Free The Two Towers by J. R. R. Tolkien Page A

what is deep beyond the reach of your muddy dreams, Uglúk,’ he said. ‘
Nazgûl!
Ah! All that they make out! One day you’ll wish that you had not said that. Ape!’ he snarled fiercely. ‘You ought to know
     that they’re the apple of the Great Eye. But the winged Nazgûl: not yet, not yet. He won’t let them show themselves across
     the Great River yet, not too soon. They’re for the War – and other purposes.’
    ‘You seem to know a lot,’ said Uglúk. ‘More than is good for you, I guess. Perhaps those in Lugbúrz might wonder how, and
     why. But in the meantime the Uruk-hai of Isengard can do the dirty work, as usual. Don’t stand slavering there! Get your rabble
     together! The other swine are legging it to the forest. You’d better follow. You wouldn’t get back to the
    Great River alive. Right off the mark! Now! I’ll be on your heels.’
    The Isengarders seized Merry and Pippin again and slung them on their backs. Then the troop started off. Hour after hour they
     ran, pausing now and again only to sling the hobbits to fresh carriers. Either because they were quicker and hardier, or because
     of some plan of Grishnákh’s, the Isengarders gradually passed through the Orcs of Mordor, and Grishnákh’s folk closed in behind.
     Soon they were gaining also on the Northerners ahead. The forest began to draw nearer.
    Pippin was bruised and torn, his aching head was grated by the filthy jowl and hairy ear of the Orc that held him. Immediately
     in front were bowed backs, and tough thick legs going up and down, up and down, unresting, as if they were made of wire and
     horn, beating out the nightmare seconds of an endless time.
    In the afternoon Uglúk’s troop overtook the Northerners. They were flagging in the rays of the bright sun, winter sun shining
     in a pale cool sky though it was; their heads were down and their tongues lolling out.
    ‘Maggots!’ jeered the Isengarders. ‘You’re cooked. The Whiteskins will catch you and eat you. They’re coming!’
    A cry from Grishnákh showed that this was not mere jest. Horsemen, riding very swiftly, had indeed been sighted: still far
     behind but gaining on the Orcs, gaining on them like a tide over the flats on folk straying in a quicksand.
    The Isengarders began to run with a redoubled pace that astonished Pippin, a terrific spurt it seemed for the end of a race.
     Then he saw that the sun was sinking, falling behind the Misty Mountains; shadows reached over the land. The soldiers of Mordor
     lifted their heads and also began to put on speed. The forest was dark and close. Already they had passed a few outlying trees.
     The land was beginning to slope upwards, ever more steeply; but the Orcs did not halt. Both Uglúk and Grishnákh shouted, spurring
     them on to a last effort.
    ‘They will make it yet. They will escape,’ thought Pippin. And then he managed to twist his neck, so as to glance back with
     one eye over his shoulder. He saw that riders away eastward were already level with the Orcs, galloping over the plain. The
     sunset gilded their spears and helmets, and glinted in their pale flowing hair. They were hemming the Orcs in, preventing
     them from scattering, and driving them along the line of the river.
    He wondered very much what kind of folk they were. He wished now that he had learned more in Rivendell, and looked more at
     maps and things; but in those days the plans for the journey seemed to be in more competent hands, and he had never reckoned
     with being cut off from Gandalf, or from Strider, and even from Frodo. All that he could remember about Rohan was that Gandalf’s horse, Shadowfax, had come from that land. That sounded hopeful, as far as it went.
    ‘But how will they know that we are not Orcs?’ he thought. ‘I don’t suppose they’ve ever heard of hobbits down here. I suppose
     I ought to be glad that the beastly Orcs look like being destroyed, but I would rather be saved myself.’ The chances were
     that he and