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Book III: Ring to Lose
…from under my tongue.
And body and mind, I'm ripped out of the Vurt. Out forever.
Reality hits like a blow from an open hand and brings
a sharp sting to my confused senses. I'm in a frigid
stone room decorated in filth and dead things caught
up in cobwebs. I'm looking down on Fro, who's weak and
trembling, and cradled inside my arms. He's got the
Feather clutched tightly in his fist, but his eyes are
shining.
"I'm sorry, Sam. You've saved me." Beside him lay a
small collection of nightmare feathers…black on black
and all of them creamed out. Mind poison, three doses
worth. I must've pulled him out with me from a Meta-level
in the Vurt when the Feather was removed. His eyes close
while his hand flexes repeatedly around the golden Feather.
"You've saved us all. You've kept It safe." His gentle
voice holds a note of sad acceptance.
This--this! It's partly my fault; I understand that
now. I nod and clasp my hand around his short fingers
white-knuckling the Feather. "It's yours, sir. It's
yours." My guilt was in giving up on him: I let go,
I lost him, I took the Feather and I used it. But I
won't ever do that again. And now I have to get us out
of here. The orcpuppies will smell us out sooner or
later if we stay, and by the looks of things they had
been here at least once already. Dirty, discarded cloth
reeking of those beasts formed a litter for Master's
bed. "It's not for me, I know that." I unwrap the soiled
fabric from around his body, and a surge of pain and
terror catch the sobbing in my throat. I grip his arms
and hold him closer as he falls into what I hope to
heaven is a dreamless sleep.
Whipwheals cover Master's back, his neck, his arm and
thighs. Fro's bleeding Vaz slime from his lashes. The
poisoned blood's a souvenir from a nanovirus-tainted
blade several months back. Seems like a lifetime ago,
and in some respects, it was.
I sniff the juice smeared over my palm, but it only
reminds me that I haven't eaten a proper meal in weeks.
Mr. Frodo’s turning into Vurtflesh. Hrávë olórë, he
calls it. I don’t know how much time we have left. Could
be a week, could be half a thousand years before it
fully changes him.
Just like that goner Slink.
I’m wondering if it’s changing me, too. I can’t think
about anything else. Vurtflesh is the most promising
of rides, and I know one thing for certain: Slink is
still out there, and by now he's real hungry. I close
my eyes and the taste of the hobbitgirl's fingers teases
my memory.
But that floating world is gone to me. All I have is
him and a job to do, and it's all I need. Morchester
is not some sleeper's illusion; it's real-life, and
I'm newly wide awake. Suddenly my body lurches like
I'm on prime pipejammers. I was pure before tainting
my head on that Feather, but now I'm something more.
"Come along, Mr. Frodo." I wrap the black rags abound
his resting form, and also around myself this time.
The orchounds can snuff out their own kind easily enough,
and the rank fabric was a gift worth two tickets out
of this place. Frodo lets me pick him up off the scum
and he's holding on with his arms around my neck. Fro's
grown dull from dreaming, and light from suffering.
Now he's lighter than a feather, and I find I can carry
him easily. The Feather's tickling my ear, but it's
not even a distraction anymore. Not for me. I have something
more important.
I remember I still have his dreamglow blade tucked away.
I bring it out more for peace of mind than anything.
It sparkles like fireworks in the air above my head,
and I've nearly forgotten to be afraid.
There's a door in this room. Beyond it is an end for
us. Like Fro's uncle's old prank. The end. It can't
be long, just a few steps away. The heavy wooden door
sticks before it opens, then I step through.
One black tower of Morchester was behind us, but we
have the mobs and mayhem of its streets and its Grimelord
yet to handle. Frodo's arms slide from my shoulders,
so I set him down gently on his feet. He's hidden the
Feather inside the cloak, and he's shivering from the
contact. I watch him walk a few steps ahead.
"This is how it ends." He looks at his dirty feet and
whispers low so that he thinks I can't hear him. "I'm
left alone."
From where I'm standing, he does look alone. Like he's
slowly disappearing. Even the empty promises of the
Feather can’t bring much satisfaction here. But I've
never made an empty promise in my life, and I'm not
starting now. "Oh, no. We're going it together. To the
end."
Hopelessly, he sighs, "Sam. You're leaving me."
"I won't! I wouldn't. Not again, sir." I'm thinking
of our past, of the End. I had made a garden for him
there; I renewed tender life so many times. All for
him. That was no dream. There were daisies, and lilies,
and roses…roses. "That's unfair..." I feel a stinging
on my face, tiny pin pricks of misery, as his words
settle in the heavy air.
Fro lifts his head and glances over his shoulder. His
deep water blue eyes widen, but he's looking behind
me--at something behind me. His voice is caught between
a sob and a whisper. "You will. You won't have any choice."
And all I feel is a sudden cracking pain teasing a blossom
of hot rosy fluid down my forehead. My knees buckle
and I'm on the ground fighting an oil slick fog of sick
sleep. A wiry grey form brushes past and shrieks insistent
demands for its desire.
I was just an obstacle in its way.
My own blood paints a scarlet vision of Frodo running
away from me. Slink's nipping at his fingers and foaming
taunts from his mouth like an underfed rabid rat.
Power is a nightmare.
My dragonfire dry throat hemorrhages perfect pain, but
I'm screaming.
"Master! Wake up!"