Chapter Seven - Not Without a Fight

Aragorn cried out as the man’s boot ground into his hand. He summoned his meager strength and lashed out a leg, catching the Southron on the side of the knee. The Southron staggered, thrown off balance enough that Aragorn was able to yank his hand free. He reached again for his sword but the Southron was too fast. He kicked the sword aside, then aimed another kick at Aragorn’s head.

Aragorn rolled. He felt the stitches pull and was certain they ripped loose, but nothing to do for it but fight on. The kick missed, but to Aragorn’s surprise, the Southron staggered and then fell, knocked down from behind by Ferdinand, who had launched himself at the man’s legs and managed to bowl him over despite the man being nearly as tall as Aragorn, and heavier. Aragorn was grateful but he had no wish for the hobbit to die in an ill-fated attempt to save him. "Ferdinand, get back!"

But Ferdinand was having none of it. He crawled atop the man’s back and pounded on his head with his small fists. Aragorn lurched to his knees and found his sword just as the Southron scrambled to his feet, with Ferdinand clinging like a limpet to his shoulders. He reached back and grabbed Ferdinand’s collar and an instant later, Ferdinand flew through the air toward a large bush.

Aragorn swung his sword, but his kneeling position was awkward at best, and he was still weak. The swing was hopelessly feeble. The Southron easily blocked it with his boot, and then wrenched the sword from Aragorn’s hand. He cuffed Aragorn on the side of his head hard enough to make his ears ring.

He grabbed Aragorn’s hair and yanked his head back. Bringing his own face within inches of Aragorn’s, he growled, "You will pay blood for blood for the life of my brother." He drove a fist into Aragorn’s injured ribs.

Aragorn fell to the ground, nearly blinded by the pain ripping through his side. He felt his wrists jerked in front of him and the rough fibers of rope binding his hands. He flinched, trying to break free, but the Southron hit him again, a powerful backhand blow across Aragorn’s cheek and mouth that brought tears to his eyes. Consciousness flitted away from him...

... and when it returned he was on his side, gravel painfully digging into his cheek, his hands bound and head swimming and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He blinked and struggled to focus his eyes. A boot suddenly slammed into his stomach. He curled inward, trying to protect himself, but another blow landed and his breath left him. He was barely aware of a hand reaching down and yanking on his bound wrists.

"I said wake up, filth!"

Aragorn recoiled, struggling to find air, to find the wherewithal to fight back. He managed to jerk his hands away, but as before, the man grabbed a fistful of Aragorn’s hair and forced his head back. "In the way of my people, your life will pay for my brother’s, and the lives of your men for the lives of mine. But I have need of other things first. You know these lands, do you not?"

Aragorn glared but said nothing.

A fist slammed into his side again and a red haze blanked his sight and he was only vaguely aware of the man shouting. It was some moments before he could grasp the man’s words. "...surely must know these lands, and I will bleed you for every ounce of information you possess, for my master has need of such things. Tell me!" The fist hovered over his side again.

Speaking seemed a challenge greater than defeating Sauron, but Aragorn managed to grind out, "I know nothing that would interest whatever foul master you serve."

The man drew his fist back, but stopped, a feral smile stretching his lips. He grabbed Aragorn’s jaw. "Oh, but I think you do. Rumors have reached far places, rumors that something of great value lies hidden in these lands. I would know what that is, and where it can be found." His fingers dug painfully into the skin below Aragorn’s jaw. "Speak what you know, tark, and spare yourself needless suffering."

Aragorn kept his silence.

"Stubborn, are you? Perhaps you will tell me this much: do you value your sight?" He pressed his thumb on the outer corner of Aragorn’s right eye. "Is protecting the secrets of this benighted land worth blindness?"

He increased the pressure and pain shot through Aragorn’s eye. Aragorn tried to jerk his head away but the man’s grip was too tight. As the pressure increased, the world shattered into splintered daggers of light and shadow. Panic shredded all thought and Aragorn shoved his hands upward into the man’s chest and brought his knee as hard as he could into the man’s groin. The blow was weak but enough to jar the man so he lost his grip on Aragorn’s face. Shuddering with relief, Aragorn scrambled backwards but the man quickly caught him.

"Whoreson!" he hissed as he clawed at Aragorn’s face again, but before he could do any real damage, he hesitated, his attention caught by something in the valley below. He scowled, then yanked on Aragorn’s hands. "I am far from finished with you, scum. But men approach, the mindless dogs who hunt for you so diligently, so we must move. And then I will deal with them in the manner of my choosing." He smiled again, the cold light in his eye sending a frisson of fear down Aragorn’s back. "And you... you will watch them die, and perhaps what you tell me will determine the ease of their passing." He again grabbed Aragorn’s jaw, but this time merely pushed his face close to Aragorn’s. "Pray that I have more mercy on them than I will have on you. Now to your feet and walk!"

The man yanked Aragorn to his feet and shoved him toward the path. Aragorn would not have given a pipeful of cold Old Toby ashes that he had the strength to move, but somehow he found reserves within him that he had no inkling existed. Impending death will do that for a man, he supposed wryly. He stumbled, righted himself, then started down the long slope on the back side of the ridge. His right eye burned, aching with an intensity that robbed him of the sight even in his uninjured eye. But the loss of vision was a worry he must save for later; for the moment, it was all he could do to get his legs to answer, to simply shuffle forward in the hope that he would find footing in a world obscured by pain-wrought tears.

Clarity of thought fortunately returned more quickly than clarity of sight, and his mind worked furiously. He had to find some means of escape, or blindness would be the least of his troubles. He blinked and lifted his hands to swipe at his eyes and finally they cleared enough for him to see the bleak truth: cover was scant in this open land, and the blade prodding his back likely would find its way through his body before he was three steps away. But he had time. He had time and therefore hope, for Valar willing, this wretch’s failure to kill him outright would prove a fatal mistake.

It remained only to find a way...

As if he read Aragorn’s intent, the man jabbed him again with his blade. Aragorn winced, but he did not cry out. He would not give the man the satisfaction.

On he staggered, prodded at times by the stinging bite of steel, falling at other times and dragged to his feet again by the Southron’s rough hand, until finally they reached the flatlands below the hill. Grass brushed against Aragorn’s leggings and tried to tangle around his ankles as he pushed through the waist high weeds. He looked at the almost featureless plain. Was it here that his bones would molder, unmarked and undiscovered, until time carved them into dust and all remembrance of his life left the hearts of men?

No.

Not without a fight.

And it had to be now, before his fading strength abandoned him completely. He turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his foe from the corner of his eye. Fixing the man’s position just behind his right shoulder, Aragorn spun to his left, away from the Southron’s sword. Guessing the blade would follow him, Aragorn immediately turned and thrust his bound hands up before him. He felt the cold bite of steel rake his forearm but he succeeded in blocking the worst of the blow. Then elation filled him as the sword momentarily snagged on the ropes on his wrists. Aragorn twisted his arms and the sword fell to the ground. Before the surprised man could pick it up, Aragorn rammed him with his shoulder. They fell, and Aragorn landed heavily atop him, by sheer luck pinning the man’s arms with his body.

The Southron thrashed beneath him, but Aragorn threw his forearms against the man’s throat and pressed down with all his weight. With his hands tied as they were, he could not grip the man’s throat, and the way the man writhed, Aragorn knew that he had only moments before he would lose his advantage. He must find some way to knock the Southron senseless, disarm him... anything...

He felt what must be the hilt of the Southron’s dagger digging into his stomach. Aragorn shifted, lifting his arms from the man’s throat and thrusting them downward toward the man’s belt. But his effort proved disastrous. The man bucked beneath him and shoved Aragorn away.

In the span of a breath, the roles were reversed. The man aimed his left fist at Aragorn’s jaw, but Aragorn turned his head at the last possible moment, and it merely grazed him. He scrabbled again at the man’s belt, but the Southron threw himself to the side. The dagger slid out of Aragorn’s reach. The Southron reached for the dagger himself, but Aragorn grabbed the man’s arm, and for a long moment they were frozen, arms straining as Aragorn tried to push the Southron’s hand from his knife. The Southron then tried to reach the knife with his other hand but Aragorn blocked it with his bent knee.

The Southron growled and, abandoning the knife, grabbed Aragorn’s throat with his left hand. Aragorn had no way of freeing himself, for to let go of the man’s arm meant the Southron would be free to grab the knife...

Triumph contorted the Southron’s face as he too realized the extent of his advantage.

With his strength failing, and knowing hopelessness ravaged his own countenance, Aragorn sagged, releasing the man’s left hand, letting his hands slide lifelessly away...

And as he hoped, the man immediately raised both hands to Aragorn’s throat. As their crushing grip tightened, Aragorn knew he had only seconds.

He reached for the dagger...

...Valar, lend me strength... it cannot end thus... it cannot...

His fingers brushed it, gripped it but his tug was weak and the knife would not come to his hand and he would die after all....

At first he thought he dreamt it, that it was a cry from his own mouth or the roar of his blood in his ears but it was not... it was a screaming bellow of rage, distant but echoing against the hillside to thunder across the grasslands, a stentorian roar that sent Aragorn’s hope surging and with it, strength. Only one man had a voice so loud.

Denlad!

The Southron froze, for just an instant, and that tiny lapse in concentration was all Aragorn needed. He drove his body upward toward the Southron’s. The Southron, startled, lost his grip on Aragorn’s throat and Aragorn gulped in precious air. Aragorn used his momentum to roll the man over and then Aragorn was again on top and bearing down and reaching for the dagger hilt. And this time it seemed to leap to his hand and he shoved it with all his failing strength into the man’s chest, praying the man did not have on mail beneath his shirt.

The iron struck satisfyingly against flesh.

The man’s mouth opened as he gaped at Aragorn, his eyes wide with shock at first, then narrowing into hate-filled slits.

Unbelievably, he reached up and even as his own death stared out from his eyes he again grasped Aragorn by the throat, his death grip closing down with the force of a steel trap.

Aragorn pushed the blade deeper into the man’s body, feeling it grate against bone and sinew but still the man’s fingers crushed his throat and he could find no air and the world was darkening, sliding away from him and why did the man not die...

He gave the blade one more desperate shove and twist with hands that were fast losing their strength and then, finally, the fingers choking him suddenly went limp.

Aragorn released the dagger and rolled away. He slowly sat up, trembling, eyeing the Southron.

He was dead.

Aragorn shuddered, the battle surge that had leant him strength now utterly spent. He shut his eyes, concentrating only on getting air past his raw, bruised throat and into his equally raw and bruised lungs. Pain that had gone unnoticed in the heat of battle now flayed him. He looked down and saw that he was bleeding again, a scarlet stain devouring the white torn shirt bandage like some ravening beast.

He pressed his elbow against it. Valar, his strength was failing him, but he had to get the bleeding stopped. And to do that, he needed his hands free. He looked around, hoping to see Denlad, but the cry, loud as it was, had come from afar, and he knew he did not have time to wait on Denlad’s arrival. He spied the fallen sword and shuffled on his knees over to it. He picked it up, then awkwardly sat down and pulled his feet in front of him. Jamming the hilt between his boots, he held it vertically with his feet and carefully sawed the rope binding his wrists up and down its length. After a moment, the ropes parted. He tossed them away.

He had to stop for a moment, then, as faintness swept over him. He clung to a clump of grass, holding onto the anchoring earth until the spell passed, and then he looked again at the wound on his side. Blood now crimsoned the entire bandage. He could feel the spreading warmth of it even under his breeches. He had to get the bleeding stopped. He cast about him, but he had nothing to bind it with, and with the fumbling weakness in his hands, he doubted he had the strength to rip the Southron’s clothes into bandages. He pressed his hand against the wound, hard. He looked longingly up toward the hill, the crest of which he could just see over the grasses waving above his head. There, up high, lie shelter and succor by the side of Ferdinand’s cheerful fire...

His heart turned cold. What of Ferdinand? He could be injured... dying...

Aragorn had to get back there.

He took several more deep, careful breaths, then slowly... far too slowly but he could move no faster... drew his legs under him and stood.

The world greyed around the edges but a shake of his head cleared it away. He staggered sideways a step, but then he found his equilibrium and started walking, a shuffling, head-bent affair but walking nonetheless.

One foot forward. The other. Left. Right.

He felt the liquid warmth of blood pooling in his left boot. Nothing to do for it but keep on...

... left... right... left...

... until finally all strength left him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, every fiber lit with pain. Valar, he hurt. Long black moments passed until finally the overall agony faded and seemed to settle into two spots: his side and his right arm.

Why his arm...?

He lifted it. Looked dumbly at the cut slashing from his wrist to his elbow. He had forgotten about that cut. He blinked at the red, welling blood...

He should do something about that... before it got infected... before...

Before what? His thoughts scattered and he could not remember why he needed to do... something...

He shut his eyes, just for a moment. He was so tired... he needed to rest...

Just for a moment...