Trapped

A few hours later – it could have been days ! – the fellowship halted to munch on a few dried fruits and various other goods. Legolas was whisked away by Estel and Frances regretted the loss of his light, leaving her face to face with Boromir. She sent the steward's son a shy smile, seeing that Merry and Pippin flanked him. His jaw was tense; he was wary of the surroundings, as if he expected an attack at any moment. She had not forgotten how he had opposed the idea of treading the paths of Khazad Dum. Perhaps ... perhaps he had been right.

For the moment however there had been no sign of the enemy, but the caves were endless. Many a time, Frances had spotted the levels lying below them, meaning that there were thousands of yards of galleries and rooms where the orcs could be staying. Their only chance was to be quiet enough.

When the company started again, Frances found herself at the rear in Boromir's company. She didn't mind so much; his contempt had eased up, especially since the warg attack. The warrior had reluctantly admitted that she could stand her ground for a woman, not that he would ever admit it. If Boromir did not deny her skills anymore, he still had some macho attitudes that pissed her off. The guy had been raised old school, and sometimes she had to lecture herself not to rip his throat off. At other times, she wondered what his life looked like, in Gondor, before he appeared in Rivendell chasing a dream. Would she unravel the puzzle that was Boromir ? Understand his motives, his strong drive to protect his people ? The same thirst for power that made him vulnerable to the whispers of that blasted jewel !

Yes. Sometimes, his gaze would turn distant, and this strange gleam would shine in his eyes. The ring was calling.

It called to her too. At first, Frances just felt insulted that this evil thingy would try to break into her head. Then she realized that the ring fed upon her wrath, and she changed tactics. Her rational mind knew how treacherous the One could be. She needed to stay level-headed. Now, when she felt the ring pull on her mind, she focused on recalling the fifty-three numbers of the number PI until it relented. Perhaps a stupid trick, but it kept her focus on something rational. The whispers were receding; apparently, she wasn't such a good choice for the ring.

Boromir however was another case. As the Steward's son, and a powerful warrior adulated by Gondor's army, he had a much bigger influence. If anybody that could turn the tide of war by being corrupted, this was him. The ring was definitely putting a lot of efforts into this. Whenever the evil entity was trying to get a hold on him, Boromir would become more distant and avert his gaze to someplace only he knew.

Frances held no illusion; Estel, Legolas and Gandalf, at least, were aware of it. But what could they do ? Somehow they had decided that the fellowship had better chances with the Steward's son than without him, even if his plans were to return to Minas Tirith. She, on the other hand, was ashamed of thinking this way, but did not agree. To her, Boromir represented a hazard, and even if she started to like him she was afraid of the moment when he would surrender his will to the ring. However, she had to admit that he seemed quite more resilient than she expected. Was there a chance she had misjudged him?

As the situation was now, she was walking beside him in the gloom, and he did not seem in a very talkative mood so she followed the hobbits in silence.

For hours and hours they walked, tip toeing shadows amongst shadows, following paths that never seemed to end. It was difficult to grasp the immensity of the mines as generations had dug and created more paths, more halls and more dwellings that the previous ones. At night they would establish a camp, eat on a few dried fruits and a piece of salted meat, and try to sleep. Greys and blacks, darkness and so little light. Frances felt like a ghost, treading in silence in this deadened place.

On the fourth day they came upon three tunnels. Gandalf stopped, and the hobbits decided to stop for a while. From an outside onlooker the company would have seemed petrified, their gestures measured in the greyish light. Frances could not breathe anymore in this dusty atmosphere. The absence of light, of life and colours was killing her, and the hobbits were getting less and less cheerful. She could feel it all around her, this terrible tension, like a damn rock on her ribcage.

Eventually, the wizard chose a path. And as usual they followed, down and down again, until the walls enclosing them disappeared. Suddenly Frances could not touch the rocks by her side anymore, the tunnel ending abruptly into empty space. It was so dark, but the air seemed ... almost fresh. Away from the company a ray of light descended like a waterfall of silver. Gandalf led them slowly, and turned to them with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Frances smiled; she had not seen such a cheerful look since... she could not even remember.

- "Let us risk a little more light", he said.

His staff rose, and sparkles exploded in the air, rising up until they touched the archs of the great Khazad-Dûm hall. Frances' voice was lost in the magnificent beauty of the room, and around her all heads were up. It was a never-ending hall, expanding to left and right without walls, a thousand arches carved into hard stone supporting the fantastic vault.

She had never seen such an imposing building, and from the looks in the others' eyes, neither did they. It was like a reversed cathedral where instead of mounting the walls, the dwarves had removed the rock to create space. The techniques were probably very different, but the outcome was so impressive. Surely Gimli would look smug, and the young lady turned around to face him. But his eyes were set on something else, and the dwarf took off running.

- "Gimli, no!", someone shouted.

The company followed closely, crossing the hall in haste. The noise they made was so intense after many days of silence, and Frances' ears were ringing from the metallic sounds of the weapons clashing against shields and belts. She cringed as she ran, heart thundering against her ribcage. With the immensity of the hall, the echo would alert any enemies from their presence.

They halted in a side room which contained nothing more than a rectangular rock. But in the center of it fell the ray of pure light, and Frances' eyes could not withstand it, not after all this darkness. When she managed to open them fully, she realized that the massive stone was in fact a tomb. Gimli was weeping, kneeling beside it. Here his cousin had been buried, cadavers scattered across the floor in awkward positions. Everywhere arrowheads were embedded in armors, some had passed through ribcages, instantly killing their owners. A few helmets still stood on bare skulls, other had fallen to the ground. Frances looked around, her eyes wide. The sight of this slaughter made her sick.

The hobbits were regrouping instinctively, Frodo in the center, Samwise looking frantically around. Aragorn had laid a hand on Gimli's shoulder, trying to shake the dwarf away from the tomb, away from his grief. Gandalf had found a book, and started to read.

- "There is no way out...", he said, his eyes deciphering the runes with ease.

Legolas paced restlessly, exchanging a few elvish words with the ranger. His tension was so tangible that Frances shuddered. What could upset an elven prince so? Was it the imprisonment far away from his beloved stars that started to grate on his nerves? No, certainly not. They had been travelling for four days underground already. Surely he would have shown symptoms much before this day. Legolas, had certainly been uneasy, but never before had she seen him so tense.

A terrible noise interrupted her reflections. Boom, Boom. The low sound vibrated through their bones, its location still far away, but coming closer already.

- "We're trapped !", Legolas stated.

Gandalf set the book down, realizing the company's mistake. Boom, Boom, Boom, said the drums, and Frances' heart seized with fear. There was no way out, the dwarf writing the book had himself said so. Boromir was the first to react, and he bolted for the doors. Two neatly placed arrows greeted him, nearly taking his head off. The warrior jerked back and closed them. The men barred it securely, but the voices and cries of the goblins only grew nearer. If the hobbits unsheathed their daggers, huddled like cattle awaiting slaughter. Gimli climbed on the tomb, his axe well in hand, rage boiling in his chest. Aragorn had drawn his bow, and Frances regretted that she had not practiced further. Only a master bowman could use this weapon as such range, and she didn't have the skill yet. She would have felt much better with arrows than with her sword.

- "Stay behind me"

Frances blinked, catching Boromir's worried gaze. She nodded, refusing to show fear, yet knowing he could read it in her eyes. His enormous shield was drawn, a rampart about what was to come. On the other side of the tomb, Aragorn had taken upon himself to protect the hobbits. And up front stood the elf, his light almost... wrathful ? Posture tense, jaw set, the lines of his face carved like a stone statue. Gone was the contemplative being, looking at the stars.

Frances drew her weapon, and its perfect crafting gave her some courage. Glorfindel had done wonders on this blade; its size, its balance, the weight in her hand. It had been created for her, and responded eagerly to her commands. Now was the time to remember her training, now was the day to show that she could handle her own. And despite her shaking limbs, she stood proudly. But her mind... her mind was frantic. What if she died, here, in the depths of Khazad-Dûm ? Would her parents even know what had happened to her ?

The racket interrupted her panicking, noises echoing in those enclosed walls. Loud bangs resonated on the door, and cracks responded. Every time, Frances jumped out of her skin. Any moment, now... Soon enough, the door was so damaged that Strider managed to land an arrow into an assailant's eye. Then it blew open, panels banging against the rocks as it yielded, defeated by such brutality. And Hell broke loose. Orcs swarmed in like a giant wave, the first ones efficiently taken down the moment they set foot in the room. Legolas landed arrows after arrows, seconded by the men's blades. It took only a moment before the orcs were within range of Gimli's axe, but they instantly regretted it. Thanks to the small aperture, the four warriors contained the flow of fouls creatures for a while. But soon enough some of them reached the group of Halfling, and the hobbits stroke back with valor.

Cornered, Frances started to swing her sword. It cut and sang with vigor, removing limbs and slicing through dark flesh. She cringed; this dark soup of black blood reeked, gruesome, splashing the floor and her clothing alike. Sticking to her hair. But there was no choice; she couldn't let them approach. The goblins were small enough, and surprisingly weak. If it hadn't been for their number, the company would have dispatched them easily. Frances used her training, and while battling the orcs one by one she was able to stand her own. She sent a silent prayer to her disdainful swords master. The battle raged on for a while, and the young lady sliced and ducked, too busy to survive to pay attention to her surroundings. She was an easy target and her arm was already tiring.

Panicked cries came from the back, Frodo had fallen. Frances turned around briskly, worried beyond measure. Aragorn was already checking up on their mutual friend, but the lines of his face were worried.

- "Ouch!", she cried as a sharp pain greeted the inside of her forearm.

Frances looked at her left wrist in disbelief, a warm trickle of blood was already dripping along the elvish tunic. The wound was not so serious, but it still bled furiously. Fortunately, the adrenaline rush kept the ache at bay, and she contemplated the beautiful garment with renewed rage.

- "Only one second of distraction and see what you have done !", she exclaimed. "This is elvish craft you fool, show some respect !"

The Orc responsible for the cut didn't see it coming, but his head was hacked by a mighty blow. In the mess of the battle, Boromir's chuckle went unnoticed. But his attention was soon drawn elsewhere: the orc's tide was getting lighter, and he gestured towards the entrance.

- "Let this be our chance", he yelled.

Soon the whole company was running across the immensity of the hall. Behind them came the hobbits, Frodo slung across Strider's shoulders, still unconscious. Was he even alive?

On and on they went, as fast as their feet could carry them. Boromir set the pace, minding that the little ones could follow him. Legolas seemed to be flying over the paved ground, his feet barely touching it as he effortlessly ran beside them. Orcs were coming in, closing around them, but Gandalf ushered them forward until they were trapped. Around them expanded a never-ending sea of foul creatures. There was no escape. The company of warriors enclosed their fellow companions in an attempt to protect them, knowing fully that it would only gain them a few seconds of life. But still it seemed worth it, to delay the inevitable.

Strider was pointing his sword to the Goblins, Frodo still safely tucked upon on his left shoulder. The creatures seemed to hesitate. With two men, an elf, a wizard and a dwarf, the orcs from the first line perfectly knew that they stood no chance. None of them was willing to die. But it was not the blades of the warrior that saved the company.

A low growl resonated at the end of the hall, a sound like Frances had never heard. She felt like the earth itself was waking, and nearly expected the cave to collapse. The rumble resonated again, echoing on the archs as goblins started to flee. Gimli uttered a nonsensical sentence about them being cowards, but Gandalf's solemn face told her otherwise. Then she heard Legolas' voice, and upon seeing the expression of his usually so controlled features, dread seized her.

- "A Balrog of Morgoth", he whispered.

We are so screwed, Frances thought !