows rained down among the horsemen, striking helmet, mail, 
flesh and beast. Horses screamed in pain, and men shouted in anger.

Éomer brought his own mount to a standstill, so quickly that it sat 
back on its hocks, then wheeled it to the right and spurred it into a 
full gallop. He rode along the face of a long barricade that blocked 
the trail beside the Entwash. The wall curved from the river on the 
left, to a thick stand of trees on the right, and it rose nearly as 
high as his head, mounted as he was upon a tall horse. Along its top, 
orcs crowded, firing their black arrows into the mass of horsemen.

Éomer swung around the milling column and turned his horse toward the 
open plains, calling to his men as he rode, "To me, Riders of Rohan! 
To me!" Beside him, Éothain blew his horn to signal the retreat.

Another barrage of arrows whistled and sang among them. Another man 
cried out in pain and pitched from his saddle. Another horse 
staggered, an arrow through its neck. But still, the disciplined 
Riders formed on their captain and swept past the deadly barricade in 
his wake. More fell, as mighty arrows, fired at close range, punched 
through their armor or found the openings in their helmets. An archer 
near the rear of the column fired an answering shot at the barricade, 
and an orc toppled back from his perch with an arrow through his eye, 
as the éored sped back toward the open downs, leaving their dead and 
dying behind them.

 

Boromir heard the screams of dying men and horses, and he bowed his 
head in grief. He could not block out the familiar sounds of battle, 
though he tried, and he waited in painful anticipation for the next 
attack. The Riders would attack again, he knew, for honor would force 
them to avenge the fall of their comrades, and duty would require them 
to destroy the invaders upon their borders. He had fought beside the 
Riders of Rohan too many times to doubt that they revered both honor 
and duty as greatly as any soldier of Gondor.

Twice the horsemen flung themselves at the barricade, and once 
attempted to surprise the orcs upon their right flank. The orcs 
repelled them easily, and their howls of joy as they hacked at the 
fallen Riders with their swords sent a thrill of horror through the 
listening Boromir. Finally, as night fell in earnest, the horsemen 
withdrew just out of range of Uglúk's archers and lit watch fires in a 
tight semi-circle before the barricade.

The orcs amused themselves by hurling a collection of crude missiles 
at the silent, waiting Riders, accompanied by taunts and insults. But 
this pastime grew stale when the Riders did not show themselves beyond 
the ring of flickering light, and the orcs lost interest in their foe. 
They had nearly abandoned their posts at the barricade and were 
beginning to grumble about Uglúk's leadership again, forgetting the 
slaughter and plunder he had just given them, when an outcry from one 
alert sentry sent them scrambling for their weapons again.

A moment later, Boromir heard the distinctive, vicious whine of arrows 
and another sound he could not identify - a kind of spitting and 
crackling that did not belong to archery.

"Someone among the Riders is thinking," Aragorn said. "They've kindled 
their arrows. They plan to fire the barricade."

"Will such green wood burn?"

"The bark will, at least."

As if to prove his point, a stray arrow flew over the barricade and 
buried its point in the tree where the two men sat. Boromir heard it 
strike and instinctively looked up. A piece of burning cloth drifted 
down onto his upturned face, and he shook it away with a curse. The 
smell of smoke filled the air, along with the rising shrieks of the 
furious orcs, but the two men paid no more attention to the battle. 
They were far too concerned about the flames that now licked the lower 
branches of their tree, eating swiftly up the old, curled, flaking 
bark toward the winter-dry leaves above.

"And here we were worried about Saruman," Aragorn remarked, wryly.

Boromir gave a hard laugh and flinched away from another falling 
cinder. "I thought that I was ready to die for my King, but it seems I 
was wrong. If it please Your Majesty, your Steward humbly requests 
that you get us out of this before we are roasted like a couple of 
prize pigs!"

"We offer our deepest regrets to our most worthy Steward, but We are 
afraid that our hands are tied..."

Boromir cursed again, as yet more fragments of flaming bark fell onto 
his leg and started his breeches smoldering. Aragorn gave a hiss of 
pain and began thrashing in his bonds, telling Boromir that he, too, 
was suffering from the burning rain. The fire, eating so hungrily up 
the length of the tree, now began to creep downward as well, moving 
closer to the seated men. Sweat and soot painted their faces, the air 
felt too thick to breathe, and the wood behind their backs grew 
increasingly warm.

Boromir was mustering his courage to speak, to face his coming death 
and lay his final oath of fealty before his King, when the sudden 
grating of Uglúk's laughter interrupted his thoughts.

"That's it, boys, time to go!"

Boromir smiled in relief, as the great orc strode up to the tree and 
severed his bonds with a single stroke of his knife. The orc caught 
his smile and chuckled again. "Didn't think I'd let Saruman's prize 
get cooked by a rabble of whiteskins, did you? We've had our fun with 
the horse-boys, and now it's Mauhúr's turn. He'll keep them off our 
backs, right enough, so it's back to work for the Uruk-hai. Move it, 
lads!" he hollered to a nearby group of orcs. "We'll be in the caves 
by this time tomorrow, then it's home! Home to Isengard!"

Rough hands grabbed Boromir, and he found himself tossed over yet 
another shoulder. Then, with a shout and cheer, the Uruk-hai loped off 
into the forest. 




~~~~~




Chapter Four
Alliances



A long spiral of smoke rose into the pale sky, marking the place where 
the dead lay. To the small, weary band of hunters, it seemed an ill 
omen, and it burdened their hearts even before they knew what it 
portended. Now, as they picked their way through the ghastly refuse of 
the battlefield, they were filled with cold despair.

The Riders had already sorted the dead and were laboring to raise a 
mound of stones, dirt and green turf over their fallen comrades. 
Behind the smoldering remains of the barricade, a pile of orcs lay, 
awaiting the flames that would consume them. The slain horses, too, 
would be burned, but out on the downs, where their smoke would not 
mingle with the foul reek of the orcs, and where they could be given 
due honors.

Merry trailed dutifully after Legolas and Gimli, but his eyes strayed 
ever toward the tall, fair, hard-eyed Men intent upon their grievous 
task. They reminded him of Boromir and Aragorn, with their long limbs 
and stern faces, and he found that he could not look away from them 
for long. He wanted to hear their leader speak again, to savor the 
accent of the South in his deep voice, to catch the echoes of his 
friends in the man's words and gestures. It was the only connection he 
had to the captives and, slender as it was, it gave him comfort among 
the horrors of this place.

Legolas bounded lightly onto the barricade and paused atop a steeply 
canted log. Merry hesitated for a moment, then scrambled up beside the 
elf. His eyes swept the killing ground on the other side, where the 
Riders had finally trapped the last remnants of the orc band and 
slaughtered them, and he shuddered at the sight.

The clearing was a fresh wound upon the forest, gouged by the axes of 
the orcs as they built their barricade. Only one tree of any size 
still remained in the rough circle, but it had been burned to a 
twisted, blackened husk that still smoked fitfully. Of the orcs 
themselves, all that remained was a gruesome heap of bodies and 
battered weaponry.

Merry glanced up at Legolas, wondering what thoughts revolved behind 
his smooth, impassive face. The elf gazed steadily at the piled orcs, 
with no outward sign of emotion, then he turned and called down to 
Gimli,

"We must search among the dead, you and I. 'Tis no job for the 
halflings."

"Aye," the dwarf growled.

He strode off toward the end of the barricade, not having the height 
or the balance to climb it, but Pippin opted to scramble over it with 
Merry. The two hobbits climbed down into the clearing together and 
wandered aimlessly about, picking up bits and pieces of junk dropped 
by the orcs. They watched the dwarf and elf with sad eyes, wishing 
they had the strength or the stomach to help them in their gruesome 
task, and saying little. This did not seem the place for idle 
conversation, with so much death in the air.

The soft thud of hooves announced the arrival of a Rider. Merry turned 
to see Éomer canter around the end of the barricade and into the 
clearing. His horse came to a stop beside the burned-out tree, and he 
swung gracefully from the saddle. Legolas and Gimli straightened up 
and turned to meet him, as he strode over to them.

"Have you found ought of your captives?"

Legolas shook his head. "Nay, only orcs."

"That is all you will find. We would not throw Men in with this 
carrion, even strangers or enemies. I tell you, there are no Men 
here."

"They were here," Legolas insisted, "of that we are sure. But some of 
the orcs must have escaped into the forest with them."

"'Tis likely. They had many hours of darkness in which to flee, and we 
found only these few still holding the barricade, when we took it."

Gimli nudged the nearest corpse with his toe and said, "These are not 
the same orcs we fought at Amon Hen. They are more like to the orcs of 
Moria."

"Aye. The mountains are infested with such as these." Éomer gestured 
vaguely toward the west. "The Misty Mountains end there, in Nan 
Curunír, where lies Isengard. And the great spurs of rock that flank 
the valley are riddled with the burrows of mountain orcs. Some say the 
wizard who dwells there guards our borders, holding back the hoard. 
Others say the orcs come at his bidding." Éomer's face hardened, and 
his grey eyes burned with anger. "Whatever the truth of it, their 
numbers grow daily, and their fear wanes. Now they come, even unto the 
plains of Rohan, bringing war and death."

"Make no mistake," Gimli growled, "'tis Saruman who bids them come. 
The orcs who took our companions were bred in the pits of Isengard and 
marched at the wizard's command. Saruman is not your ally, Éomer of 
the Mark."

"I know it." The words were simple, but they carried a wealth of 
bitterness and rage within them.

Legolas turned back to the pile of dead and the question of his 
friends' fate. "If only these remained to fight, then the larger orcs 
must have fled to the west, with Aragorn and Boromir."

Éomer's head came up sharply, and he fixed keen eyes on Legolas's 
face. "Boromir? What Boromir is this you seek?"

"Boromir of Gondor, the son of Denethor. Is he known to you?"

"Alas!" The man looked stricken, and his eyes turned toward the 
darkness of the forest in despair. "Alas, Master Elf, you bring evil 
tidings! Had we known the son of Denethor was a prisoner, we would 
have died to the last man to free him!"

Merry moved up closer to the tall, fair stranger, eyeing him with new 
interest. "Are you a friend of his?"

"I am not so fortunate as to call him friend, but I do know him. And I 
have fought beside him."

Merry squared his shoulders, proudly. "So have I."

Éomer turned to face him fully, curiosity gleaming in his eyes as he 
looked down at the halfling. "You fought beside the Captain of Gondor? 
You must be deemed a great warrior, among your kind."

"Well... I don't know that you could call any of my kind warriors... 
but I have killed an orc or two with my small sword. And Boromir 
taught me how to use it."

"And do you count him a friend?"

"Yes." Merry felt tears pricking his eyes, but he ordered them away 
and met Éomer's gaze straightly. "Yes, I do, and I will follow him 
even into the dungeons of Isengard. I owe him my life, you see."

Éomer went down on one knee to bring his eyes on a level with Merry's. 
His face, so proud and stern, was full of kindness, and his smile was 
warm, if more than a little sad. "I wish you a swift journey and good 
fortune in your quest, small warrior."

"We could use another sword, when we storm the walls," Pippin remarked 
sagely.

Éomer accepted his words in all seriousness. "I would that I could 
lend you my sword and those of all my éored, but men such as I are 
bound by duty before all else, and my duty calls me to my King. He 
must be told of what has transpired here and warned of Saruman's 
treachery."

"Perhaps your king will help us?"

The Man said nothing, and the tightening of his face warned the 
hobbits that they had strayed into dangerous territory. Pippin 
hesitated, then swiftly turned the subject.

"I don't much like the look of these woods. I wager there are worse 
things in there than orcs."

"Older things, certainly," Legolas murmured, as he gazed at the 
surrounding forest with wondering eyes.

Éomer rose to his feet again and turned toward his horse. "If you heed 
my counsel, you will not venture into Fangorn. It has an evil name."

"But not an evil feel," Legolas answered. "And it matters not, for 
where the orcs have gone, there we must go as well. You know not the 
urgency of our errand, Man of Rohan."

The man shrugged as if to say that he had expected nothing else from 
his new acquaintances. He swung himself into the saddle again. "They 
will make for the west and the slopes of the Misty Mountains, but that 
knowledge will not help you, if you lose yourselves in the trackless 
shadows of Fangorn. Should you think better of your folly and return 
alive from the forest, then come you to Meduseld and the hall of 
Théoden King. I charge you, on your honor, to present yourselves 
before the Lord of the Mark and ask his leave to travel his lands."

"You have our word, upon our honor."

"Farewell, then." He wheeled his great horse and paused to look again 
at Merry, a smile lingering on his face. "Good hunting." Then he 
sprang away and left the four travelers alone with the dead.

 

Midday found the four hunters deep in the forest. They followed the 
Entwash, keeping to the eastern bank, where Legolas's sharp eyes could 
spot the prints of orc boots in the mud. The hunters moved in a dim, 
grey twilight. All about them was a growing sense of watchfulness, 
almost of anger, that breathed upon their necks as they went.

Legolas kept them moving as quickly as the smothering warmth and 
strangely thin air of the forest would allow. The urgency of the hunt 
was upon them again, and every hour that passed only increased their 
resolve, while it drained their strength. The hobbits were staggering 
with weariness, and the dwarf had fallen into a grim silence, when 
Legolas suddenly called out,

"Look! The sun has found her way down to greet us!"

The others lifted their heads and stared at a bright shaft of sunlight 
that pierced the forest canopy, ahead and to the west of their trail. 
Merry felt his spirits lift at the sight.

"Let's go that way," he urged. "I'd like to feel the sun on my face 
again!"

"And I would like to breathe freely, without all these trees watching 
me," Pippin said.

The elf and dwarf made no argument, and the company left the river to 
plunge into the deep twilight of the forest. It took them some time to 
reach their goal, but finally, they stepped from the shadows and into 
the warm, clear sunlight of early afternoon. They found themselves at 
the foot of a steep hill that thrust up into the open air. The trees 
crowded thickly about its base, as if jostling for elbow room and a 
chance to reach their stiff branches into the light, but the slopes of 
the hill were bare and stony, clad only in a few hardy weeds and 
grasses.

A rough stair climbed the sheer rock wall before them, leading to a 
ledge that offered a wide view above the forest canopy and a shaded 
place to rest weary feet. The travelers paid no mind to the shabby 
loneliness of the hill, or the straggling thistles that clung to its 
sides. They saw only the open sky and the promise of a respite from 
their hunt. With smiles on their lined and shadowed faces, they 
climbed the uneven steps to the ledge. There, they flung down their 
packs and cast themselves to the ground, staring up at the sky as 
though they had never seen it before.

Merry had eaten a sparse meal of lembas and water, and was dropping 
off to sleep in a patch of sunlight, when Legolas gave a hiss of 
warning that jerked him roughly awake. He scrambled to his feet and 
ran to the edge of the shelf where Legolas stood, peering into the 
shadows beneath the trees. He had an arrow already fitted to his 
bowstring.

"What is it, Master Elf?" Gimli asked.

Legolas nodded toward the trees at the very foot of the hill. "There, 
moving toward us. Do you see?"

At that moment, a figure stepped out of the trees and halted at the 
bottom of the stair. It was a man, bent with age, clothed in grey rags 
and leaning heavily upon a staff, his face hidden beneath a deep hood 
and the brim of his hat. When he lifted his head to gaze up at them, 
Merry saw only the end of his nose and his long, grey beard. No one 
moved or spoke, as though the ragged stranger held them under some 
kind of spell, and Legolas's bow hung limp at his side.

"Well met, my friends," the man said, in a voice both soft and strong. 
"I wish to speak to you. Will you come down, or shall I come up?" 
Without waiting for an answer, he began to climb.

Gimli made a great effort to shake off the spell as the man moved, and 
he strode forward to the stair's top, his axe in his hand. "Halt, 
stranger! Come no closer, or feel the stroke of my blade!"

"Is this how you greet an old man, who seeks only conversation?" The 
man paused, gazing up at the dwarf with eyes that gleamed from the 
shadow of his hood. "Put up your weapon, my good Dwarf. You will not 
need it."

Gimli stumbled back from the stair, his face a mask of surprise and 
confusion. His axe slipped from his hand to clatter on the stone at 
his feet. The four hunters stared, aghast, as the old man suddenly 
leapt up the last few steps and sprang onto the ledge, his arms open 
wide in a gesture of welcome. With a shrug, he threw off his shabby 
cloak and stood before them, garbed all in shining white, his head 
bare and his face revealed in the clear light that seemed to pour from 
him. His eyes laughed at them from beneath familiar, jutting brows.

"I say again, well met!"

"Aiee!" Legolas gave a great shout and shot an arrow high into the 
air. It vanished in a flash of flame. " Mithrandir! Mithrandir!"

Merry heard the name and understood, but he could not move. His feet 
were rooted to the ground and his limbs were numb with shock. He gazed 
at the blazing, laughing creature that had risen from the dead before 
his very eyes, and tears of joy began to slide down his cheeks, but 
still he could not move. Then the keen eyes turned to him, and a smile 
crinkled their corners.

"My dear Merry."

Those words freed him. His body was his own again, and without 
stopping to think what he was about, Merry dropped his sword, flung 
himself at the wizard, and wrapped his arms around his waist. 
"Gandalf!" he cried, "Gandalf, Gandalf! You've come back to us!"

 *** *** ***

Gandalf sat with his head bowed, listening to Gimli tell of their hunt 
across the fields of Rohan, his face shadowed by the wide brim of his 
hat. As the dwarf finished his tale, the wizard lifted his eyes to 
gaze at this small remnant of the Fellowship, and his face was drawn 
with grief. He did not speak for some moments after Gimli fell silent, 
but the others only waited, trusting that he would have some wisdom 
for them. Some guidance.

Finally, Gandalf sighed and said, "Alas that this evil should befall 
us. Isildur's Heir is a weapon we can ill afford to lose, and it pains 
my heart to think of such valiant Men in the hands of the Enemy."

Gimli gripped the haft of his axe and growled, "They are not yet lost 
to us! We have vowed to free them, and free them we will, though we 
hunt the length and breadth of Middle-earth to do it!"

"Your hunt is over, my good dwarf. Even now, the orcs draw near to the 
mountains and the safety of their caves. They will reach Isengard. You 
cannot prevent it."

"But we cannot abandon our friends, either!" Merry protested.

"To be sure. But if you would help them, you must find another way - a 
way that holds out some hope of success."

Legolas stirred restlessly, his eyes searching the drab canopy of the 
forest as if hoping to spy the movement of orcs beneath it. "What way 
do you see, that we do not, Gandalf?" He turned his eyes to Gandalf's 
face, and they were dark with despair, their elvish light dimmed. "For 
even without hope, we must go on."

The wizard pursed his lips thoughtfully, while his eyes twinkled from 
beneath his jutting brows. "We will go on, Legolas, to the very walls 
of Isengard! But not alone! Not alone."

"Who will go with us?" Pippin asked. "The Riders?"

"If we can persuade Théoden King of his peril, yes. But the Rohirrim 
are only a small part of Saruman's problem. He has forgotten another 
neighbor - a much older, wiser and more powerful neighbor than any 
race of Men - and if I read the whispers of the trees aright, he will 
soon find himself beset upon all sides."

"You speak in riddles," Legolas chided, smiling.

Gandalf laughed. "The answer to those riddles is all around you, 
Master Elf. Saruman has awakened the ancient power that slumbered upon 
his doorstep. He has stirred the wrath of Fangorn himself."

"The forest?" Pippin asked.

"The name of Fangorn belongs to more than what you see around you, 
Pippin. Fangorn is the shepherd of the trees and the guardian of this 
forest. He the oldest of the Ents."

Legolas stared at him in amazement. "Ents! The Onodrim yet live in 
Middle-earth? This is a day of wonders, indeed!"

"In more ways than you know. Fangorn is slow to anger and slower still 
to act, but Saruman's latest treachery has started that anger 
simmering. Soon, it will boil over and run like a tide about the feet 
of Orthanc. Then woe to Saruman, master of orc, axe and fire!"

Bounding to his feet, all semblance of age or weariness gone, Gandalf 
threw his arms wide to embrace them all and cried, "Our time is now, 
my friends! The Enemy is reaching out his hand to claim Saruman's 
prize, even as we speak, and we cannot wait upon wise counsels. We 
must stir the wrath of Ents and Men, gird them for war, and storm the 
walls of Isengard together!"

Gimli brandished his axe, shaking it at the heavens and roared, "To 
Isengard!"

The others leapt up and echoed his cry, "To Isengard!"

"But first, to the Ents," Gandalf said, his eyes twinkling. "Come."

Sheathing their weapons, the last remnant of the Fellowship pulled 
their elven cloaks about them and followed Gandalf down into the 
shadows of Fangorn.

 *** *** ***

Aragorn stood with his back to a roughhewn wall of stone, facing the 
chamber's only door. To either side of the door, torches burned in 
iron brackets, their oily smoke billowing up to the ceiling where it 
clung like a living shadow, roiling with every movement that stirred 
the thick air. The Ranger wore nothing but a piece of coarse cloth 
wrapped about his loins, but in the smothering heat of the caverns, 
sweat ran freely down his naked body. The wound in his left thigh 
throbbed and burned with an insistent pain, protesting the pressure of 
his weight on the damaged leg, and dark blood oozed from beneath fresh 
scabs. The pain of it was terrible, but it gave Aragorn a focus in 
this eerie, airless, fire-lit nightmare. It kept his head clear and 
reminded him just how real, and how deadly, his plight was.

Since coming out of the dark caves at the feet of the Misty Mountains 
into the vale of Isengard, Aragorn had lost all sense of reality. The 
vale, once so green and gracious, was now a barren wasteland, riddled 
with pits and fires, dominated by the cruel spike of Orthanc at its 
center. Smoke, steam and flights of black birds writhed together to 
stain the sky, while the harsh cries of orcs mingled with the shriek 
of tortured metal and the croaking of the birds. No fair thing now 
lived within the ring of Isengard, and Aragorn wept inwardly at the 
sight of its desecration.

Into the bowels of the earth the orcs had brought their captives, 
through caverns that seemed to pulse with flame and heat, along 
tunnels hacked from the rock and lined with guttering torches, past 
foundries, armories, furnaces, refuse pits and dank holes that 
breathed corruption. Aragorn saw creatures and contraptions beyond his 
imagination - slave gangs whipped by orc overseers to speed their 
labors, machines that groaned and shrieked and belched a foul reek 
into the thick air of the caverns - and everywhere was the smell of 
burning.

When they came at last to this chamber, to his cell, he felt a moment 
of relief that the heavy wooden door would close between him and the 
horrors of Saruman's realm. Then they had taken Boromir away, and for 
the first time since their capture, Aragorn found himself alone.

For all his years as a Ranger and wanderer, Aragorn had never felt 
such a terrible sense of isolation. He was a brave enough man to admit 
his fear, and he was a wise enough man to see that his growing 
friendship with the soldier of Gondor had laid him open to that fear. 
He was not afraid for himself, though he knew that suffering such as 
he had never known before awaited him. He was afraid for his friend, 
and for the pressure Saruman would bring to bear on the newly-minted 
bond of affection between them. Standing there in his cell, chained to 
the wall at wrist and ankle, fettered and helpless, he knew loneliness 
and a gnawing dread that tortured him as no physical pain could.

There was nothing for him to do but wait. He leaned his aching body 
against the wall, eased the weight off his wounded leg, and let his 
head droop between his shoulders. To the casual observer, he would 
appear beaten, cowed, broken in spirit. But in truth, he was gathering 
his strength, seeking deep within himself for the will to defy both 
Saruman and his dark master. All the misery he had endured on the 
march, all the insults, abuse and privation, were only the precursor 
to this, and he must be ready.

The orcs finally came, their heavy boots crunching on the raw stone of 
the tunnel, their torches throwing heat and shadow across his prison 
walls. Aragorn did not lift his head to acknowledge them. He simply 
waited, unmoving, for some sign of what they intended. A large bundle 
hit the floor with a muffled thud. It spilled open to reveal his 
clothing and gear, every piece torn, stripped and slashed in the 
thoroughness of their search. Aragorn glanced at the mess, reading 
Saruman's frustration and fury in each knife cut.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

The voice seemed to fill the chamber with its deep, soft, melodious 
tones, and it brought Aragorn's head up with a jerk. He found himself 
staring into eyes as dark and bottomless as the voice - eyes that 
pierced him with their brilliance, spread the balm of compassion upon 
his wounds, and awed him with their wisdom.

"Long have I looked for your coming, Heir of Gondor. Long have I 
waited for the King to take counsel of Saruman the Wise."

The shining figure in the doorway took a step toward the prisoner, 
away from the orc guards that flanked him, and as he moved, the ruddy 
torchlight slid over his garments, making them shimmer into a myriad 
colors. He held a staff in one hand, its finial a replica of the four 
spires of Orthanc, and on one finger of that hand, he wore a ring. 
Aragorn stared at that pale, slender hand, remembering Gandalf's tale 
to the Council of Elrond - how Saruman had forged a ring of power for 
himself, in imitation of the Elven smiths of old. The memory of 
Gandalf, his friend and guide, dispelled the magic of the wizard's 
voice and cleared his thoughts. He again met the compelling gaze, but 
with no trace of wavering in his own.

"I am not yet King, Saruman, and you are not my counselor."

"Such is the folly of Men." When Aragorn made no answer, Saruman 
smiled coldly. "And through such folly has the Dark Lord risen again, 
to threaten all Middle-earth with his Shadow."

Aragorn could not argue with him, deep as were his own feelings of 
guilt and failure over the choices of his kind. He might inherit 
Isildur's throne, but he also must inherit the consequences of his 
folly, and until he had atoned for the one, he could not claim the 
other. This was the conflict that defined his life, summed up in a 
single statement by the traitor Saruman.

"I offer you now the chance to undo the evils of your forebears and 
claim what is yours, free from taint or doubt," Saruman urged, his 
voice soft as velvet and thrumming with power. "I offer you an end to 
wandering, exile, war and shadow. Look into your heart, Aragorn, son 
of Arathorn, and admit that I offer you your deepest desire."

Aragorn did not need to look into his heart. He knew that Saruman 
spoke the truth, but he also knew that the truth concealed a lie. 
"What is the price of my desire?"

"Alliance." Again, Aragorn said nothing, and his silence seemed to 
inspire the wizard with new eloquence. "Join with me. Carry your 
banner at the head of my armies, that all the peoples of the West may 
know their King is come, and I will lead you to victory over the 
Shadow. I can do it, Aragorn. I can set you upon the throne of Gondor, 
and I can drive Sauron from the shores of Middle-earth forever!"

"If I give you the Ring."

Saruman's eyes blazed. "The Ring. The weapon of the Enemy. What better 
way to defeat him, than with his own weapon used against him?"

The sound of those familiar words and the fierce passion in the 
wizard's eyes sent a shiver down Aragorn's spine. He felt as though he 
looked into Boromir's face at the moment that he tried to take the 
Ring from Frodo, and this glimpse into the torment of lust the Ring 
could inflict appalled him. Still, he kept his horror to himself and 
spoke calmly.

"I do not have the Ring."

"You know where it can be found - where Gandalf has hidden it."

"To reveal that would be to betray a friend."

"For the greater good of all Middle-earth!"

Aragorn stirred uncomfortably in his chains, sickened by Saruman's 
words, yet fascinated in spite of himself. "So now you would betray 
Sauron, as you betrayed the White Council before him."

"If evil perishes, what matter the means used? Would you have me 
surrender the Ring to him, out of loyalty?"

"You do not have the Ring to surrender or keep."

"I have you, and Sauron prizes you only slightly less than the Ring of 
Power. He knows that my servants have taken you. Soon, very soon, the 
Nâzgul will come for you. Then Gondor will be deprived of her King, of 
the symbol of her ancient glory, and she will fall into despair."

"What, then, are your promises worth? Of what use to me is an alliance 
with Saruman, when I am fated to die in Sauron's dungeons?"

Saruman smiled, as though pitying the Man's lack of faith in him. "The 
Nâzgul come for an Heir, and I will give them one. Let them take their 
Heir and be gone, while we hasten to find the Ring. By the time Sauron 
realizes that he has a Steward instead of a King, we will hold victory 
in our grasp!"

His words echoed into silence. Aragorn gazed steadily at him, reading 
the lust, greed and dawning triumph in his face, only thinly veiled 
behind his veneer of reasoned calm. Saruman clearly thought that his 
prisoner was weighing his offer, tempted by it, and Aragorn let him 
smile, let him revel in his success.

Finally, the Ranger spoke, his voice soft and dangerous in the quiet. 
"So you would have me betray two friends."

"The son of Denethor is no friend to you. He is an arrogant, proud, 
ambitious man, who will never bend his knee in allegiance to any 
king."

Hanging there in his fetters, naked and filthy, listening to the voice 
of Saruman seduce him with its honeyed tones, Aragorn smiled. In his 
mind, he heard again his friend's words, spoken in a murmur from the 
darkness, calling him King and swearing to send him home to Gondor, to 
his throne and his people, as a final gift from their fallen Captain. 
He saw again the sorrow and regret in Boromir's face, the soul-deep 
pain that his own weakness had wrought in him, when he broke his vow 
and betrayed the Fellowship. And Aragorn knew that Saruman had 
misjudged them both.

"I will not give you the Ring, Saruman, and I will not break faith 
with my friends. There will be no alliance."




~~~~




Chapter Five
The White Hand



Pain raged in Aragorn, a pain such as he had never known before. It 
came not from lash or blade or fire, but from deep within him, as if 
the very fabric of his body were being torn asunder by the light, 
caressing touch of the wizard's hand. He could not withstand it, could 
not rise above it, could barely breathe with the terrible, inexorable 
progress of it through every nerve and sinew.

He told himself not to cry out, not to expose his weakness before 
Saruman, and for a time he managed to swallow the sound of his agony. 
His limbs thrashed uselessly in their chains. His back arched, his 
neck strained, and his head pressed hard into the rough stone wall, 
until blood ran down his scalp. Still, he stifled his cries, and 
still, the pain grew.

Saruman's voice came from close beside him, a low, venomous murmur in 
his ear. "Do not think to deny me so easily. Do not mistake me for 
that Grey Fool you followed so blindly into death and defeat."

Aragorn wanted to answer him, but he dared not. If he loosened the 
clamp upon his throat to speak, his words would be lost in a scream of 
agony that might never end, and still Saruman would taunt him. He 
opened his eyes and turned his head toward the voice, to find 
Saruman's face less than a hand's breadth from his, the great, liquid 
eyes aflame with rage and madness.

Saruman smiled, a terrible, soulless grimace. "You think, because you 
trailed like a dog behind Gandalf, eating his scraps and licking his 
hand, that you know wizards. But I tell you, Aragorn, I have power the 
likes of which Gandalf never dreamed. You enjoy the merest taste of it 
now, but were I to will it, you would die in agony, pleading for an 
end. Such is the power of the White Hand."

As he spoke, Saruman lifted his hand from Aragorn's side and held it 
up before his eyes. Instantly, the pain in the Ranger's body ebbed, 
and he sagged in his chains, shaking with relief. His eyes, blurred 
with exhaustion, gazed at the wizard's pale hand. It seemed to flicker 
and gleam as it moved, and Aragorn slowly realized that he was seeing 
the ring's gem catch the torchlight and break it into dancing shards.

"Defy me, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Deny me. Spout your promises of 
honor and fidelity. In the end, it will avail you naught. I will have 
what I want from you. Never doubt it."

"Do what you will," Aragorn whispered, his voice ragged with pain. "I 
have given you my answer."

Agony flared afresh in Aragorn, without warning, and tore a long, 
dreadful cry from him that pierced the thick air of the chamber. 
Saruman bared his teeth and pressed his palm more tightly to Aragorn's 
breast, letting his power flow into the man's shuddering body. Aragorn 
flung himself against the chains, fighting to escape the cruel touch, 
while his cries tore at his straining throat. He was trapped and 
helpless, once more in the grip of the terrible agony that Saruman 
wielded. He could not breathe without screaming, and he could not 
scream loudly enough to drown the sound of Saruman's laughter.

As suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped. Saruman stepped away 
from Aragorn, his face contorted with disgust, and he sneered when the 
Ranger sagged in his chains.

"I have your answer," the wizard hissed, "but you have only begun to 
taste the power of the White Hand. Before I am done, you will be 
grateful that I do not accept that answer."

Whirling around, Saruman stalked from the chamber, leaving Aragorn to 
wait in gathering dread. The Ranger had no idea what Saruman planned 
for him next - he would not allow his imagination to dwell upon the 
possibilities too long - but somewhere deep inside him, in the place 
where fear was born, he knew that his torment had only begun. Saruman 
had tried the insidious power of his voice and failed. He had tried 
pain and failed. Only one weapon remained to him, the only weapon 
Aragorn truly feared, and with time running short, the wizard would 
not hesitate to use it.

By the time he heard the stamp of orc boots in the passageway, Aragorn 
had passed from dread to sweating panic. His imagination, in defiance 
of his will, wreaked havoc on his peace of mind by playing scene after 
scene of mayhem, madness and torture before him, until he twisted 
against his chains and ground his teeth in helpless fury. In another 
part of this labyrinthine hell, along another dark passage, in another 
foul cell, Saruman was breaking the body and will of a man already 
pushed to the brink of despair. Aragorn could do nothing to stop it, 
and all his affection, all his earnest desire to see his friend and 
Steward returned to health and hope, meant nothing in the face of 
Saruman's evil cunning.

Then the door swung open, and Saruman strode regally into the chamber. 
Behind him came two orcs with torches and two more, escorting a 
prisoner between them. Aragorn knew that he should be doubly afraid, 
but in that moment of recognition, he felt only an overwhelming 
relief, for Boromir was with him again, and neither of them would have 
to face the coming horror alone.

"Boromir!" he called, gladness and welcome plain in his voice.

Boromir's head came up sharply, his face brightening, and a lopsided 
smile touched his lips.

"How fare you?" Aragorn asked.

The smile widened. "Well enough. And you?"

"Ill enough." The Ranger almost laughed aloud, so great was his 
relief. He knew, from this brief exchange, that Boromir was as yet 
unharmed, undaunted by their plight, and in full possession of his 
wits. He was clad much as Aragorn was himself, with the bandage still 
bound across his eyes and his hands tied behind him. Aragorn could see 
no sign of fresh injury upon him and no hint of fear in his bearing. 
Aragorn felt a surge of gratitude for the stubborn courage of this 
soldier of Gondor.

"You see, I can be generous," Saruman commented, with deceptive 
mildness. Both men turned toward him, their faces going cold and 
haughty. The wizard chuckled. "The King and his loyal servant, 
reunited, as a gesture of my good will. Aragorn speaks highly of you, 
son of Denethor. He claims that you are ready to bend your knee before 
him and swear fealty. This is something I would see. The proud 
Captain-General upon his knees before a ragged wanderer? It defies 
belief."

Boromir lifted his chin arrogantly and retorted, "'Tis none of your 
concern, wizard."

"And yet, I would see it." Saruman's voice was silky, dangerous, laden 
with formless threat. "Kneel before your king."

Boromir turned his head away.

"Kneel!" the wizard commanded, and he snapped his fingers at one of 
the guards.

Before the orc could move, Aragorn called, sharply, "Boromir!"

The Man turned his bandaged gaze on his liege lord for a brief moment, 
startled by his vehemence, then nodded once and dropped to his knees 
on the stone floor.

Saruman chuckled softly. "The ties of friendship are strong, to bring 
such a man to his knees at a word."

Boromir said nothing. His face, blank and calm beneath the savage 
bruises, betrayed no emotion. Saruman paced slowly up to him and 
placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You have proven your good faith," the wizard said, "and now it is 
time for your liege lord to prove his. He swore that he would not 
betray his friend. Do you believe him?"

"Aye."

"Let us hope that your trust is well placed, Boromir of Gondor." 
Lifting his eyes to Aragorn's face, he went on in his measured tone, 
"I ask you again, Aragorn, will you ally yourself with me to save all 
Middle-earth?"

"You know I will not."

"And what of your loyal servant?"

"His life is forfeit to your ambition, as is mine."

"Perhaps you need a further demonstration... of my good faith." 
Saruman turned back to Boromir, and his hands came up to clasp the 
Man's head gently.

"Nay!" Aragorn blurted out before he could stop himself, remembering 
the exquisite pain of that touch. "Do not!"

"Watch and be silent." Saruman's long fingers cradled Boromir's head, 
looking even more white and ghostly against the black bruises on his 
face. His palms pressed lightly against slashed and shattered 
cheekbones, his thumbs rested on bandaged eyes. Boromir knelt quietly 
between his guards, passive under the wizard's hands, showing no sign 
of distress.

Nothing moved in the cell. Nothing changed. It seemed to Aragorn as 
though the guards had turned to stone themselves, becoming part of the 
floor. He dared not stir in his chains and break the utter stillness, 
so intent was he upon the tableau in the middle of the floor.

As he watched, Saruman's form seemed to waver and blur. Power slid, 
like a living thing, over his shimmering robe and gleaming hair. It 
danced along his fingers, where they clasped Boromir's head, setting 
his ring alight and playing over the man's savaged features. The 
wizard's breath came faster, and his hands began to tremble. Caught 
between those hands, Boromir did not even appear to breathe.

And then the wizard gave a deep sigh. The power faded, the tension 
eased, and Saruman dropped his hands to rest on Boromir's shoulders 
again. With that gesture, the chamber came to life - the orcs 
shuffling their feet, the torches snapping - and Boromir sank slowly 
back on his heels.

"Boromir?" Aragorn called.

Boromir turned to face him, and Aragorn felt his mouth fall open in 
shock - a shock mirrored in Boromir's own expression. For against all 
hope and reason, Boromir's face was whole again. The bones, crushed so 
brutally by Lurtz's blade, were sound and clean, the whip cut that had 
laid his cheek open was nothing but a fading scar, and beneath the 
yellowing bruises was the proud, fair, familiar face of Gondor's 
Captain as Aragorn remembered it.

"The pain is gone," Boromir murmured in wonder.

Aragorn swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. "Your 
eyes?"

Boromir hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

"Not yet, Aragorn," Saruman said. "Not until you pay the price."

Aragorn felt his stomach clench with the sheer, inescapable horror of 
it, and the question he did not want to ask fell from his numb lips. 
"What price?"

"The Ring."

Neither man spoke. Both had expected exactly this answer, but 
certainty did not soften the blow. Aragorn could find no words to fill 
the aching silence, in which he saw Boromir's shoulders bow ever so 
slightly and his head drop forward. Saruman caught Boromir's chin and 
lifted it again, allowing the torchlight to shine full in his face.

"The choice is yours, Aragorn. The choice is simple." Saruman's hand 
lingered on Boromir's cheek as he spoke, a silent reminder of the 
power he wielded. "Give me what I ask. Give me the Ring and your 
solemn vow to stand beside me in the coming war, as my General, and I 
will give you all you desire. Your throne, your crown, the freedom of 
your people... and the life of your friend."

Boromir made a visible effort to straighten himself, his shoulders 
squaring proudly. "I am ready to die for my king."

Saruman laughed, coldly, turning Boromir's words of brave defiance 
into bluster and foolishness. "You will not die. Not by my hand. But I 
will crush you, until you weep and plead for death, then I will 
surrender you to Sauron in your master's place. What he does with you 
is not my concern. That is your choice, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Gain 
all or lose all."

Aragorn stared down at his friend, where he knelt on the floor with 
Saruman's pale hand against his face. The sight of that dark blood, 
staining the bandage like gory tears, would haunt Aragorn for the rest 
of his days. He knew this, but he also knew that his choice was clear. 
Whatever Saruman did to Boromir, he did to Aragorn as well, but such 
was the burden of a king. He made choices that sent men into agony and 
death for him, and a little of him died with each fallen soldier. He 
was ready to accept this burden, though it tore his heart, and he knew 
that he had the strength in himself to face the consequences. His only 
fear was that Boromir would not understand.

He spoke clearly, evenly, with no tremor in his voice to betray his 
pain. "I will not join you. I will not lead you to the Ring. I will 
not accept my crown at your hands, stained as they are with innocent 
blood. And Boromir," his words dropped to an agonized murmur, "I am 
sorry."

Saruman's face contorted with rage, and his eyes flashed. Power seemed 
to leap out of him, blazing in the thick air of the cell, and at the 
same instant, Boromir gave a dreadful, tearing cry. His back arched, 
his body stiffened, and he flung himself away from the wizard's touch 
upon his face, but the orcs held him. He could not escape. He fought 
them - fought for breath, for freedom, for a surcease from pain - but 
still they held him on his knees before the wizard, trapped under the 
caress of that merciless hand. Saruman's fingers curved around his 
skull, burying themselves in his long hair, in a gesture that might 
have been mistaken for one of tenderness, were it not for the look of 
savage pleasure on the wizard's face or the agonized cries that echoed 
through the chamber.

With a final burst of strength, Boromir managed to tear himself free 
of the orcs' clutches, and he fell heavily to the floor, breaking 
Saruman's contact with him.

"Hold him," the wizard snapped. An orc planted one knee in Boromir's 
side to pin him down, while the other knelt at his head and clasped it 
hard between huge, clawed hands.

"Aragorn!"

The Ranger flinched at the raw pain in Boromir's voice, and in a 
moment of cowardice, he shut his eyes. Then Boromir began to scream, 
the sound tearing at his throat and at Aragorn's ears. Aragorn's eyes 
snapped open again. He saw Saruman stooping over his prisoner, one 
hand gripping his staff, the milky globe that crowned it glowing with 
an eerie light, and the other hand resting over Boromir's heart. The 
fierce joy in Saruman's face, the sheer delight in inflicting pain, 
was almost as terrible to see as the suffering of the man he tortured, 
and Aragorn felt the sickness of horror rise in him.

"Aragorn!!"

Saruman laughed, and Aragorn gave a small, involuntary moan.

"Your king is listening," Saruman taunted. "Beg for his favor. Perhaps 
he will be merciful."

Boromir drew breath to speak, but his words broke into a ragged cry of 
pain. His body shuddered and writhed against the stone floor, but not 
now with any conscious desire to escape his captors. He did not have 
enough will, enough awareness of anything beyond the pain, to resist 
them. He could only suffer, and in the intensity of that suffering, 
thrash and scream and call out to the one human being who could hear 
him.

Suddenly, Saruman lifted his hand and rose to his feet. The room 
seemed to plunge suddenly into shadow again, as the wizard's power 
waned, and the body at his feet went limp. Saruman gave Boromir a 
swift nudge with the staff and said, "Have you nothing to say to your 
liege lord?"

Very slowly, Boromir stirred, turning his face toward Aragorn. The 
Ranger saw agony in the set of his features and fresh blood on his 
lips. Before Boromir could speak, Aragorn called, urgently, "Forgive 
me! There is no other choice left to me, Boromir! I would stop this, 
if I could!"

Boromir's answer was slurred with pain and blood, but it carried 
clearly enough to his friend. "There is no choice. I am ready... to 
die for my king."

"It will not be that easy, I promise you!" Saruman hissed, as he 
dropped to one knee and spread his hand flat on Boromir's midriff.

The breath rushed out of Boromir's lungs in a long, wordless moan. He 
doubled up in agony, seeming to close his body protectively around the 
source of his pain. The orcs made no attempt to hold him, shying away 
from the wizard, the prisoner, and the white-hot power that enclosed 
them. Saruman leaned down to murmur something that Aragorn could not 
hear above the ghastly, unendurable sound of Boromir's suffering, but 
Boromir heard him.

The man's head snapped up and he cried, furiously, in a voice torn raw 
by his own screams, "There is no choice! There is n... Aragorn!"

"Stop!" Aragorn howled, in futile protest, throwing himself against 
his chains until blood started at his wrists. "Enough!"

Abruptly, Saruman snatched his hand away, and Boromir collapsed in a 
nerveless heap. The blaze of power faded. Saruman stared at the still, 
huddled form of the man with eyes empty of all emotion, and he rested 
a hand on Boromir's head. For the moment, there was no agony in the 
touch, and Boromir did not stir.

After a long stretch of silence, the wizard demanded, harshly, "Is it 
enough? Are you prepared to give me what I ask?

"Is he dead?" Aragorn whispered, ignoring the wizard's question.

Saruman's gaze shifted to Aragorn's face, and he rose slowly, 
majestically to his feet. "No."

He stalked over to the chained man, his eyes burning madly in his pale 
face. "Take heed, Aragorn, son of Arathorn! I will not be thwarted. I 
will not be cheated of victory by an exiled vagabond and the bloodied 
wreck of a soldier. You will give me what I want, and I will not give 
him the comfort of death until you do! Do you understand me, King of 
Gondor?" He spat out the title with such venom that Aragorn recoiled 
in his bonds.

But it was Boromir who answered him, muttering softly, "There is no 
choice..."

"Silence!" Saruman lashed out with his staff, striking Boromir in the 
back of the head and lighting the room with the sudden discharge of 
power. Boromir stiffened once in reaction, then collapsed.

Saruman whirled on the two orcs, snarling, "Take that back to its 
cell. One of you, stand guard. If the carrion moves or speaks, send me 
word."

The orcs obediently lifted Boromir between them and carried his 
lifeless body out of the chamber. Saruman motioned for the other 
guards to leave the room, and he closed the door behind them, so that 
he and Aragorn were alone in the flickering torchlight. As he paced 
over to the wall where Aragorn stood, the Ranger noted that the 
madness seemed to have drained from his face in an instant, and his 
great, dark eyes were full of genuine sorrow.

"Such is the horror of these times, that Man must turn against Man, 
friend against friend."

"No friend has turned against friend, for all your efforts, Saruman."

The wizard smiled gently. "So you may tell yourself, if it gives you 
comfort, but remember this, Heir of Isildur. But for you, your friend 
could have walked from this chamber, whole and strong, to taste the 
sweet air of Gondor and see again the white walls of Minas Tirith 
shining upon the slopes of Mindolluin. But for you." Saruman turned to 
leave but halted with his hand upon the door to say, thoughtfully, 
"You were right about the son of Denethor, and I was wrong, I admit. 
He proved himself your friend. He did not break faith with you." 
Saruman pushed the door wide. A wistful smile touched his lips. "'Tis 
a pity you cannot say the same."

With a swish of iridescent fabric, the wizard was gone, and Aragorn 
was alone.

 *** *** ***

Boromir lay huddled on the floor of his cell, shivering in spite of 
the sweat that streaked his skin. He shivered from pain, from shock, 
and from fear. But most of all, he shivered beneath the sheer, 
overwhelming weight of grief that lay upon him. He had withstood the 
wizard's torture - he had not begged Aragorn for mercy nor Saruman for 
death - but it had cost him the last of his strength and will to do 
it. Now he lay here, alone, the victor for a time, shaken by pain and 
a desperate sorrow.

Gondor... Gondor... His mind wept the name, though he dared not speak 
it aloud. He dared not admit the depths of his longing to walk the 
rich fields of his home again and ride beneath the leaves of fair 
Anórien. To climb the slopes of Mount Mindolluin at sunrise, and to 
see his beloved city glimmering like a jewel in the new light. To 
stand upon the walls of the citadel, his brother at his side, the 
banners of the Tower of Guard snapping above their heads as they gazed 
together over the land they protected, fought for, bled for, would 
gladly die for...

To die for Gondor. He had said it often enough, even wanted it at 
times. Now he faced the cruel reality of it, and he knew in his heart 
that he did not wish to die. Not even for Gondor. But die he must, or 
scream out his life in a hell worse than any death, because honor and 
duty demanded it. For Gondor, for Aragorn, for his friend who was also 
his king, for Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin and any hope they had 
left of destroying the Ring. For all of them and all that he held dear 
in his life, he must die.

He knew this. He accepted it. He would face it with all the courage he 
could muster, but still he wept for the lying promises of the traitor 
Saruman and that brief, terrible moment of joy when he thought he saw 
the walls of Minas Tirith shining, white and beautiful, before his 
eyes again.

Lost as he was in despair and pain, Boromir did not hear the crunch of 
orc boots on the floor of his cell. He knew nothing of his visitors, 
until a cold hand rested on his hair and a familiar voice slid over 
him like the brush of velvet.

"You see now what the faith of a king is worth. You see to what he has 
reduced you."

Boromir stirred and tried to lift his head. He did not have the 
strength to bear its weight, but Saruman's hand slid beneath it, 
cradling it with a palm against his cheek. Boromir flinched at the 
touch, though it was oddly gentle.

"Your allegiance is repaid with suffering," the wizard continued, 
softly, "and your life is forfeit to his stubborn pride. You, who have 
served Gondor with honor all your days, must now be sacrificed so the 
vagabond heir can claim his throne."

"Served with honor..." Boromir mumbled through the blood in his mouth. 
"Die with honor... like a soldier."

"There is no honor in such a death - for a man who would sell you into 
torment."

"He would not."

"He has. You heard him, Boromir, as clearly as I. He will let you go 
to Sauron in his stead, rather than join with me against the Enemy."

Boromir took a ragged breath and whispered, "You are the enemy."

Saruman's free hand touched his cheek in a gesture of compassion. 
"Foolish Man." The taunt was soft, almost affectionate. "Do you think 
you have felt pain at my hands? Wait until you feel the touch of the 
Lidless Eye. Then you will know true pain, and you will long for the 
comfort of the White Hand."

Boromir shuddered. He could not help himself, though he despised the 
weakness in him that betrayed his fear to Saruman. The light caress of 
voice and hand soothed him, while the wizard's words filled him with 
dread. He wanted to growl his defiance, but all that came to his lips 
was a quiet sob and a muttered,

"Aragorn..."

"Do not look to him for mercy, Boromir. He has made his choice and 
left you to your fate."

The stubborn phrase came to him again, like a beacon in the darkness. 
"There is no choice."

"For him, perhaps not. But for you? For you, there is another way." 
Saruman's hands clasped his head firmly now, and his voice came from 
so close that his breath was hot on Boromir's face. "I can spare you 
the horrors of Barad-dûr. I can send you home."

"Gondor."

"Yes, home to Gondor, home to the father who looks for you in vain and 
the brother who mourns your loss, uncertain of your fate. You can end 
their suffering with your own."

"How?" He did not want to ask, did not want to admit the longing that 
filled him afresh at Saruman's words, but the voice seemed to wring 
the truth from him whether he willed it or no.

"It is simple. To save Gondor, I need the Ring."

"I do not have it." He felt no surprise at the demand, only the aching 
sadness that always came with thoughts of the Ring. The Enemy's Ring, 
not his. Never his. He must remember this and remember the look of 
horror on Frodo's face at the moment that he tried to claim it as his 
own. Frodo, who had looked to him for protection and been betrayed. 
Frodo, who was once his friend and now lost to him... as was the Ring. 
"I do not have it," he muttered again.

"You know who carries it. You know where it has gone." An edge crept 
into Saruman's velvet voice, and the clasp on Boromir's head 
tightened. "Where is the Ring?"

"The Ring... the Ring has passed..." He broke off with a gasp, as the 
first whispers of pain touched him.

Saruman sent yet more power coursing through his hands, into the mind 
and body of his captive. "Speak! Speak the name! To whom has it 
passed?"

"...passed from peril into peril..." Boromir whispered, then he moaned 
softly and tried to twist away from the wizard's grasp.

Saruman tightened his hold yet again, letting more pain seep through 
his cruel hands, and demanded, "What does that mean? Where has it 
gone?!"

"It is beyond our reach."

"Save yourself, Boromir. Save Gondor! Tell me where to find the Ring, 
and I will save all that you love!"

"And betray... betray my King..." He took a ragged breath and cried 
out, despairingly, "Aragorn is Gondor!"

"Then I will give you Aragorn, if that is what you want! Give me the 
Ring, I will give you your king!"

Boromir uttered another wrenching cry, and his voice rose with the 
crescendo of pain inside him. "I was wrong! I was wrong! It is not for 
me!"

"It is for me, you fool! Give me what is mine! Give it to me, and I 
will end the torment!"

"I am sorry! I am sorry!" he sobbed, not hearing Saruman's hissing 
promises through the blaze of agony and remorse that filled his mind. 
"I was wrong! The Ring... cannot save us! I have failed... Gondor will 
fall..."

"Who carries it?!" Saruman snarled, his grip on the man tightening 
until his knuckles showed white and his arms trembled with the strain. 
"Where has it gone?! Tell me and live! Tell me and die!"

"We are lost!" Agony shuddered through Boromir's body, tore from his 
throat, and screamed a single name in the thick, foul air. "Aragorn!"

With a muttered curse, the wizard pulled his hands away. The man 
crumpled into an insensible heap, awareness fleeing from him with the 
pain. As Saruman rose to his feet, he wiped his hands against his 
robe, his face rigid with disdain.

"Die with honor?" he mocked, his voice soft and venomous. "You will 
die like an animal, all reason gone, all humanity. And when you 
scream, none but beasts will hear you. Where then is your honor, my 
brave Captain?"

Casting a final, withering glance at his uncaring captive, Saruman 
turned and stalked from the room, the orcs shuffling out on his heels.




~~~~



Chapter Six
Night over Isengard



War had come to Nan Curunír. In the blackest hour of a moonless, 
starless night, the Riders of Rohan had crossed the Fords of Isen and 
fallen upon the great gates of Isengard. It was an act of desperation. 
No force of Men could hope to break the gates. Yet the Rohirrim had 
come, and they threw themselves against the sheer rampart of the walls 
with a grim determination that scorned defeat.

From his high window in the tower of Orthanc, Saruman watched them 
come and laughed. They looked pitiful from this height, their lances 
waving like blades of grass in a high wind, their crested helms 
bobbing as they rode. In the ruddy light from the fire pits, the 
silver helms appeared stained with blood - sweet promise of victory to 
come for the White Hand.

As he watched, smiling, a troop of horsemen galloped out of the trees 
and into range of the archers on the walls. A storm of arrows met 
their sally. The Riders, fearless even under such an assault, stood in 
their saddles and calmly picked off orc after orc with their own 
arrows, while the defenders behind the rampart scrambled to fill the 
gaps left by the dead. Then a raucous howl sounded from the gateway 
tunnel, and the Uruk-hai flooded out to join the fray.

Mounted as they were, the Rohirrim still could not stand against the 
superior numbers and ferocity of the orcs. They fell back slowly, 
drawing the orc warriors after them, fighting as they retreated. The 
orcs, intent only on slaughter and plunder, followed their prey 
beneath the shadowing bows of the trees.

Trees? Saruman abruptly leaned out of the window embrasure to stare at 
the battle below. A frown deepened the lines in his face. Trees? There 
were no trees close to the southern wall. He had felled them long ago 
and lined the road with graceful iron pillars, in their stead. Only 
scrub and brambles and the stubborn refugee greenery of the plains 
grew before the gates of Isengard. So how could the Riders be 
attacking from the trees?

Saruman heard screams of fury and panic drifting up from the distant 
wood. He cursed softly, as he saw a lone pair of orcs come stumbling 
from the wood, their weapons lost, their mouths open in a long howl of 
terror. They gained the tunnel, and a few moments later, Saruman saw 
them pelting along the wide causeway that led from the gate to the 
door of Orthanc. Behind them, the screams continued, as the Riders 
approached the walls again. This time, the trees came with them, and 
even as he turned away from the window to pace his high chamber, 
Saruman heard the rumbling crash of stone falling.

Saruman cursed again and pounded his staff against the floor to vent 
his frustration, as he paced. A small, chill, unacknowledged breath of 
fear touched his neck. How could he have forgotten? And yet, how could 
he have predicted that the sleeping Fangorn would awaken? What sorcery 
could have stirred the sleepy, pulp-brained shepherd of the trees to 
such vengeful rage, and who had forged this impossible alliance 
between the ancient Onodrim and the upstart Men of Rohan?

Axes and fire. Saruman ceased his restless prowling and turned again 
to gaze from the window, his eyes alight with cunning. The ancient 
scourge of trees would prove the bane of Fangorn and his Onodrim, and 
the White Hand would have its victory, still. He must reorganize the 
defenses and send the order out to all captains - axes and fire. Then 
he would have a word with that miserable spawn of Númenor in the 
dungeons - that would-be king - and find out what he knew of this 
strange attack.

*** *** ***

In the brooding, flickering light of Isengard's blasted plain, two 
small figures flitted from shadow to shadow. They moved cautiously, 
down the tumbled slope from the eastern wall toward the nearest 
entrance to the caverns, shrouded in cloaks of muted grey that hid 
them from all but the sharpest eyes. Behind them, the looming wall was 
pocked with windows and doorways by the hundreds. Along its top, orcs 
patrolled ceaselessly. And always before them was the sharp spire of 
Orthanc, dark and terrible.

They were alone in a hostile land, surrounded by foes, intent on a 
desperate and foolhardy mission. And they were afraid. With every step 
he took, Merry grew more and more afraid, but he forced his legs to 
bear him up and carry him farther into that choked, barren vale, 
closer to the gaping maw that waited to swallow them.

He was sweating with fear beneath his elven cloak, and as they ducked 
into the lee of an iron pillar to avoid a passing orc band, he heard 
Pippin's teeth chattering. The younger hobbit shot him a wide-eyed 
glance, his face strained and pale in the ghastly light of the fire 
pits. Merry could not muster the courage for a smile, but he nodded to 
show that he was ready, gripped his sword tightly beneath his cloak, 
and slipped from their hiding place.

As great as was his fear, it never occurred to Merry to turn back. He 
and Pippin had convinced Gandalf that two hobbits could do what the 
combined forces of Men, Ents and the Fellowship could not - sneak into 
Saruman's dungeons and find their captive friends, before Saruman 
perceived his danger and fled, taking his prisoners with him. Not 
until Treebeard himself, chief of the Ents, added his voice to theirs 
did Gandalf relent.

Now that he saw what lay inside the ring of Isengard, Merry felt even 
more sure that he and Pippin were the captives' best hope of rescue. A 
band of warriors would have to fight for every inch of ground, always 
knowing that they might never find the right dungeon in that endless, 
orc-infested hive. The two hobbits, silent on their bare feet, cloaked 
in elven shadows, small and easily overlooked, might slip through 
countless caves and tunnels unseen and find the captives, while the 
main rescue party came more slowly behind them, following the path 
they marked.

His heart was hammering against his ribs, as Merry scurried the last 
few steps to edge of the cavern's yawning mouth. To his right, a long 
ramp led up out of the depths, supported by iron chains set into 
pilings at the lip of the hole. The pilings cast deep shadows, hiding 
the two hobbits from the eyes of the countless orcs that poured up the 
ramp.

Merry listened to their raucous shouts, laughter and clashing weapons. 
They marched in expectation of an easy victory, headed for the battle 
at the gate, and Merry was oddly reassured by their confidence. He 
knew that, so long as Saruman and his armies believed the battle won, 
they had time. Saruman would stay safely in his citadel, and Treebeard 
would hold back the waters of the Isen behind their dams. When the 
tide of battle turned and Saruman knew himself doomed, then the real 
attack would come. The orcs would panic and fly into the mass of 
Huorns that waited outside the walls, Treebeard would let loose his 
flood to block Saruman's escape, and anyone caught in the caverns 
would die. Anyone.

The last of the orcs were marching away, their torches flickering 
along the road to the south. Nothing moved on the ramp. Merry leaned 
cautiously forward, into the red glow from the pit, and peered over 
the edge. Heat struck him a blow in the face, making his eyes water, 
and the stench of burning clogged his nostrils. He pulled his head 
back and turned streaming eyes on Pippin.

"We've gone and put our foot in it now, haven't we, Pip?" he 
whispered.

Pippin nodded grimly. "Good and proper."

"Come on, then."

The hobbits drew their swords, pulled their hoods more closely about 
their faces, and rose to their feet. The only way down was the ramp. 
It hung above a vast, reeking hell of pulsing flame, scorched rock and 
black tunnel mouths. Chains, ropes and pulleys dangled over noisome 
pits. Ominous clanking and shrieking issued from dark holes they could 
not see, along with the harsh voices of orcs. As they crept down the 
ramp, trying to hide themselves from hostile eyes while looking as 
though they belonged in this nightmare, Merry felt as if the very rock 
of the caverns was breathing malice upon his neck.

They reached the bottom of the ramp and slipped into the dark opening 
of a tunnel. Pausing only long enough for Pippin to scratch an arrow 
on the wall with his sword, down low where only a hobbit would think 
to look for it, they started off along the rough passageway.

The tunnel pointed west, toward the tower of Orthanc, and sloped 
gently downward. Guttering torches lined the walls, but their uneven 
light did as much to conceal the intruders as expose them. The hobbits 
stayed close to the walls, in heavy shadow, where even the sharp eyes 
of orcs could not find them, and they passed like wisps of smoke in 
the heavy air.

 * * *

Merry pressed back against the wall, his eyes clenched tightly shut, 
breathing hard in panic. Beside him, he could hear Pippin sobbing. His 
hand fumbled for Pip's, and the two hobbits clung fiercely to each 
other.

Voices reached them, too low to hear the words spoken, but loud enough 
for them to discern Saruman's smooth tones and Strider's rough, 
mumbled response. There was a moment of silence, then a tearing cry 
that brought a whimper up in Merry's throat. He felt Pippin step away 
from the wall and tug on his hand, then they were running, stumbling 
back up the passage to escape the dreadful sounds.

They ran until they reached the last side-turning in the tunnel, where 
Pippin had scratched a neat arrow on the wall to mark their route. 
There they halted, unwilling to go on but afraid to go back, and stood 
staring at each other helplessly.

"We'll never get him out," Pippin said, in a haunted whisper, "with 
all those orcs and... What was Saruman doing to him?"

Merry shook his head, seeing again the tortured agony in Strider's 
face when the wizard touched him. He had caught only a glimpse of the 
room - of the Man chained naked to the wall, his body marked with 
blood and dirt, of the orcs standing guard with their enormous swords 
and the tall figure robed in shimmering white - but the horror of it 
was burned forever into his memory.

"How do we get him out?" Pippin demanded.

"We don't. We bring Gandalf and let him deal with Saruman."

Pippin started down the eastbound branch of the tunnel, his body taut 
with urgency. "They must be close by now. If we go back to the stair 
and..."

"Wait!" Merry caught Pippin's arm to stop him from bolting. "We have 
to find Boromir!"

Pip shot him a wild, panicked look, and Merry saw that his face was 
streaked bright with tears. "But Strider..."

"The others are following, as fast as they can. We can't help them by 
going back now, and we can't..." He swallowed the tears in his throat 
and snapped, more sharply than he had intended, "We can't run off and 
leave our job half done."

"You're right." Pippin dashed the tears from his eyes with his forearm 
and gave a defiant nod. "We said we'd find them both, and we will. 
Boromir must be close by, in one of these other cells..."

Shrugging off Merry's hand, Pippin drew his sword and knelt in front 
of the mark he had made on the wall. He worked at the stone for a 
moment, with the point of his sword. When he stood up again, Merry saw 
that he had scratched a rune next to the arrow.

"Gandalf will see that and know we found Aragorn."

"Good thinki