[This story is a continuation of Forogil's Voyage into Enedwaith]
The sound of running water instilled a feeling of calmness in Forogil. He was once again at the river Ulundín, sitting and looking across its surface into Eregion. He could swear that if he kept looking for but a few moments longer, his gaze would pierce the hills and mountains that separated them and he would see all the way to Bree-land. Watch his parents and brothers working the farm. The busy marketplace. His old friend and mentor Jett skinning a boar in Chetwood. He was disturbed from his efforts by approaching footsteps. They instilled no fear in him. He turned around to see a young Dunlending woman approaching. It was the one he had seen earlier, herding goats, walking towards him with the very same smile she gave him then. Her face was washed and free of war paints. She seemed prettier than before. She kneeled beside Forogil and looked down into his eyes which were gazing back at her. She extended her hand towards his face and laid her palm on his cheek. He felt no warmth from it. She raised her hand and with strength unexpected from such a young woman, slapped Forogil. He looked up in confusion at her face, now twisted in hatred. She struck him again.
Forogil was ripped from his dream, opening his eyes abruptly and coughing out a bit of blood. As his sight slowly adjusted to the light, contours of a warpaint-covered face began to form before his. The man who slapped him grinned, said something in Dunlendish and stepped back. Beside him stood another Dunlending warrior.
“You live, ranger.” said the warrior in a deep, accented voice. “Chief will be happy to hear.” Both men turned their back and left the enclosure where the young hunter was held.
Forogil was slowly coming to his senses. First thing that came to him was the sharp headache and he recalled his fall and the events preceding it. His thoughts raced as he fought to keep himself from panic. Taking a deep breath, he began scouting his surroundings - he found himself in an area surrounded by a log wall with a single exit. The chill of an early evening was biting into his toes, as his boots were stolen. How long was he asleep? He was sitting on the ground, his spine to a pole to which his hands were bound behind his back. About a dozen more poles stood within the confines of the walls, each with a prisoner tied to them. Most seemed to be unconscious, dead or resorted to apathy – and all of them were Dunlendings, probably captured during tribal conflicts. All but one. As his gaze landed on the prisoner next to him, he realized the man was staring right back at him. He was a sorry sight; malnourished and with an unkempt black beard on his pale face. But his grey eyes showed no sign of desperation. Only resolve.
“You are no ranger.” The man said, seemingly in reproach.
“Nor do I claim to be one. I… I haven’t a clue why they would think so.” replied Forogil in a tired voice. His eyes landed upon the Star of the Dúnedain on the man’s tattered clothes. The ranger had noticed.
“The name’s Arandil. What do they call you?” he asked.
“Breadwick.”
The ranger glanced over Forogil with a critical look. “Well, Breadwick, you better get some rest. I’ve heard the guards talking. They’ll be marching us out in a few days. You’ll need all the strength you can get.”
Forogil did not understand. “Marching where? And how did you get here, ranger? Is your place not among your brothers in the north?”
The man was silent for a bit. “They will be marching us into Isengard. Just trust me and rest, lad. Questions will do neither of us any good right now.” Without another word, he turned away his head.
Forogil had not the strength to argue or inquire further. He laid his head back on the pole. The orange clouds illuminated by the evening sun looked more beautiful than ever. He closed his eyes.
Opening his eyes again, he found himself sitting once more before the river Ulundín. He heard footsteps approaching and tried to stand up, but to no avail – he could do naught but sit and wait. The young Dunlending woman approached him with the same smile, kneeled by his side and peered into his eyes. Her palm touched his cheek and this time, he could almost feel her warmth. He slipped from her bewitchment just as she was extending her palm in a strike again. Her face was no longer filled with rage but rather sadness. Was she crying for him? He wanted to raise his arms to defend himself but they were frozen in place. The woman struck his cheek.
The pain abruptly woke him and he was once again staring into the grinning face of his captor. Morning light shun on his yellowed teeth.
“Damn it, just get a rooster, would you?” he said sarcastically. He had always hated the sound of a rooster’s crow, but right now there was nothing he’d rather hear.
His captors passed over his jab and untied him from the pole. The bind keeping his hand behind his back remained in place. Picking him up onto his feet, they began to lead him out of the enclosure. “What is this? Where are you taking me?” he asked in a panicked voice. The guards remained silent.
Instead, the ranger spoke out towards the hunter. “Stay strong, lad.” he said with sorrow in his voice. Forogil looked back at him, fear in his eyes.
They lead him into a large hut where they kneeled him between two poles and tied his hands to each. Before him stood a large man with a whip, intently watching his captive. Then another man entered the room – the Dunlending chieftain. He stood before the kneeling prisoner and looked down at him with disdain. Forogil’s eyes were filled with terror of what’s to come. “So these are the rangers? Scared boys?” he spoke.
“I am no ranger,” pleaded Forogil “I am but a hunter. I have only come to these lands to trade with your people!”
The chieftain gestured at the large man, now positioned behind the prisoner. A pulse of immense pain shot through Forogil’s body as the whip cracked on his back. He yelled out in pain.
“You will only speak when I say you speak, duvodiad. Have respect or you will not be treated so well.” spoke the chieftain. “Now, enough of your lies. I have been offered much for the capture of your kind. Tell me where the rest of you is and I might let you go; if I’m feeling generous. Speak.”
Forogil had no way to answer. He furrowed his brow. “I am not of their kind.”
Another crack, even more painful than the last.
“Speak, ranger!” the chieftain shouted in frustration.
Breathing heavy with pain, Forogil raised his eyes to meet the chieftains. No longer were they filled with terror. Now it was pure rage.
“I have told you, I am no damn ranger you fat savage basta-“
His sentence was interrupted by another crack of the whip. This torture went on for two more hours, though they got nothing of use out of the young hunter. When they dragged him back to his pole, he was barely conscious. His whipped back made leaning back on the pole an excruciating experience and the cruel burns on the side of his torso blinded him with pain whenever he moved too much.
“How bad was it?” asked softly a familiar voice to his right. Forogil replied by giving Aradil a look that could kill.
“Aye, I know.” Said the ranger apologetically. “The first time is always the worst.” He was silent for a few moments. “Where are you from, Breadwick?”
“I come from Bree-land.” replied Forogil quietly.
“Talk to me about it.” Insisted Arandil.
And so, Forogil told Arandil of his homeland. Of its fields and its forests, streams and lakes, of Chetwood and his time as a hunter’s apprentice there. Of his mother and brothers and of the good friends and young loves he had left behind for his dream of wandering the world. And in turn, the ranger spoke of his home, back north. Of the shores of lake Evendim, grandeur of the ruins of Fornost and of his wife and young daughter he had to leave behind. They spoke until late evening when they both were overtaken by dreamless sleep. And for the first time, in spite of his wounds, the sleep felt restful.
Over the next three days, the routine remained practically the same. The torture drained Forogil’s strength, but with each whip he could withstand the pain better. Yet each day, the torture lasted longer. The prisoners were given rancid water and scraps of what nasty meat was left over, just enough to keep them alive. Horse meat, Forogil realized. He felt sadness for his loyal steed’s demise but to not eat would cost him strength he could not spare. During afternoons, he would converse with Arandil. The two men had much to speak of and became fast friends. They learned much about one another, though the ranger never revealed his purpose there. And Forogil did not push the subject.
As the fifth day was drawing to a close, they both noticed increased commotion around the settlement. Through the only exit from their enclosure, they could see Dunlending warriors readying spears and furs and carrying them into a shack. That must be the armory, Forogil concluded. He looked at the ranger.
“What do you make of this, Arandil? Are they making ready for battle? Perhaps rescue is coming...” he said, though even he could not bring himself to believe the thought.
“No, friend.” the ranger replied. “These furs they carry are not meant for war. These are meant to keep the warriors warm as they.. march.”
“To Isengard.”
“Aye, perhaps. Or perhaps not. There is hope for us still.” Arandil glanced over the Dunlending prisoners. “I doubt they’ll be taking them where they take us. With luck, they will lead us as two groups. Breadwick, I need you to do something.”
Forogil raised his eyebrow in confusion. “I may not be able to do much with my hand tied behind my back. But ask away.”
The ranger lowered his voice and leaned towards his friend. “Tied hands matter not, I ask of you only that you act as tired and beaten as you may. Appear as if on the brink of death. Let them think us weak.”
“Though I do not know the purpose of your request, I will do as you ask, friend.” replied Forogil. He knew the ranger was wiser than him and that his secrecy had a purpose. He trusted him.
Arandil gave the hunter a grateful nod. The evening was drawing to a close and crickets were already playing their routine symphony. “We should get some rest. Whatever happens tomorrow, we will need what strength we can muster. Sleep well, Breadwick.”
His words made Forogil uneasy. “And you, Arandil.” he replied. The wounds on his back sent a wave of pain as he leaned against the pole, but it quickly subsided. He was getting used to it. He closed his eyes, expecting another dreamless night, much like the last few days.
[This story is continued by Forogil's Escape from Enedwaith]
