I haven’t read every page, so I’m not sure if this one’s been done…
Mordor Rising
An Aragorn Elessar Adventure
(Over 7,000,000,000 in print!)
by Clive Cussler
Chapter Eleven
Frodo Baggins was sure he was dying.
His eyes were closed and the heart in his chest thundered. A burst of light whirled around in Baggins’ mind as consciousness gradually returned, and a spasm of nausea rushed over him and he retched uncontrollably. How long had he been on this journey? He wasn’t sure.
He opened his eyes and rolled up onto his hands and knees. His ring pounded like a jackhammer and compelled him. His hand was drawn to it and it took great will not to touch it. Except for the ring, there was no exterior sensation; the pain had been dulled by the cold. But there was no dulling of the agonizing temptation in his head.
A clang of metal weapons echoed down the Weathertop. Baggins looked around, but all he could see was the swirling mists whipped by the vicious wind. Another crash tore the frigid air. He guessed that it came from only a hundred yards away.
All thought of escape had vanished now. It was finished. He knew he could never make it to Rivendell. Nor was he in any condition to sail the little grey craft across fifty miles of open Anduin to a rendezvous with the waiting dark Lord
He sank back in the dirt. The weight of his burden had weakened him beyond further physical effort. The Ringwraiths must not find him. That was part of the bargain with Gandalf. If he must die, they must not take the ring.
Soon he would be only a small white pile of bones on a desolate slope of Weathertop, buried forever under the constantly building dark empire.
He stopped a moment and listened. The only sounds he heard were his own gasps and the wind. He listened harder, cupping his hands to his ears. Just audible through the howling wind he heard a wraith shreik.
“Oh Elbereth,” he cried silently. As long as his body was still warm, the sensitive nostrils of the demon were sure to pick up his scent. He sagged in defeat. There was nothing left for him but to lie back and let his life ooze away.
But a spark deep inside him refused to dim and be extinguished. Merciful Gilthoniel, he thought deliriously, he couldn’t just lie there waiting for the Ringwraiths to take him. He was only a simple hobbit, not a trained secret agent. His mind and fifty-year-old body weren’t geared to stand up under intensive temptation from the ring. He closed his eyes as the sickness of failure overcame all physical agony and he slipped on the ring.
When he opened them again, his field of vision was filled with the head of an immense ghostly king. Baggins recognized him as a Ringwraith, a mighty man standing six feet at the shoulder, covered by a heavy robe of long grey, and flanked by two others. There was an indifferent look about the man. He stood there and stared down at his helpless quarry, gripping his sword in his left hand while he steadied a glowing knife with his right. He looked fearsome in his huge greatrobe that came down to booted ankles, and the pale, expressionless eyes showed no compassion for Baggins’ size. The wraith lifted his weapon and reached down and pierced Baggins’ left shoulder. Then without a word, the demon reached for the ring.
Baggins nearly passed out from the pain. He felt as though he’d been stabbed by poisoned ice. He swooned and that was as far as he’d got when a vague figure appeared through the storm. It was blurred by the wall of swirling white mist. Through the dim haze of near unconsciousness, Baggins felt the wraith stiffen. A soft “plop” sounded over the wind, and the massive figure next to the first fell shrieking on its side in the dirt. The tallest dropped his gaze from Baggins and frantically tried to raise his sword, but the strange sound was repeated and a flaming brand that glowed red suddenly appeared in the middle of the king’s forehead. Then the eyes went glassy and he fled from Frodo’s side.
Something was terribly wrong; this shouldn’t be happening, Baggins told himself, but his exhausted mind was too far gone to draw any valid conclusions. He sank to his knees and could only watch as a tall man in a travel-stained cloak materialized from the white mist and gazed down at the hobbit.
“A damned shame,” he said tersely.
The man presented an imposing appearance. The oak- tanned face looked out of place for the Weather Hills. And the features were firm, almost cruel. Yet it was the eyes that struck Baggins. He had never seen eyes quite like them. They were a deep sea-green and radiated a penetrating kind of warmth, a marked contrast from the hard lines etched in the face.
The man turned to Baggins and smiled. “Mr. Baggins, I presume?” The tone was soft and effortless.
The ranger pushed a broadsword into a scabbard, knelt down to eye level, and nodded at the blood spreading through the material of Baggins’ cloak. “I’d better get you to where I can take a look at that.” Then he picked Baggins up as one might a child and began trudging across the hill toward the fire.
“Who are you?” Baggins muttered.
“My name is Elessar. Aragorn Elessar.”
“I don’t understand…where did you come from?”
Baggins never heard the answer. At that moment, the black cover of unconsciousness abruptly lifted up, and he fell gratefully under it.
