Another Man's Trash by Uvatha the Horseman

Chapter 9 - Called Out

Chapter 9 - Called Out

Moments later, Saruman burst through the gates into the bright sunlight. He was barely clear of the bridge when the earth buckled knocked him off his feet. He caught himself with his hands and the notebook went flying.

He stuffed it back into his sleeve and walked as casually as he could through the Elvish camp, avoiding eye contact and hoping to go unnoticed. Fragments of conversation reached him. "We got all the prisoners out. There's no reason to go back in the Tower."

A pair of Elves staggered under the weight of a small wooden chest. Coins dribbled from a damaged corner of the chest, glinting in the dirt where they landed.

"Is that the last of the treasure?" Lord Enron asked them.

"There's more down there, but the Tower started to make groaning noises and we decided to leave."

"Agreed. It's not worth the risk."

Flames from a bonfire in the center of camp rose to a great height. An Elf was feeding books into it from a pile.

Saruman had almost made it to the far side of the Elvish encampment when he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"A word, if you don't mind."

It wasn't exactly a threat, but it wasn't friendly either. Saruman wheeled around and found himself facing one of the larger and more unpleasant of the Elvish warriors. Black Orcish blood spattered the leather armor around his wrists and he smelled like compost. Saruman considered shrugging him off but hesitated. He didn't know what the Elves wanted from him. It might be something he needed to hear.

He followed the Elf to the large tent in the center of their camp. The silk banners floated from its peaks. The spear rack was almost empty. Only two spears remained in it, and both were fouled up to the shaft.

Inside, a number of Elves in formal robes stood against the wall, talking among themselves. They noticed Saruman and fell silent, but kept their eyes fixed on him. He felt a prickle at the back of his neck, and the fabric under his arms grew damp.

Lord Enron stepped forward. He raised a hand for silence. Judging from his face, the Elvish lord didn't put up with a lot of nonsense. "You told me you were here at the request of the Valar. Your mission, you claimed, was to search for Sauron in the pits beneath Barad-dûr."

"Yes, you are correct. I am an emissary of the Valar…" Saruman began in his most persuasive voice.

"You've been inside the Tower twice, yet not one of my people has seen you in the dungeons." Apparently, the persuasion spell didn't work on this particular Elf.

Saruman considered his words carefully. He brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, and the notebook fell from his sleeve. It hit the ground face open, revealing page after page of Sauron's handwriting. He kicked it shut and stood on the cover, then shifted the hem of his robe to conceal it.

"Furthermore, your tent displays the motif of the Lidless eye. It suggests you have an affiliation with Sauron. Do you?"

"Technically, Sauron is my next-of-kin, but you already knew that."

Eyes in the crowd moved from the notebook beneath Saruman's foot to Lord Enron and back to the notebook. Saruman couldn't believe no one said anything, but perhaps they were reluctant to interrupt their leader in mid-rant.

Saruman had no such compunction. "I am an emissary of the Valar. Perhaps you don't have the wit to appreciate my mission."

"Perhaps you don't have the wit to realize that we can see right through you," said Lord Enron.

Saruman scooped up the notebook and ran.