The Mountain smouldered and its fires went out. “Down into the valley quick, and then turn northward, as soon as ever we can.”ĭay was coming again in the world outside, and far beyond the glooms of Mordor the Sun was climbing over the eastern rim of Middle-earth but here all was still dark as night. Faramir’s hand was to his wound, but with gritted teeth he stayed silent.
#Sam carrying frodo drawing free#
Their cloaks were rent and tattered before they broke free at last. The thorns and briars were as tough as wire and as clinging as claws. They had a struggle to get out of the thicket. And one of the thorns upon which he fell had broken off and pierced his left eye, and it was ruined. Frodo,” said Sam who went first “Good-bye!”įaramir said nothing but lay still where he had fallen, and the halflings saw to their dismay that while they had fallen upon their backs and so were spared the worst of the thorn’s prickings and clawings, by some ill chance Faramir had tumbled upon his front. Taking them one at a time by their hands, Faramir lowered the hobbits down as far as he could reach before letting them fall, so as to lessen the hurt of their descent. Fortunately there was no longer any dreadful drop into the gulf, for the slopes of the Morgai had already risen almost to the level of the road but it was too dark for them to guess the depth of the fall. They scrambled on to the low parapet of the bridge. “Quickly now friends! Over we go!” whispered Faramir. Down in the dark trough, cut off from the dying glare of Orodruin, Frodo and Sam could not see ahead, but already they heard the tramp of iron-shod feet, and upon the road there rang the swift clatter of hoofs. And now from beyond the bridge-end came answering cries. Suddenly its harsh bell clanged again, and then broke into a shattering peal. Away behind them, now high above on the mountain-side, loomed the Tower of Cirith Ungol, its stones glowing dully. With a desperate spurt Frodo and Sam and Faramir dashed along the bridge but they had hardly reached its further end when they heard the hue and cry begin. A short way beyond the way-meeting, after another steep incline, a flying bridge of stone leapt over the chasm and bore the road across into the tumbled slopes and glens of the Morgai. The eastern faces of the Ephel Dúath were sheer, falling in cliff and precipice to the black trough that lay between them and the inner ridge. “But we can’t,” said Sam, “not without wings.” “If we were real orcs, we ought to be dashing back to the Tower, not running away.
But they were too slow for their liking, being weary and sore, and it seemed as though they were but crawling away from the Tower, such did it loom behind them in their flight. With trembling hearts and short breath they ran, dreading at any moment the cry of the Nazgul to be answered, or for it to be renewed behind them.
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