Lotho Sackville-Baggins Is Missing by Kathryn Ramage

They left Hobbiton at dusk and rode swiftly into the night. Frodo went ahead of the others, speaking and stopping very little along the way. He would not explain their errand fully, only that he might be wrong--he hoped he was wrong--but they must get to Sackville as quickly as possible nevertheless. Sam thought he was very frightened.

A nearly full moon rose to light their road, and it hung high in the sky overhead by the time they approached Sackville. At the outskirts of the village, Sam pointed out the hedge-lined path that led up to the house; the four hobbits dismounted and walked their ponies up. Frodo insisted they not be seen by the villagers. The old house at the top of the hill was dark and silent, but they had expected nothing else, even though they all were aware that someone might be inside.

They first tried the front door. "It's locked," said Merry.

Frodo gave the door a shove. "Barred." He looked around. "All the windows are shuttered and look as if they've been made fast too. Is there another way in?" he asked Sam.

"I don't know. I didn't look around much when I was here before. We could try at the back."

They circled the hilltop, trying each shuttered window as they went past and finding each as firmly bolted as the door. At last, they reached the scullery, a low, moss-covered brick outbuilding in a hollow in the hillside, attached to the smial by a tunnel. There, they found an unshuttered window with a cracked pane and, working with the points of their knives, managed to pry the broken pieces of glass free. Merry slipped one hand cautiously inside to locate and lift the latch; the two halves of the window casement swung open--and the hobbits reeled at the stench of rotting garbage that struck them. They had noticed the faint smell of a rubbish-heap since they'd first come to the old house, and this was obviously its source.

"What've they been doing," Sam wondered as he cupped a hand over his nose, "keeping pigs in here?"

"I suppose they thought it'd draw more attention if they tossed the rubbish out, or burned it," said Merry. "But I don't relish the idea of climbing in over it!"

"But that's just how we're going in," Frodo told them. "There isn't any other way. Now, hush and let's go." He prepared to climb up onto the window's round frame, when Sam put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

"I'll go in first," he insisted in a whisper, "and see it's safe."

Sam climbed in through the window, and as he stretched his toes down to find a place to stand, realized that he was over a wash-tub filled with dirty dishes. The kitchen was as filthy as he'd imagined, with scraps of discarded food left everywhere and soft scurrying sounds in the darkness that he was sure must be rats. Holding his breath, and hoping to avoid knocking over anything or putting his feet into a pile of muck, Sam carefully lowered himself until he stood solidly on the stone floor. Once he had made sure that there was no immediate danger, he reached up to help Frodo climb in, and they both assisted the other two. The scullery door hung ajar, and they ventured down the windowless brick-lined tunnel toward the main part of the house; each hobbit kept one hand on the grimy wall to guide himself, and all had their swords or knives at the ready.

As they approached the end of the tunnel, a voice spoke from the darkness ahead of them: "Welcome, little halflings. We've been expecting that someone might call."

A candle was lit, illuminating the ghastly pale face of the Man who stood before them. Merry and Pippin recognized him, though they had only seen him once before: Grima, called Wormtongue by the Riders of Rohan whom he had betrayed.

"Now you've come so far, you might as well come all the way in," he said in a sullenly ironic tone, and waved to indicate the darkened hallway to his right. "Meet your host. He wants to see you."

"Who?" wondered Sam, but their guide was already heading down the corridor, candle held high in one hand while he beckoned for them to follow with the other. The hobbits exchanged glances, then followed cautiously, Frodo leading them.

As they walked, Wormtongue went on talking. "I had hoped we might be gone from here before anyone came to find us, but he won't be moved. He says there's nowhere better to go. He's weakened still. He was wounded, you know." He glanced at the younger pair of hobbits. "You were there, weren't you? You saw it."

Pippin looked baffled, but Merry's eyes brightened and he nodded.

"But he didn't die," said Frodo.

"No, you can't kill him as easily as that..." Wormtongue turned suddenly, crouching to meet Frodo almost eye to eye as he hissed in a whisper, "Do you think I haven't tried? He doesn't die. What else could I do but bring him away? We came slowly up to the southern borders of your land. He told me it was a safe retreat. He had already made a connection here."

"Connection?" said Pippin, still not understanding.

"Pimple," explained Merry, who was beginning to put it all together himself. "They must've been doing business for some time. Remember the pipeweed Lotho sold outside the Shire? We found the barrels of Old Toby in the stores at Isengard ourselves."

Pippin nodded. "And smoked most of it too. But that means-"

"We stayed at the weed farm for quite awhile," said Wormtongue, "with the kind permission of your Lotho. He visited us often, but there were too many people there who might ask questions, and we couldn't stay. So we came up to Lotho's home. We couldn't stay long there either, with the neighbors peeking in at the windows and his mother expected back any day, but Lotho said that he had this house, safely away from everything, where we needn't worry about being disturbed. He'd stayed here in secret more than once himself. But it wasn't all generosity on Lotho's part, no--He made offers to your Lotho that dazzled his little head, promised him... oh, what was promised to me once. The realm I wanted, to rule as I pleased. The woman I desired. Whatever I could ask for, in return for my loyal service." He chuckled dismally. "Of course, I never got what I wanted, for all my pains. Instead, I've got this. Little Lotho wasn't so fortunate. He didn't see all that he'd bargained for 'til his lady-love died. And then it was too late for him."

They had stopped outside the door to a room, and Wormtongue shoved it open. There were no candles lit within, and only a low fire burned in the grate, providing just enough light to illuminate the large figure in dirty white robes seated on a bed too small for him.

"Gandalf?" cried Sam.

"No," Frodo said, although he had to agree that the resemblance was remarkable. He felt a sickening pang of deep emotion, as if he were seeing his dear, old friend in this miserable state. "It isn't Gandalf."

"It's Saruman," Merry barely breathed the name.

The wizard lifted his head and pushed his long white hair from his face to peer at them from beneath bushy eyebrows. "What brave little hobbits you are, to come here so well-armed and prepared for battle," he said in rich and elegant tones. "But you have nothing to fear from me. You have my vow that I have never laid a hand in harm upon any of your kind... nor will I."

His voice remained silken, but the small, malicious smile that curled at the corners of his mouth sent shivers through all four hobbits; none of them believed a word he said. Beneath the elegant tones lay a hiss of viciousness. Merry and Pippin drew closer together and, although they had lowered their knives, gripped the handles more firmly.

Saruman's eyes flickered over each hobbit in turn. "I presume one of you is the celebrated Frodo Baggins."

Frodo took a step forward. "I am," he answered, voice quavering. When Saruman's smile broadened, a fresh chill of horror ran through him. He reached for Sam's hand and squeezed it.

"I must admit that I've been curious to see you," the wizard told him. "I've heard a great deal about you."

"From Gandalf," said Frodo.

"Yes," Saruman replied, "but he is not the one I refer to. Your kinsman Lotho also spoke of you quite often. He was so looking forward to having his revenge on you. He had an impressively long list of people he wanted to revenge himself upon once he was in power, but you were at the very top."

"And you promised to help him."

"I had my own plans for vengeance as well. It amused me: You're so proud of yourself, aren't you? You arrogant, pampered, naive child. Dangling after Gandalf, taking his every utterance as sacred wisdom, imagining yourself among the great because you've unquestioningly performed whatever tasks he's set you. What have you gained for your services? Only the ruin of your health and your strength. You will not grow old, Frodo Baggins." Sam gasped aloud, and this seemed to amuse the wizard even more. "Foolish children, all of you. You've no idea what you've meddled in, and you need to be shown. The thought of seeing your little homeland suffer at the hands of one of your own kindred seemed quite sweet."

"If you were on such good terms, why did you kill him?" Frodo asked. He faced Saruman bravely, but Sam had felt the grip on his hand tighten at the wizard's horrible words. "Was it because of Daisy Puddlesby?"

"Why kill her?" Sam asked. "She couldn't have done you any harm."

"She knew they were here," said Merry. "She might've betrayed you, isn't that right?"

"She came here," admitted Wormtongue. "Lotho told her of his great plans. He said that when he was Lord of the Shire, she would be his Lady. He told her... much more than he should."

"She would have told others, and you couldn't allow that," said Frodo. "And Lotho protested, didn't he? So you killed him too."

"When he learned of the girl's death, Lotho made so much fuss that he had to be gotten rid of," Saruman answered.

"But you intended his death days before that, before Daisy's," Frodo responded. "You, or more likely your friend here, stole a grindstone from the mill. You were already planning his 'suicide' then."

"I thought it might be necessary, once it became obvious that none of his plans would succeed," Saruman confirmed. "He came here last week, demanding that I avenge all the wrongs done against him, when he was unable to deliver what he had promised me. It became very wearying to listen to and, after the girl's death, I knew that he could no longer be trusted.... Well, that was the end of Lotho." The wizard was still smiling. "There you have it, brave little hobbits. You've heard the truth. You have me at swordspoint. Now that you've captured your enemy, what do you intend to do? Will you kill me?"

"I don't wish to," answered Frodo. "For what you were, rather than what you've become. And I don't believe Gandalf would wish it. He would grieve to see how you've ended here."

"He would gloat to see my misery," the wizard retorted.

"You know that isn't so. He would say you've done worse to yourself than he, or we, can ever do. You've suffered more."

Saruman spat at him, "What can you know of my suffering, boy?"

"But I do know," Frodo answered solemnly. "I've been enthralled to the same evil. I carried Sauron's Ring, remember. I know how his influence can twist and corrupt what was once most decent and honorable. I was freed from that evil only by the act of another. Left to my own strength, I would have fallen, much worse than you have." He spoke with blunt honesty, and Sam's heart ached for him; he felt how that knowledge still tormented poor Frodo all these months later. "I can't pretend to be better than you. You have my pity, both of you."

Whatever answer Saruman had expected, it was not this. He regarded Frodo with the same resentment, but a new light of curiosity and watchfulness had come into his eyes.

"Because I do pity, and understand," Frodo concluded, "I will ask you to go."

The other three hobbits looked at him in astonishment. "You're letting them go?" sputtered Merry. "After all they've done?"

"We can't kill them in cold blood," Frodo responded, "and they can't be allowed to remain here." He turned to face Saruman again. "You have no reason to stay. Whatever plans you made for revenge are thwarted. You can have no further business here, with Lotho dead, and you've no hope of gaining another such foothold for your influence in the Shire as you had with him."

"Are you quite certain of that?" Saruman asked him, taunting.

Sam thought of Ted Sandyman; he would be happy to join in league with the likes of these two if he thought they'd help him bring about the mechanical Shire he dreamt of!

If Frodo wasn't also thinking of Ted in particular, he recognized that there might be other hobbits who, through malice or folly, would fall prey to Saruman's blandishments if they were to hear him. "Yes, that's so," he admitted. "Where one has been foolish enough to listen to you, others might too. Therefore, it is imperative that you leave at once, before you can do more harm to innocent hobbits." Summoning all his courage, he looked the wizard in the eyes and declared, "Go tonight, and never darken the Shire again."

"But they murdered Pimple and Daisy!" yelped Pippin.

"Yes, I know," said Frodo. "I came here to seek justice for them, but I don't see how it can be obtained." He told Saruman, "I don't like it, but you are beyond the reach of our justice. If we bring you before a magistrate and have you properly tried and convicted for your crimes, we have no prisons fit to hold you, and no prison we can make would be as bad as this filthy place you've caged yourself in. Even if we did detain you, you'd only try to make more mischief... and might succeed. What else can be done? If what your companion says is true, you can't be hanged."

"What about him?" the wizard lifted his eyebrows to indicate Wormtongue. "He can be hanged. Why should I be punished? After all, I've never done harm to any hobbit. Worm was the one who did the work."

Wormtongue spun on his master, mouth dropped open at this betrayal. "You told me to do it!"

"And you did it..." Saruman answered complacently, "and you will again, whenever I tell you."

In that instant, the same thought flashed into all four hobbits' minds. They realized why the wizard was answering their questions so pleasantly: he did not intend for them to leave this house alive.

They whirled, blades up and ready for a fight. Wormtongue was in the doorway behind them, blocking their way out, but they had each faced more terrible foes alone; surely they could contend with one Man and injured, powerless wizard together.

"Stand aside!" Merry ordered. "Or I'll run you through." He sounded almost cheerful at the thought of it.

"Now, Worm," Saruman said softly, giving a very different order of his own.

Wormtongue hesitated in an agony of indecision.

"Now!"

Merry didn't wait for Wormtongue to make up his mind, but darted forward with a cry. Pippin followed. As the hobbits came at him, Wormtongue drew out a long, nasty-looking dagger of his own to fend them off. There was not much room for fighting between the doorway and the bed, and for several minutes, all was noise and confusion as the Man flailed, the ragged ends of his black robes flying, the hobbits shouted, and metal clashed with metal. Sam tried to keep Frodo protected behind him.

At last, Merry's dagger cut through Wormtongue's robe to stab him. Clutching his abdomen, the Man fell to his knees on one side of the open door.

Sam turned to grab Frodo and pull him out of the room to safety, when he realized that Frodo was no longer at his elbow; he had stepped back away as Wormtongue fell and was dangerously close to the bed, and the wizard seated upon it.

As Frodo stepped backwards, Sam saw Saruman lean forward behind him, eyes glinting eagerly in the fire's light. He let out a horrified cry of warning--but his warning came too late, for in the same moment, the wizard reached out with a movement as quick as a striking snake, and seized Frodo by the throat. Caught by surprise, Frodo was yanked up abruptly, nearly into Saruman's lap; Sting slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

Sam was only a few feet away, but it might as well be miles for all he could help Frodo. Merry and Pippin had also turned at Sam's cry to see Frodo struggling helplessly.

"Let him go!" Merry shouted in the same tone he had used with Wormtongue. "It won't do you any good. You're not strong enough anymore to fight all of us. Let Frodo go, and we'll let you leave just as he said you could. Harm him and we'll see you pay for it."

"Maybe you won't die," Sam added fiercely, "but you can be cut nicely into a thousand pieces."

"I will leave this place in my own time," Saruman answered, undeterred by their threats. "But before I go, I will at least have my revenge. Whatever pain you inflict upon me will be nothing to the pain I can cause you." He held Frodo more tightly, clamping his fingers beneath the hobbit's jaw and putting an end to his struggles. "And sweeter still, I know how Gandalf would grieve at your ending here. But you mustn't be so frightened, little one," he told Frodo. "I promised I would not harm you. Worm!" he ordered. "I have one final task for you."

Wormtongue, who was huddled on the floor like a wounded animal, panting, looked up at his name. He considered the wizard with eyes that were dark in pain and fury, then crawled toward the bed, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He took up Sting, which had fallen near the wizard's feet. As he lunged upwards, Sam shouted "No!" and leapt to stab him a second time, but not before Wormtongue had thrust the sword into his target--not Frodo, but Saruman.

The Elvish blade had the power to do what lesser steel could not. It pierced beneath the wizard's arm, driving deeply into his heart. He cried out once, released Frodo, and tumbled forward.

Frodo tried to scramble out of the way before the larger body landed on him, but as Saruman fell, he seemed to dissolve--hair and skin, flesh and bone--and became so insubstantial by the time he reached the floor that he did not strike it, only dissipated against it. The only thing Frodo felt touch him was a heavy sheet of cloth like a blanket being thrown upon his back.

As he lifted his head and pushed the cloth, Saruman's empty robes, off himself, a sudden wind arose from nowhere; the force of it burst the shuttered window open. The hobbits watched in amazement as a vague, misty shape rose toward the ceiling like a gray column of smoke. For a moment, it turned as if it would face the West, but the breeze caught it and blew it away into the recesses of the abandoned house. There was a soft sound almost like a groan, and then it was silent.
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