Orc in Ithilien

Chapter 19: On the Road Again


Ludlow rested his head on the side of the carriage and gazed out through the window, watching the darkening countryside lurching by. He breathed a deep sigh of relief to think that they were finally on their way. Hobbits were far from being Machiavellian creatures by nature, and over the last day or so, their current expedition had required such quantites of forethought and planning from him that by now he was nearly wilting from the energies he had expended as a result. Before they made their departure, there had been so much to consider – and he crossed his fingers in his pocket, hoping that he hadn’t forgotten anything. He hoped sincerely that his hastily flung-together plan would work.

He hadn’t lied, exactly, about where it was his Uruk friend was going. If the Lady Eowyn and her kinsmen believed that the Orcs they had collected were bound for the mountain fastness he had spoken of, well really, that was partly true. It was just that not every one of them was going there; not quite yet. Assumptions had been made; primarily that they would all be travelling together, and since nobody had spoken to him about this directly, it was a notion that Ludlow had simply neglected to contradict. Though at first there had been some talk of sending an escort of Rohirrim as guards for the Orcish party, it had been easy enough for the Hobbit to persuade them otherwise. The regions they would be travelling in were sparsely populated and more than that, the winter weather in the mountains was steadily worsening and would make the already treacherous terrain soon become entirely unsuitable for horses. Ludlow put some effort into describing in full and harrowing detail how unsuitable for horses their environment would be: he spoke at length of the cliff-edged pathways they would be traversing; the height of the precipes; the narrowness of passes filled with frost-sharpened rocks they would encounter; and so on. The men were obviously most reluctant to be parted from their animals, and use of this kind of equine-based justification was fast becoming the Hobbit’s sure-fire method for winning any arguments with these horse-focussed folk.

Maz had been with Azof on his original reconnaissance trip to the giant’s stronghold and claimed that he would be able to lead the way; the other Orcs had promised to be on their best behvaiour while following him – had given their collective word in fact (though even the naïve Ludlow by was this stage beginning to wonder what, exactly, that could really be worth). Travel to – his and Shagrat’s destination – had however been an issue as the Uruk, while up and on his feet again was still clearly not in a fit state to be making any kind of long or arduous trip. Bearing this in mind Ludlow had been examining his little donkey-cart with a critical eye – as well as the geriatric donkey itself (the donkey had spent the past few days happily out at pasture, having made successful overtures towards the various Rohirrim horses). The Hobbit was dolefully thinking that they, too, seemed barely adequate for his intended purpose, when of a sudden, a rare ray of wintry sunshine broke through the overcast clouds above. The sunbeam glinted straight onto a large, yellow-coloured vehicle that had been parked by the entrance to a field much further down the valley, and made it glitter bewitchingly.

This was a splendid stroke of luck. Hurrying over to the garishly gilded thing, Ludlow saw that the previous night’s storm had blown loose the piece of canvas that had been covering it. It was a four-wheeled covered carriage, gold-painted and completely encrusted on every exterior surface with decoratively carved wood and scrolls of stucco-work. The Hobbit wondered for a minute what on earth it could be doing there, for it was a vehicle wholly unsuited for travel in any kind of wet or rainy weather. Then he noticed that a familiar mark was painted on its doors: the Prince of Ithilien’s crest. It was, of course, Faramir’s state coach. His intention had been to make use of it during his formal visits, but in the haste of his departure (since this had taken place a whole day ahead of schedule) it had been all but forgotten about. Ludlow struggled to cover the conspicuous object up and camoflague it once again. It might have been a strain on the eyes to look at, but he thought this might be exactly the kind of thing he had been searching for.

Horsepower could have been an issue, but Azof and Rukush laughed when he quietly described it, and asked if they thought the two of them would in principle be capable of moving such a vehicle any distance, with the Hobbit and Shagrat riding inside:

“Piece of piss,” scoffed Azof, who went on to ask: “that decrepit old fart so far-gone he wants carrying now, does he?”

- though Ludlow noted that they both seemed slightly less confident once they’d actually seen it. Having waited until night was falling before setting out (citing Orcish preferences for travelling in the dark) Ludlow, Shagrat and the other two had doubled back from Maz’s main party, and making a wide detour around the departing Rohirrm group, headed downhill, back to the coach. Azof had complained bitterly, taking hold of the traces, and with only him and Rukush there to pull them along it was far from being a smooth ride, but once they started the carriage rolling, momentum kept it moving without too much effort on the part of the two Orcs, who were even able to coast along down some of the easier sections of road. They were making fair progress, Ludlow had a general idea of where they were going, and at last he was even beginning to feel a little optimistic.

If truth be told, the greatest difficulty the Hobbit encountered during any of his forward planning had in fact been in trying to persuade Shagrat himself:

“Shagrat,” he’d informed him that morning, “it’s all been decided. Tonight you’re going to that – that bloody ball.”

“What, so I can parade myself in front of all his poncy friends bold as brass? So he can tell everyone what he thinks of me? No chance.”

Ludlow sniffed disapprovingly. “Honestly, from what I’ve seen and what you’ve said, it seems as if each of you spends about half his time running away from the other one. If you must insist on taking turns – well! This is your chance to chase after him for a bit then, isn’t it?”

“Done more than my share of that already,” Shagrat grumbled.

“It doesn’t look to me as if he intends to be coming back,” Ludlow replied tartly, “which means it’s up to you to get a move on and and go after him then, isn’t it? Look Shagrat, everyone knows where he’s gone. The whole countryside’s talking about it. Apparently it’s going to be an ever-so-fancy do. And it’s not even all that far off.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m still not going.”

Ludlow gritted his teeth and muttered some very un-Hobbit-like oaths concerning the cursed stubbornness of certain Orcs, together with their sometime Prince consorts. But he had no intention of letting this subject – painful and vexed as it was - drop.

“Of course, we’ll have to get you something better to wear,” he fussed, looking at Shagrat’s dried-gore-encrusted clothing with a doubtful eye. It was the same outfit - the only one the Orc at that time possessed – onto which Shagrat had been bleeding recently and so very copiously. “Actually, I’m not bad with a needle and thread,” the Hobbit said. “And if I’d had time, maybe I could have sewn – but there it is. I suppose it’ll just have to be ‘come as you are.’ Unless -” suddenly struck by new idea he scampered off on some errand or other.

In due course he returned, looking flustered and dragging an assortment of leather garments, chainmail and sundry other bits and pieces. He suggested that Shagrat try some of them on for size.

“This looks familiar,” Shagrat noted. “Been trying our hand at a spot of grave-robbing now, have we? You better watch it. I think you’ve might’ve been hanging round with Orcs a bit too long.”

“I’m not planning to make a habit of this!” Ludlow cried indignantly, and then mumbled something about Dokuz’s unclaimed personal effects. “I know what you’re like. I didn’t want to risk putting you off by mentioning it’d come from – well -“

“Off a dead body?” Shagrat finished, as the Hobbit’s voice tailed off. He snorted. “Nah. Doesn’t bother me. Anyway, a lot of what’s here was mine to begin with.” He cocked an eyebrow at the Hobbit and looked nearly amused for the first time in days. “Where d’you think we get all this gear from in the first place?”

Ludlow really didn’t want to dwell on what kind of grisly resources the Black Army had used to provision itself over many centuries of warfare. “I think I’ll give this a quick shine and brush-up,” he said, and made a feeble attempt to put a bright and cheerful tone into his voice. “Won’t that be nice!” The Hobbit picked up a torn shirt of mail, and then a piece of armour plate that looked like it was decades deep in dirt and rust. “Now Shagrat,” he said a moment later, “how d’you think I should go about trying to clean this?”

“Clean it?” the Orc replied, looking all perplexed. “You say you want to ‘clean it’ and you’re asking me? How the bloody hell should I know?”

*****

Ludlow shook his head, thinking back about it, and glanced across at Shagrat, who was sitting silent, tense and angry over on the opposite couch. Brooding again, most probably, the Hobbit thought. Well, if nothing else he knew he had done the very best he could have to bring the Prince and Uruk together, and could now only hope that they might find a way to settle their differences. He bundled his little hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket and settled into a corner of his seat. It would be a while yet before they got there, and he wanted to see if he could catch forty winks.

It was quite late when they finally arrived at their destination. Two circuits of the surrounding area, through damp and muddy countryside to find the place had not improved anybody’s temper, but the venue was set so far back from the roadside, at the end of such a long and winding approach, that it had been quite easy to overlook it in the dark.

They came at last to a low and well-proportioned building, set in a hollow in rolling acres of sparsely wooded parkland. Lights blazed in every window and the wide, sweeping frontage was packed with close-parked horse-drawn carriages of every shape and description, from sprightly two-wheeled gigs and traps to fashionable covered cabs and coupes.

“Obvious we’re never going to get parked anywhere near it now, are we?” Azof had begun his pre-emptive grumbling when they were still some way away. “Look at all this lot. We go any nearer and every one of them nags is going to start kickin’ off like anything. And we’ve got here really late.”

“Well – just try and take us round the side and keep your distance or something, then!” Ludlow snapped in exasperation. “Shagrat! Tell him! Honestly. Do I always have to be the one who decides about every single thing?”

Eventually the bickering company of Orcs and the Hobbit left their carriage on a gravel footpath, in the dark under some evergreen trees, away from the other coaches and a short distance from the large hall or house. This was clearly the best place for the overly-conspicuous thing.

“I think I said before,” Shagrat muttered with uncharacteristic nervousness as he looked towards the building, “that this might have been a mistake.” His heart was thumping hard in his chest, and he was experiencing a terrible, sickly kind of hopefulness at the mere thought of seeing Faramir once again. Shagrat’s other two main inclinations just then were either to start a random fight with somebody, or to simply turn and run away, so at that point the Orc was feeling – sorely conflicted .

The surroundings were, admittedly, rather off-puttingly grand, and the big hall looked to Ludlow more like the kind of domicile that would have been better suited to a giant. The highly-varnished pair of front doors were for example about twice as tall as any normal doors ought to be, and were also proporitionately as wide. Everything was exaggerated like that though – from the height of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the breadth of the buildling’s façade to the background susuration of conversation issuing from within. Muted as it sounded from outside, indoors it must have been deafeningly loud.

“Lover boy’s in there, is he?” Azof said, crowing out a nasty laugh. “Face it, Shaggers, them’s proper fancy folk he’ll be hob-nobbing with. Riff-raff like you just ain’t got an ‘ope!”

The older Uruk glared at him but didn’t reply.

“So are we going in or what?” Rukush said, stretching and scratching himself.

Shagrat sighed and squared his shoulders. “Come all this way now, haven’t we?” he said, and he went inside.

The Orc didn’t get very far. Standing in the atrium, just inside the door was a stern old man who was wearing an antique-looking red frock-coat. There were a couple of other similarly-dressed but rather beefier-looking younger fellows flanked to either side of him. Apparently they’d all been waiting there the whole evening just to intercept would-be gatecrashers like Shagrat.

“May I see your invitation,” the old attendant said. “This function is by invitation only, you realize.”

Ludlow hurried up in front of him. He’d been worrying about something like this. “My colleagues and I are a –“ the Hobbit swallowed nervously, and darted a backward glance at Shagrat, who was slouching just inside the doorway. The Uruk’s head was down and with one hand held up to his forehead, covering his face, he looked a passing embodiment of the shadiest of shady characters. Faced with material of such extremely unprepossessing quality, even the loyal Hobbit’s resolve to assist him faltered momentarily.

“Shagrat!” he hissed over his shoulder. “Pull yourself together this instant! And for heavensakes! Try to stand up straight!”

“That is to say that we represent an, ah, special delegation,” Ludlow continued, addressing the senior attendant again. “From one of – one of Gondor’s sister-states. It’s an – um. A brand new one.”

“Are you trying to tell me that this band of - “ the man shot a sceptical look at the lurking lead Orc, as words to express his indignance failed him - “that that person is a representative from a foreign country?”

“Yes!” Ludlow cried enthusiastically although on hearing this the two younger attendants began sniggering and even one of the Orcs accompanying Shagrat’s party audibly jeered:

“Is he bollocks!”

“And which country would this be.”

Ludlow gave the Orcs a look of mute appeal, but no assistance was forthcoming. “It’s the country, um, the land, of, er –“

“The land of ‘Ur’?” the attendant repeated, probably misunderstanding because of his gigantic wig, which at that moment had slipped down to cover his ears. “Ridiculous sort of name to be giving a place. And I for one have never heard of it.”

“It’s on the map,” Ludlow persevered, and showed him. “Well. It’s on a map.” Seeing the position of the Uruk’s alledged home turf set down formally in print seemed to convince the man slightly more than the Hobbit’s prior arguments had done, and leaning down to Ludlow’s level he proceeded to pore over the fragment of parchment the Hobbit had given him with some concentration. For some reason he seemed particularly impressed by the many wax seals and prettily-coloured ribbons that were dangling off the lower edge of it.

“We’re going to be here all frigging night at this rate,” Shagrat snarled after a minute or two had passed, having utterly lost patience with the diplomatic process. “Come on.” He shouldered his way past the bending man. Baring his teeth he feinted at the other two attendant flunkies, his hand on his sword. “Let me in or else. You two. Azof. Rukush. You stay out here and watch my bleedin’ back.”

TBC


A/N: sincere apologies to anyone who's been trying to follow this story but hoping for updates at a greater frequency than about once every 18 months. I suppose I must've been a bit busy, but can't pretend to know where on earth the time's gone.....anyway in the next chapter, Faramir and Shagrat are at last reunited, which I hope should be a fairly good bit.