[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Aldor’s collapse was left to the Men to handle. Darash and Lyshka kept, as usual, to themselves throughout that dark day, while the Dwarves and the Elf Morgoroth seemed to retreat into their clannish isolation once more, although without the same adamant shield of hostility that had surrounded them earlier.

Grash and Jeren leaned Aldor against the cliff-face, chafing at his wrists to drive away the cold of their high perch. It had been an odd faint, for while Aldor’s face was an ashen hue, it seemed a little enough matter. Only when he found the lump on the man’s throat did Grash begin to understand. He had an intimate acquaintance with the rats of Cirith Ungol and knew well how pestilential their bites could be. Aldor had clearly been infected by one of the vermin, and quite badly too if the colour of the fleshy mound were any indication. Grash probed it with his fingers, and felt it roll beneath the skin, hard as a stone. Aldor groaned and his eyes opened. Grash tried to comfort the man. “Rat bite. Poisoned. Must get poison out.” Aldor’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the slave hovering over him and his mouth framed a question, but he was silenced as he watched Grash draw his ragged orc blade and motion as though to slice open the pustule.

Aldor threw himself back against the wall. “No!” he cried, “I will be all right!”

Grash merely shook his head and indicated that Jeren should take hold of the frightened man. Aldor sought to shake them off, so Zuromor and even Jordo had to be compelled to hold him in place. The others looked on with either dispassion or curiosity as the men wrestled one of their own to the ground. As soon as Aldor was prostrate beneath the limbs of the other men, Grash carefully sliced open the swollen ball. A gush of yellow pus emerged, mingled with dark red blood, and most who watched looked away in revulsion. Grash, however, gently wiped the pus away from the wound with the ragged edge of his tunic. Aldor winced with each wipe but endured it. Finally, the discharge lessened and Jeren bound it with a clean bandage. They had been unable to get all the poison out, but Aldor was already looking a healthier colour.

The rest of that day passed into night, and the company sought the comfort of slumber. Grash lay apart from the rest and stared out across the land at the looming form of Mount Doom. No-one had yet spoken of what they would do next: whether from fear of what fate awaited them, or in despair of their situation Grash did not know. He turned over a thought in his mind, over and over again, far into the blackness of night, before he finally fell asleep just shortly before dawn…

When he awoke, the Dwarves were gone and the women were once more sharing a meal. Grash and the other Men got out some food and water and checked on Aldor. He was still asleep, but his breathing was regular and easy so they turned their attention back to the others. The Elves were once more keeping to themselves, although Zuromor and Jordo had both seemed to have fallen under their spell. When the two Dwarves returned they did not speak of where they had been, and nobody asked.

The day moved slowly through its various shades of grey, and while there was some talk, nobody raised the issue of how they were to escape from Mordor. Finally, as the Sun was once more setting behind the thick reek of clouds that shrouded the land, Morgoroth spoke of what was in all of their hearts. “We have rested here long enough, I think,” he said quietly, as though contemplating a break in a pleasant outing in the spring. “Where are we to go now? We cannot return to Shelob’s Lair. Even if we could find our way through once more, I doubt that Her spawn are yet satiated. From this ledge I can see a trail that leads to the bridge below, but from there what choices do we have? We could turn north and follow the road to return to our cells at Cirith Ungol, or perhaps we could scramble into the Morgai and be led countless leagues north or south along the skirts of the mountains, until we came to one of Sauron’s fortresses?”

“You forget two other roads,” growled Brór. “We could go east, knock at the door of Barad Dur and ask for safe passage from this land. Or west, along the Morgul Road.”

There was a silence once more. All roads seemed impossible. All but one. Grash had debated speaking of what he knew ever since they had escaped Shelob, for the road he knew was one that they would travel together – whether it led to freedom or death. “There is another road,” he said quietly. “Dark, dangerous; full of orcs, full of other things. But it is a way, maybe. Maybe a way out of this land.”

“Why did you not speak of this sooner?” demanded Morgoroth. “Why did we not seek this road before attempting to pass Shelob? No road, no matter how dangerous, could be worse than the one we have already travelled!”

Grash snarled slightly. “No road would take you from out of your cell. In your cell still, if I had not freed you. I took road I thought good. This other road, very hard. Only way to reach it is through Morgul Vale. Must take Morgul Road.”

“We know of that road already,” Brór said.

“No no,” Grash shook his head. “Not all the way. Not through Morgul city. We take Morgul Road for few miles only, maybe ten or twelve. Then there is a path. Narrow path. Goes up up up, high into mountains. Goes far south, above Morgul city, then down – down to green land beyond.”

“How do you know of this?” The Elf was suspicious still.

“I take it once. Once, when orcs need me to carry burden to other orcs, I go. I see the path. I see the green land that lies beyond the mountains.” Grash’s mind went back to the happy memory, and for a second he was lost amid the gentle breezes of distant Ithilien in spring time.

“‘Take a burden to other orcs’?” repeated Zuromor. “So there are orc strongholds on this path?”

“Yes. Many. But no other way. No other way but to Morgul City. You go that way. Knock on gates and ask to be let through. Screechers will have nice welcome for you, eh? Nice welcome…”