The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Twenty-two: Day of the Wolf
‘Pay
attention, Pippin!’ hissed Merry, calling his friend back from gazing
out of the window of the high room in Rivendell where the Fellowship
were gathered to look over maps of the lands they would cross as they
accompanied Frodo to Mordor..
Pippin turned round with a start, and went red when he realised that
everyone in the room had heard Merry and was looking at him. He glanced
guiltily about; Elrond, seeming even taller in his long shimmering blue
robes and silver circlet, was gazing at him sternly, but in the depths
of his dark eyes Pip could detect a hint of amusement. Beside him
Gandalf puffed on his pipe, his deeply lined face unreadable, even to
those who knew him well….
The room was at the top of one of the towers of Rivendell, and with a
wide balcony for viewing the stars, and the great brass telescope made
long ago for the Elves by the dwarves of Eriador, it was called the
Observatory. The floor was inlaid with garnet, jade and opal, as well
as many other semi-precious stones, to form a star-map of the skies
over Middle Earth.
Laid on a great oaken table however was another map; yellow with age,
its varnish cracked and brittle, it was a map of all the lands of
Middle Earth, even those which were now long since fallen under the
Shadow…..
‘If you are ready…’ said Elrond quietly ‘..we will continue’
‘Yes, of course Lord Elrond…’ replied Pipppin hastily, his cheeks
burning. But outside it was so sunny, the fresh Westerly wind shaking
the bright autumn leaves from the ashes and beeches in the gardens
below. It was so hard to concentrate!
The rest of the Fellowship stood or sat around the room. The stranger
Elf, Legolas, clad in russet brown and dusty green, distinct from the
brightly clad Elves of Rivendell, leaned against the wall at the back
of the group. His chin sunk on his breast he watched as Elrond pointed
out this road or that stream, his bright grey eyes giving little away
but from time to time fingering his bow, which he never laid aside.
In front of the Elf, as if trying to block his view, the Dwarf Gimli
leaned his elbows on the table and asked many questions, always giving
a grunt or dour comment in reply. The prince of Gondor, Boromir, clad
in his rich dark red tunic embroidered with silver at the collar, stood
listening with his arms folded. Sometimes he would point out an
obstacle or another possible route, with the bearing of one used to
commanding men and plotting the course of a battle.
Beside Gandalf Frodo sat in a tall chair of black carved wood, his feet
far from the floor, for he was still weak from his injury. He gazed at
the countries that he had to cross and Pippin thought he was even paler
than usual. Sam stood close to him, frowning as he tried to make out
the strange lettering on the map.
But the one who attended closest to Elrond’s words was the Ranger,
Strider. He bent over the map, his fists leaning on it, drinking in the
Elf-lord’s every word yet asking no questions. It seemed to Pippin that
he knew it all already, but desired to hear it said again. With his
gaunt face and black hair threaded with silver, and his brushed grey
velvet tunic, the hobbit thought Strider resembled a great, grey wolf.
He noticed that the names on the map, Gondor, Arnor, Minas Ithil and
Minas Tirith, gave Strider’s face a strange tense look and made his
eyes gleam…..
As the Fellowship tramped down the narrow, winding stone stairs from
the Observatory, with Pippin dashing ahead glad to be free to run in
the open air again, Elrond said to Gandalf;
‘The youngest hobbit, Pippin, should not go, Mithrandir. He is not ready…’
Gandalf took his pipe out of his mouth and snorted.
‘You can't stop him now! In any case, he would never leave Merry. Pippin would find some way to follow him…’
Elrond went to the balcony and gazed out over the golden autumn land.
The sun shone on the white water of the waterfalls of Rivendell.
‘Someone should go back to the Shire’ he said uneasily. ‘I think all is
not well in their own land. Let one of them go home to tell their
people what has happened to their kinsmen, and to lead them if any
danger should assail their country…’
Gandalf shook his head with a sigh.
‘You are right, my Lord Elrond. But it cannot be Pippin. I know he is
light of heart and sadly light of head too, but he cannot be denied the
quest now. He will never be parted from Merry….’
‘Merry isn’t dead’ said Pippin, when he had found his voice. ‘You are mistaken; Merry is not dead…’
The Rangers looked at the young hobbit with pity in their eyes, not
having the heart to disagree with him. Seeing this Pippin grew angry.
‘He isn’t dead!’ he insisted in a shrill voice. ‘I know, because….’ He was aware of their eyes on him, waiting.
‘Because…if Merry was dead, I would know!’
‘How would you know, Master Halfling?’ asked the innkeeper, bemused.
‘Because….because..’
Pippin could not explain it. Merry was closer to him than a brother. In
his heart, deeper than thought, Pippin knew Merry was alive.
‘I just know’ he said softly. Then he looked up at Ainligh and asked;
‘Did you see his body?’
The tall, black-haired Ranger shook his head.
‘Then how do you know he is dead?’ demanded Pippin.
‘I spoke to one who saw him….tortured.’ replied Ainligh gently.
‘But you yourself, you did not see him dead?’
‘No’ Ainligh shook his head. ‘But I trust the word of the man who told me..’
Pippin bowed to the Ranger and said;
‘You are a Ranger of Gondor, a man of high honour, and I trust your
word. But I still believe my cousin is alive, and that your friend was
mistaken.’
The innkeeper Cruach then raised his hands and said;
‘I have lived too long, to see a halfling question a Ranger of Ithilien…’
Pippin looked up at him in dismay but he laughed and put a reassuring hand on the hobbit’s shoulder.
‘Do not fear, Master Peregrine. I only speak so because I admire your
courage, and your loyalty. Would that our leader, Denethor, kept as
true to his subjects as you are to your cousin. In truth we have a lot
to learn from the Shirefolk…’
Pippin bowed but then he said;
‘My thanks, Master Cruach. But now I will trouble you no more, nor your
inn. I am going to the Citadel, to find my cousin Merry..’
Both the Rangers Ainligh and Caol protested at the same time. Ainligh said;
‘No, Pippin! These new Palace Guards appointed by Denethor would stop
you before you got far, and you would find out what happened to your
Merry only too quickly, when they put you in the dungeons of the White
Tower along with him….’
‘Perhaps that is what I want!’ said Pippin hotly, feeling tears sting his eyes. There was a moment of silence then Ainligh said;
‘The halfling is right; what are we doing here, allowing these ruffians
to rule our city? Denethor has lost his mind, or is parted from his
better self. Whatever he says or does, we must not let him lead us into
disgrace and destruction! What good will it do us to hide here if
Faramir is taken and killed? We are his Rangers. They will come for us,
one by one, till we are all slain. Why should we wait for the hangman?
Let us die with honour, as we have lived...'
He pointed to Pippin and went on;
'This halfling, with less than a quarter of our strength or skill in
arms, is willing to enter the Citadel. I am with Pippin; let us try to
free Faramir, even if we fall in the attempt…’
When Ainligh had spoken Pippin heard a noise behind him and looking
quickly round he realised that other men had come into the room from
outside, all Rangers or clad in the livery of the White Tower. They
were grim-faced and silent, but at Ainligh’s words they all murmured
agreement and one said;
‘You can count on our swords, Ainligh! Let us force our way into the Citadel if necessary, and release Captain Faramir….’
Supported by the two ragged gardeners, stumbling with weakness and
pain, Sam made his slow way out of the kitchens of Isengard and down a
long dark tunnel lined with barrels and boxes of every size. The smell
of dried herbs and spices invaded his senses and he realised this was
where Saruman kept the stores for his human slaves….
‘That’s it, halfling!’ said Corrán. ‘One foot in front of another….’
Just then the silence of night was split by a long wailing cry. Both
the gardeners gave a yelp of fear, and cocked their heads to listen.
‘It’s ‘im!’ said Corrán. ‘That came from his tower, his Black
Observatory…something has gone amiss with his sorcery, or he has seen
something he don’t much like in his glass ball. Quick! We’ve got to get
you out of here before Saruman’s beast-men come looking for us….’
The lash weals on Sam’s back burned into his flesh. Every step was
agony, but he steeled himself to walk as fast as he could by thinking
of Frodo.
‘If only I can escape…’ he told himself ‘I can get back to Mister Frodo
and to doing what I was sent to do, helping him.. Although doing
anything is going to be beyond me with all the skin flayed off of me….’
But Sam was not able to think much more on it, or on anything, for the
two gardeners were feverish in their haste, and despite their thin,
bony frames they made light of half carrying the sturdy hobbit along;
but every step jolted the raw flesh on his back….…
Sam barely noticed where they were going. One underground tunnel led
into another, and the smell of food died away. Sam became aware of a
distant noise, like dogs baying. It grew louder and louder, and the
dark tunnel was suffused with a fiery light. Sam realised the tunnel
was widening, and at last it gave out into a great subterranean cavern,
its rough-hewn walls gleaming in the light of braziers glowing red and
spaced along walkways that lined a great deep pit.
A dreadful smell assailed Sam. It was like the stench of a great beast’s lair, and he coughed.
‘Shhh!’ snapped Corrán, ‘This is Saruman’s Wolf Pit…’
And not pausing the two gardeners picked Sam up and dragged him off the
rocky ledge onto a precariously swinging rope bridge that led across
the chasm.
A gust of hot, stinking air hit Sam and he glanced down. To his horror
he saw below him a great pit full of huge wolves. They circled
endlessly, moving with horrible swiftness and from time to time
attacking and savaging each other. Even from this height Sam could see
they were as big as ponies. They had hunched, maned shoulders and great
long yellow-fanged snouts. Their eyes glowed red in the half-light. The
gardeners carrying Sam must have made some noise, for all at once the
Wolves looked up, and seeing the three figures on the rope walkway lit
up by the fires they began to bay as one, a sound worse than the most
dreadful nightmare.
In spite of himself, Sam gave a cry of fear.
‘Don’t worry, Halfling’ whispered Corrán. ‘they can’t reach us,
and they won’t be let out for hours yet. This is a good short cut, the
Uruk-hai never come this way, they are afraid of the wolves…’
‘They aren’t the only ones…’ thought Sam.
Shortly after dawn a small procession of wagons and hay-wains moved
slowly across the Pelennor towards Minas Tirith. These bore fodder for
the city’s horses and fresh produce for its markets, from the few farms
within the Dyke not yet overrun and burned by orcs.
On either side of the Great Gate of Minas Tirith massive stone piers
stood out from the walls. These provided vantage points for the city's
defenders to fire arrows at beseigers trying to batter down the doors.
The line of carts rolled slowly between these piers, the deep shadow of
early morning falling on the horses and drivers. Behind the carts came
a half dozen lean steers, urged on by a tall, ragged drover clad in
dusty black with a scarf over his face.
The guards on the gate looked down at the market carts, examining the
drivers. There was always the danger of spies entering the city, and
they did not recognise the drover.
‘Hey you, take off your scarf and show your face!’ they shouted at him.
The man unwound his scarf and looked up at the gate. The guards stared
at him then shrugged and waved the carts on. The gates creaked open and
the drivers slapped the reins on the horses’ backs and they entered the
city.
At the last the drover pulled the scarf back over his face and strode
forward. He looked up at the gates and his grey eyes glinted in the
light of the braziers set on the walls.
‘So..’ Aragorn thought. ‘At last, I come into my city. Not like a king,
but like a wolf creeping into a sheepfold. Now, Boromir, it is time to
settle what you began …’
Burrowed deep under a load of wheat in the wagon in front, Gimli struggled to suppress a sneeze.
‘Straw in my beard!’ he muttered angrily. ‘I hope this fool’s idea works!’
‘So do I, Gimli…’ thought Frodo beside him…
