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The others followed Grash into the tunnel, as he knew they would – for what else was there for them to do? They quickly passed down the winding corridor carved by the makers of the Tower in ages past. Its walls were smooth, and Grash wondered at this, for he did not know of the ancient Men who had founded the Tower before its capture by the Dark Lord. They soon reached a low wall that ran across the mouth of the corridor that they had to scramble over. The Elves fairly leapt over the barrier, but the others had to climb as best they could. The Dwarves gave one another what aid they could in their crossing, but did not offer their hands to the Men. Aldor was quick to mount the low wall and help Grash and the other Men onto the other side. Darash and Lyshka, Grash noted, refused all aid.
When they were assembled upon the other side there were two ways. One lay to their left and sloped gently upward. There came from that tunnel a faint breeze of foul air from which they determined that it led to the tunnel’s exit. Some of the company were perhaps tempted to go that way and avoid the Monster, but that direction would only have led them back to Mordor. The only way to escape were they to go back from the tunnel was along the road to Minas Morgul… Steeling themselves, they headed into the impenetrable gloom of the Monster’s lair.
The tunnel ran straight and broad so it was easy to find their way, but there were many openings on either hand from which came noisome smells and foul airs. Grash led the way bearing one of the torches. The flame, which had seemed so bright in the cellars of the Tower, was but a flickering will-o-the-wisp in the pall of this realm, or like the poisonous glow of a corpse candle. As they walked on, the air grew thick and heavy, and closed in about them all choking their breath and stilling their hearts. When Zuromor spoke to Grash, his voice sounded alarmingly loud even though it was barely a whisper. “Grash,” he asked “how do you expect to live through this? You said you freed us so you would be able to leave. What if you are one of those who are eaten?”
Grash merely shrugged. “Maybe I do get eaten. Maybe I do not. If I go through tunnel alone then no escape at all. This way, perhaps I do escape.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment in which Grash could sense the man working up to another question. It was a matter of indifference to Grash whether he would ask it or not, so he simply plodded along in silence. “How many do you think will be taken?” Zuromor asked.
Again Grash shrugged. “When Monster takes orcs, she takes three of four. But orcs nasty krattűk beasts, they not taste good, I think.” He smiled darkly. “Many here taste sweeter than orcs, I think,” he flicked his eyes back to where the Elves strode, and behind them, the Dwarves, their dark forms barely visible through the pitch. He looked back into the dark that ran on before their feet. “Sweeter than Grash, I think. Sweeter than Men.” And again he smiled.
He heard a sound almost like a snicker and looked behind him. Jeren was walking at his back, but his face was serious and fixed. Grash wondered if the Man had heard him speaking with Zuromor…
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