Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.

Some Nameless Place

Chapter One    

Gandalf and Aragorn stared at the crossroads sign for a long time, debating their course of action.  One signpost pointed towards what must be a town of Men, some place Pippin had never heard of.  Another pointed north, another east and one west.  Pippin supposed he could ask Merry what the names referred to, but he was tired and it seemed just too much effort at the moment.  The rest of the Company had seated themselves on convenient stones and grassy hillocks, awaiting their leaders’ decision, and the young hobbit plopped down to join them.

Pippin hoped the Big Folk would allow them to enter the town.  It was just a small town, after all, no larger than Bree had been.  He was tired of dried meat and dried fruit and dried everything.  They could find fresh fruit in the marketplace … milk … maybe some molasses candy?  Merry would lend him some money, he was sure, or Frodo would give in to his pleadings and hopeful eyes, artfully brimming with a few tears.

Sitting beside Pippin and amusing himself by flipping his belt knife into the spongy turf, Merry was well aware of the direction of his younger cousin’s thoughts.  Ah, Pip was completely transparent to the cousin who knew him so well.  It had taken no great leap of logic to guess the direction of Pip’s thoughts.  The tweenager had taken advantage of the Big Folk’s discussion to root in his pack for an overlooked snack, then finding only dried meat, had regarded the rock-hard strips with distaste.  He had then looked at the signpost and dropped his eyes to Merry’s purse, licking his lips.  Merry almost laughed at that.

In all truthfulness, Merry would be well pleased to spend a night or two in a bed under a roof in a civilized town.  A few mugs of ale would go down a treat, too.  It was too much to hope for that folk around here would know of hobbits and have suitable lodgings, but … a night or two on a feather bed instead of the ground … a real bath, not a hasty dip in a freezing stream... 

Samwise was also thinking of supplies and accommodations, but not for himself.  Frodo looked tired, he thought, covertly examining his master as Frodo sat silent next to him, his chin tucked on his knees and his cloak pulled about himself for warmth.  His master needed rest and hot food, and a day or two of not being afraid at every rustle in the brush.

Sam exhaled and crossed his arms over his sturdy chest, shifting as he thought of just a day or two without fear of being hunted.  Frodo’s eyes tracked him automatically but the Ring-bearer was already half-asleep, his eyes drifting shut from exhaustion.  Frodo’s falling asleep where he sat decided Sam; his master needed rest and that was flat.

Sam rose and drifted over to the wizard and the Ranger, his hairy feet soundless on the loose soil of the woods.  Merry and Pippin looked up and Sam grimaced and gestured to where Frodo sat, loose-limbed in sleep.  The two exchanged a glance then rose.  Merry eased himself down against Frodo’s back and Pippin curled himself against his cousin’s side, providing Frodo a soft, warm pillow.  Frodo did not wake but relaxed against them, releasing a deep, tired sigh.  Sam nodded his thanks and returned his attention to their guides. 

The two were evidently having some sort of disagreement and the gardener did not want to interrupt.  After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted Legolas’ gestured invitation and sat down on the hummock next to the Elf.  “Take your ease while you can, Master Samwise,” the Elf whispered, his voice light and musical.   “Our esteemed guides do not agree upon our route.”  Legolas seemed entertained by this, but Sam noted the Elf was careful not to draw the debaters’ attention from their discussion.

“The danger is too great, Aragorn,” Gandalf was saying.  “Such an odd assemblage as ours would be certain to draw curious eyes and comments.  Such talk could reach the wrong ears too easily.  I would not risk it.”

“We need supplies, Gandalf.  Too many days of dried rations can ill affect the health, and the hobbits are not used to such fare.  Without fresh vegetables and fruit, they will soon sicken.  As will we.”

Sam screwed up his courage and cleared his throat.  Legolas shot him an amused glance.  “Beggin’ your pardon, sirs,” he began nervously, “but Mr. Strider’s right.  We need food and a rest.  And soap and clothes and salt and mendin’ supplies and a new fry pan and I’m out of seasonings and -"  Sam swallowed the rest of his list as the wizard’s gaze darkened on him.  “And,” he continued doggedly, “Mr. Frodo needs a rest.  He’s done in.”

The three turned their gaze over to where Frodo sat, dark head laid on his knees, sound asleep.  “Well said, Sam,” Gandalf said with a sigh, capitulating.  “We are all weary and will travel the faster for a rest and hot, fresh food.  Wake your master, Sam.  We must move quickly to reach the town before nightfall.”

* * * * *

Pippin almost changed his mind when they passed the wooden palisade and through the gates of the little town.  He had forgotten how the many-storied buildings of Men seemed to loom over him, tilting forward over him, he was sure.  They looked too tall to stand, ready to crash down upon passer-bys at any moment.  Pippin stayed close to Merry’s back, his green-gold eyes darting anxiously about him.

As Gandalf had feared, the Fellowship navigated the streets through a sea of curiosity.  One Man, or even one Man and a wizard could have walked through the dirt and weed-strewn lanes without comment, but two Men, obviously warriors, a wizard, a Dwarf, an Elf and four little folk (and a pony) were practically a circus.  The larger folk kept the hobbits to the center of their grouping but it was obvious to any eyes that the small travelers were not children, even if the townsfolk did not know what they were.  The Elf was identified immediately and the townsfolk stared in awe to see his light, graceful form among them, a swan among the geese.

Aragorn ground his teeth as the Company collected more and more curious eyes and the townsfolk followed them through the town to a tall, two-story building of an Inn.  The expressions of astonishment in the town folks’ eyes would have amused him, if that amazement did not call every idler’s eye to them.

Merry and Pippin surged past Gimli and into the Inn, heading with unerring accuracy for the taproom.  By the time the Ranger caught up with them, their curly heads were at the bar and Merry was explaining, “We are not children.  I am a hobbit, sir, thirty-six years old.  My cousin here … well, all right, he’s not of age yet but he’s old enough for an ale in the Shire.”

“Merry!  Pippin!  Come back here!”  Merry regarded the Ranger in surprise.  Pippin hung back behind his cousin; this Innkeep did not have old Butterbur’s friendly face and the tweenager was a little afraid of him.  “We will secure our rooms first,” explained Aragorn in a more gentle tone, “then see to our needs.  All our needs.”  Merry nodded and gave the still staring Innkeep a smile, pulling Pip back with him to the others.

This inn was not the equal of The Prancing Pony.  The taproom was dark and not particularly clean.  Stains discolored the rough-hewn tables and chairs and the sawdust on the floor needed changing.  It stank.  But it would be dark in another hour and neither Gandalf nor Aragorn were familiar enough with this town to seek another.  With a shake of his gray head, Gandalf directed the Ranger to inquire after accommodations.  Only two rooms were available and after a moment’s thought, Gandalf apportioned one to Legolas and Gimli and Boromir, and one for the hobbits and himself and Aragorn. 

The hobbits dropped their packs and were out of the room before Gandalf had time to turn around.  The wizard reached out and caught two small shoulders just in time; Pippin’s and Frodo’s as it turned out.  “Lads,” he cautioned them, “I don’t want you wandering about without one of us with you.  And you, Frodo … you should not leave the Inn at all.”

“But Gandalf,” the hobbit protested, his fatigue forgotten in the excitement of exploring this abode of Men, “I want to see, too.  I didn’t get to see anything in Bree; the market wasn’t even open.”

“No, Frodo.  It is too dangerous.  Sam can buy what you need.  You and I will go to the common room and have dinner and a drink.”

“Gandalf, please -"

"We’ll guard him, Gandalf,” Merry volunteered.  “We’ll take Boromir with us, if you wish.  No one would bother us with he or Gimli with us.  Please let Frodo come.”

But Gandalf would not be swayed.  “Frodo, no.  Think of…” the wizard trailed off suddenly and looked around them, but they were alone in the dingy hallway.  “Think of what you carry.  You must not place yourself in jeopardy.”

Frodo squared his thin shoulders and the wizard’s heart sank.  Bribery, then.  “If you stay,” he said quickly, “I will tell you a tale of Bilbo’s Adventure that I am sure Bilbo would have omitted to tell you.”

Frodo looked at him narrowly, warring curiosities evident on his face.  Gandalf’s wishes and his own good hobbit-sense triumphed.  “All right, all right.  I will stay.”  Turning, he handed Sam his purse with instructions to buy whatever they needed.  As the others turned to leave, he leaned over and whispered in Sam’s ear, “And some sweets for Pippin.  Whatever he wants.”

Sam looked over his shoulder and smiled, “Aye, sir.”

“And some for yourself and Merry.”

The smiled broadened.  “Aye, sir.”

* * * * *

Frodo leaned back with a groan, rubbing his stomach.  Despite his reservations about the place, the food had been excellent.  The ale, too.  He looked up just in time to see Gandalf smiling at him, smoke-rings drifting up from his pipe as the wizard leaned back in his chair.  “And what are you so happy about?”

“It is good to see you eat again, my friend.”

Frodo’s answering smile faded.  “I know, Gandalf.  I’m just so tired, sometimes.  The food seems to stick in my throat.  And sometimes I can’t see or feel anything beyond -"

The Ring-bearer broke off, shuddering.  He looked down at his hand, surprised to find it had risen to his breast.  With a gasp, he forced it down.  “I won’t think about that, now.  I won’t.  What did you say when Bilbo threw up in the barrel?”

Gandalf had leaned forward, his sharp eyes suddenly piercing.  Now he relaxed with deliberate effort as he saw the hobbit regain control of himself, leaning back and working to produce another casual smoke-ring.

“I said he’d best clean it up, of course.”  The wizard withdrew the pipe and tapped the bowl on the table.  He smiled to see Frodo’s eyes follow it longingly.  “I’m sure those cousins of yours will return with some pipe-weed, Frodo.  Not Longbottom Leaf or Old Toby, of course, but this part of the world produces some acceptable substitutes.”

Frodo nodded, that strained, pinched look leaving his face as he relaxed.  Suddenly he yawned, bringing up a hand before his mouth with an apologetic glance at Gandalf.  “Excuse me, Gandalf.  Time for bed, I think.”

Frodo gained his feet and reached out to put his hand on Gandalf’s shoulder as the wizard started to rise, too.  “Gandalf, I am hardly likely to be abducted between here and our rooms.  I am fifty years old; surely I can walk up some dark stairs by myself.  Stay here and enjoy another ale, and gather some news.”

After a moment’s consideration, the wizard nodded and sank back down.  Frodo resented being smothered, he knew that.  And the Company’s need for news was urgent.  Events were occurring of which he had no knowledge.  News of the road ahead of them, news of the movements of armies, orcs and other foul folk…

“All right, Frodo.  I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.  You will be careful, won’t you?”

Frodo rolled his eyes resignedly, his expression martyred.  Then he dropped the guise and laughed, his beautiful eyes sparkling.   “Don’t worry, Gandalf.  I’m so full that if a robber tried anything, I’d probably upchuck on him.  That would surely discourage him.”

The wizard laughed outright, immeasurably glad to see the humor in his small friend’s face.  Coming into the town had been a good decision, after all.  Still, he kept the Ring-bearer in sight as the hobbit slowly climbed the stairs, one small hand trailing along the rail, shining in the dim light like a lily.

* TBC * 

Chapter Two

“Sweets!”

“Pippin!”

“Mr. Merry!”

“Samwise!”  Boromir groaned, fighting the urge to draw his sword and hack up something.  When the Man had agreed to escort the three young hobbits to the marketplace, he had no idea that “escorting” would including following, chasing, hunting down, paying reparations to outraged merchants and generally being treated as an amiable pack-pony by the halflings.  There was no possible way he could defend them in case of attack; his arms were loaded with bundles and packages, his pockets stuffed with cheese, apples, and a skin of something that was leaking down his leg.

Upon arriving at the marketplace, the hobbits had taken off in three separate directions, driving their guard near to distraction.  He had corralled Pippin at the sweets vendor, unearthed Merry from among the apples and dug out Sam at the spice merchant’s.  He had rounded them up and sternly lectured them about staying within his sight at all times.  They had nodded dutifully and shot away the moment he finished.  The halflings were neither reckless nor disobedient, he knew, just preoccupied and excited by the first chance they had in months at shopping.  He was entirely unable to keep them in sight and only saw them when one or the other returned to shove another parcel into his arms.  Why hadn’t he let the Dwarf accompany them?  Or the Elf?  Aragorn would have managed them better but the Ranger had departed the inn almost immediately, his stern face set as he left to seek out an informant he knew in the town.  At least the youngest hobbit hadn’t disappeared this time; Pippin had skidded to a stop before a honey vendor and was busily handing over copper coins for a dripping comb dusted with sugar. 

“Just what he needs,” observed Sam gloomily, returning to the Man.  “He’ll be bouncin’ off the walls all night and won’t none of us get any sleep.”  Sam’s own arms were similarly full of purchases but he had taken the time to fold his cloak into a carry-bundle, a foresight the Gondorian envied.  Boromir dared not put everything on the ground to arrange it more carefully; he felt that the entire load was shifting precariously in his arms and might go at any moment.

Pippin’s curly head tilted all the way back to let the sweet honey drip into his mouth, sticking his tongue into the waxy comb and licking the edges.  The comb was also dripping down his arm, smearing his shirt cuff and running inside his sleeve.  Merry arrived a moment too late; Pippin grinned at him impudently, knowing that Sam was obligated to buy him sweets even if his elder cousin refused.  Good thing he’d heard Frodo tell Sam that before they left the inn.

The little town had never before seen hobbits, and despite the little ones’ willingness to introduce themselves to all and sundry, did not know what to make of these small, energetic folk.  Boromir understood the feeling.  Despite months of traveling with them, and the two months spent with them in Rivendell before that, they befuddled and confused him, annoyed him, aggravated him … and he would die to protect them.  Good thing, too, Boromir mused; the owner of the cart that Pippin had accidentally overturned had looked near to making that a possibility.

Pippin had cut a small swath of unintentional destruction from the edge of the marketplace to the center, Merry a step behind in horrified disbelief.  The youngest hobbit had never seen such a wealth of fascinating things and his own small hoard of coins had quickly been exhausted.  Too excited to be circumspect, the tweenager’s weariness and apprehension were forgotten in his absorption.  Pippin was sorry that Frodo hadn’t been allowed to come and his own pockets were stuffed with choice apples and pipe-weed and molasses candy for his cousin.  Hopefully, Pippin thought, Gandalf would realize they were in absolutely no danger in this delightful little town and allow the Ring-bearer to venture out of the inn on the morrow.

Pippin gave the honeycomb a final slurp and tossed it down to join the others at his feet, rubbing his arm across his sticky face.  A step later and he decided he understood why Men wore boots.  The honey and the deep-fried apple and the cheese and the frosted sticky bun and the meat-onna-stick and the strawberry shortcake had been delicious but now he was ready for some real supper.  The filthy, sticky tweenager looped his arm through his cousin’s and grinned up at their escort.  “Merry, I’m hungry.  Come on, Boromir, let’s eat.”

His nerves worn thin, the Man could have wept with relief.

* * * * *

Aragorn sat across from the informer, a blacksmith known to gather information for the infrequent times a Ranger passed through the town.  He had met the man once before, long ago.  The man had been suspicious, but after the proper passwords and several coins had been exchanged, the smith had been willing to talk.  At his side in the rough house sat Legolas, the Elf hiding his fair features under one of Aragorn’s spare cloaks.  Gimli had declined to accompany them, preferring instead to work on oiling and repairing the rings of his heavy mail coat.  Legolas had leaned over the Dwarf and sniffed pointedly as Gimli hauled the heavy chain mail over his head, earning him a growled, “I know, I know.  It smells bad.  Metal does if it is rained on and wet for months on end.  I’ll take care of it.”

“Good,” returned the Elf with an elegant lift of his eyebrows.  “I would appreciate not walking next to a rust-bucket that creaks with every step.”   The Dwarf had just rumbled under his breath, his thick hands surprisingly nimble as he rubbed the oil into each of the thousands of links, cleaning away the red specks of corrosion.

The blacksmith’s heavily-muscled hands reminded him of Gimli’s, Aragorn thought, his attention abruptly returned to the conversation at hand.  He was tired, he realized.  He should have stayed with Gandalf and Frodo and left this interrogation for the morrow.  But the smith feared to meet with the Rangers during the day, preferring the darkness when his neighbors slept.

“So there have been many strangers moving through the town?”

“Yeah.”  The blacksmith’s voice was deep and slow.  “Though you lot be stranger than most.”

“What can you tell us of these strangers?”  Legolas’ clear voice made the smith raise his head and try into see into the Elf’s face.

“Would you lower your hood, sir?” asked the man, and slowly, Legolas did.  The smith stared at the Elf for long moments then smiled, his teeth startling white in the mask of ingrained soot.  “Never seen one o’ the Fair Folk before, sir.  Hope you don’t mind.”

Legolas returned the man’s smile, amusement gleaming in his luminescent eyes.  “No offense taken, good smith.”  He covered his head again and gently prodded the man.  “You were telling us of the strangers that have passed through your town.”

The man nodded.  “Most travelers come and go.  Not much here ‘ta hold them.  But two have come and stayed for near two weeks.  One’s a dark figure in a dark cloak I’ve only heard tell of.  The other has hired one of our townsfolk, Kent, to show him around.  His face I’ve never seen.  He wears a black cloak at all times and the hood’s always up.  They’ve been spending coin like water, asking questions ‘bout any small folk that have come through town.”

Aragorn leaned forward.  “Small folk?”

* * * * * 

“You are certain the little people said they were from ‘the Shire’?” asked the man, his thin, eager face lit by the flames of the great hearth of the common room.  Beside him, the second man was silent, his face hidden by the deep hood of the black cloak he wore.

“Aye,” responded the innkeeper.  “Heard ‘im clear, I did.  Nice little folks, none the worse for being strangers here.”

“And the smaller one had dark hair?”

“Not dark, exactly,” hedged the innkeeper, “more brownish-bronze -"

“But his hair was darker than the other?  The other was larger and more blond?”

“Aye, that he was.”  The innkeeper looked at the men intently,  “See here, you don’t mean those little folk any harm, do you?  I won’t stand for any o’ that type of thing here.”

“No fear, good Innkeep,” murmured the second man, his voice low and somewhat distorted.  “Give the good Innkeep a little expression of our gratitude, Kent.”

The man the other had named Kent pushed a small sack across the bar, which clinked when the innkeeper picked it up.  At the door, the cloaked man turned and addressed the innkeeper again.  “And you saw them leave with the warrior, you said?  They asked you for directions to the market?”

“Aye,” the innkeeper responded again, sorry he’d agreed to speak with these two in spite of the weight of the small sack in his hand.  “Look, if you’re wantin’ to know more about them, talk to that old man at that there table, the one with the big grey beard and the hat and the walking stick.  He’s been talkin’ to folk all night.”

Both of the strangers stiffened.  “No, no need for that,” said Kent hurriedly.  “We were just curious, my friend and I.  Just curious, that’s all.”  The two left and the innkeeper was glad to see them go.  He hoped he’d not brought the nice little people any trouble.   

* * * * *

Frodo paused at the top of the stairs, leaning against the rail to stare out over the inn’s common room.  He had indeed eaten too much, he reflected ruefully; he wasn’t used to it.  Sam would be proud of him.  Too bad his friend wasn’t here to see his master make an absolute pig of himself…  Frodo groaned, rubbing his stomach.  A walk would make him feel better, but he had promised Gandalf that he would not leave the inn.  A bath would be just the thing but the innkeeper had informed them that the fires beneath the great copper boilers were banked for the night.  He’d have one in the morning.

Frodo trudged to the room he would be sharing with his fellow hobbits and Gandalf and Aragorn, noting the disarray of packs on the floor and items strewn about the room.  Well, he could scarcely give himself airs – Bag End often looked like an hurricane had torn though it, despite Sam clucking his tongue and picking up after him.  Housekeeping had never been his highest priority but unlike Bilbo, he had managed to keep most of his books and papers off the floor.  He hung up his jacket and folded his waistcoat in some attempt at neatness, sliding off his braces and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt.  In Bag End, he’d be sitting in his study now, in his dressing gown, writing or studying, a cup of mint tea at his elbow.  Bag End … dear old Bilbo … with a grimace, Frodo rebuked himself for indulging in melancholy.  Yawning, the hobbit checked that the door was locked, as he had promised the wizard he would, and pulled up an oversized chair before the fire.  So good to just sit … sit and think…

Thirty seconds later the Ring-bearer was sound asleep, his dark head fallen forward on his breast, furry feet propped up on a footstool before the flames.

Outside the night deepened, the cold stars twinkling above.  The hobbit would not have heard the quiet click at the window even if the fire had not crackled with such soothing enthusiasm.  Aragorn and Gandalf had given the poorly-glazed window a hard stare as they came into the room, but as the room was located on the second story, far out of reach even with a ladder, they had not sought to bar it.  The swollen wood of the window creaked and the dark shape perched perilously on the sill froze.  Climbing down from the eve of the roof had been difficult; it had required all the agility and stealth the shadowed shape possessed.  But the little figure before the fire did not stir at the faint noise.  The dark shape waited a moment longer, to be certain the Ring-bearer slept, and then continued gently levering open the window.

* TBC * 

Chapter Three

“I don’t feel well,” announced Pippin, his sharp face obviously discomforted.  The young hobbit leaned back on the bench, rubbing his stomach and grimacing at the small amount of food remaining on his plate.  Boromir looked at the youngster worriedly.  He had spent the walk to the small roadhouse they had selected for dinner counseling the halfling against eating everything in sight from the marketplace to sitting down to a proper supper.  Merry and Samwise had tried also, but Pippin had been too excited to listen.  Astonishing amounts of an astounding variety of foods had disappeared into that small mouth.  Pippin moaned, his small face taking on a decidedly green cast.

“Oh oh,” murmured Merry.

“Master Pippin?” asked Sam.  “Are you all right?”

“Urph,” said Pippin unhappily.  “I think … I think something must be disagreeing with me…”

“Couldn’t possibly be the half a cow you just ate,” Merry pointed out, “or the vat of potatoes, or the loaves of bread, or the honey and the deep-fried apples and the cheese and the frosted sticky bun and the meat-onna-stick and the strawberry shortcake you ate before we even got here.”

“Ohhhhh…”  Pippin looked at them miserably, not appreciating his cousin’s recitation.  Sam covered his ale and edged back.

In their concern over the tweenager and feeling safe and relaxed in the roadhouse, none of the diners noticed the two dark forms that sat in a corner of the smoky room, their cloaks drawn up and their faces hidden.  One of the dark forms, a thin man calling himself Kent, nudged the other.  “Are you sure that’s them?  The dark-haired one looks very young.”

The other dark form withdrew distastefully from the nudging elbow.  This one’s black hood was drawn low over his face, allowing no light to shine on his features.  Black leather gloves covered his hands.  The hood turned towards the odd assortment at the far table, the large Man and the three halflings, and the hood tilted consideringly.  “It must be them,” this one finally responded, when Kent was becoming impatient for a reply.  “We were told that the one we want looks young, though he is not.  The others are larger, and blond.  This must be the one we were sent to seek.”

“He doesn’t look well,” observed Kent, and indeed, the darker-haired form now had both hands pressed to his small mouth, his eyes widening.

The other leaned forward, hidden eyes intent.  The small dark-haired one was rising, panic blooming in his eyes.  One of the other halflings pushed himself to his feet, an arm around the dark-haired one’s waist.  The sandy-haired one remained seated, sheltering his drink.  The warrior stood also, reaching across the rough table lay a hand on the halfling’s shoulder.  The small one was shaking his head at both of them, then suddenly whirled and darted out the back door.

The other halfling sighed and started to follow.  But the warrior gently pushed him down and spoke to him, and after a moment, the blond halfling smiled faintly and rejoined his companion, applying himself to his cooling dinner.  The warrior adjusted the great sword he wore at his belt and followed the little one.

Kent and the other rose, their movement masked by all the activity around them.  They paid their bill and unobtrusively left, angling around the corner to the rear of the roadhouse.  There the black-cloaked one pulled Kent into the shadows, and motioned with an oddly shaped hand to the scene before them.

The warrior was bending down to speak with the dark-haired halfling, who was looking up at him with an expression of woe on his sharp face.  The little one nodded, shame-faced, at whatever the man was telling him.  The man patted the small shoulder in sympathy and gestured to the door.  The little one pulled in a great breath of air and nodded again.  The man smiled at him and straightened.

Then the small one was lurching forward, diminutive hands reaching out to desperately clutch the warrior’s surcoat and hold himself up.  The bronze head bowed and the little one was vomiting on the warrior’s boots, whimpers of wretchedness punctuating the awful heaving.  Kent’s stomach twisted in involuntary sympathy.  The warrior supported the little one gently, making no move to turn aside as the barrage of semi-digested food splattered on his boots, half-humorous resignation on his stubbled face.

“Now!” hissed the black-cloaked figure beside Kent.

* * * * *

Legolas had suggested stopping for a glass of wine on the way back to their inn, but Aragorn had vetoed the idea, disquieted by the intelligence he had received from the informer.  The Ranger wanted only to return and confirm that the others were well, though he knew that Gandalf would allow no harm to come to the hobbits.  The two moved swiftly through the almost deserted streets, the cold night deepening around them.  After so long journeying in the Wild, it felt odd and dangerous to be enclosed by the tall, narrow buildings, their windows dark and blank.  He tensed as they walked past each dark, foul-smelling alley, the shadows within seeming tricksy and threatening.

Lending Legolas one of his spare, tattered cloaks to disguise himself had been a waste of effort, Aragorn mused.  The Elf moved with unconscious grace, a fluidity of motion that even the light-footed Ranger could not equal.  None observing their passage could doubt that he walked with one of the Fair Folk.  Good thing they were almost to the inn.  Aragorn snorted to himself and was not surprised to see the Elf’s clear eyes turn to him immediately.

“What amuses you so, my friend?”

“I was just thinking of what the blacksmith said.  About ‘our lot’ being stranger than most of the strangers passing through this little town.”

Legolas laughed softly, starlight catching and reflecting in his luminous eyes.   “Indeed, our Fellowship must be a passing rare sight to these simple townsfolk.  A wizard, two Men, an Elf, a Dwarf and four little ones…  I wonder how Boromir is faring with the hobbits in the marketplace.”

“That is a sight I would enjoy seeing,” Aragorn replied with a grin.  “From a distance, that is.  I can well imagine Pippin is -”   The Ranger broke off as the Elf’s hand tightened on his arm.  Legolas went still, his tall form rigid, those far-seeing eyes staring into the distance.  Aragorn followed his gaze but could see nothing to alarm him in the gloom.

“Legolas?  What do you see?”

The Elf was silent for a moment, trying to understand what his eyes told him.  Then, “Is that not Frodo’s window?  The corner one on the second floor?  There is something – a shape – on the sill.  It is moving!”

His gaze so directed, Aragorn could indeed see something large hunched on the protruding wooden sill, a black shape that obscured the light coming from within the room.  Even as he struggled to perceive it, the figure seemed to unfold itself, rising, and with astonishing agility, hooked strong fingers into the inn’s slatboard siding and pulled itself upright.

“Shoot it!  Shoot it!”  Legolas already had his bow off his back and had strung it, nocking an arrow even as the Ranger spoke.  The figure stood, barely discernable in the dim light of the stars, turning towards them as it heard their voices on the still night air.  The Elf’s arrow sped from his bow and the dark shape threw itself violently to the side, fingers digging into the window frame.  In disbelief, the two watched as the arrow missed – missed! – and struck the poorly glazed glass, shattering it.  Shards of glass fell to the dirt streets, clattering shrilly on the wooden boardwalk before the inn.  Some of the broken glass fell inwards and Aragorn spared a moment’s fear to think of the Ring-bearer’s unshod feet.

The window next to the Ringbearer’s room was thrown up and Gimli’s bushy-haired head appeared, his mustaches half-braided.  The Dwarf glared down at them, spreading his muscled hands on the sill and leaning out.  “What’s going on down there?” he roared, his cavern-bred eyes identifying them easily in the darkness. 

“There is something at Frodo’s window!” shouted Aragorn.  Legolas had a second arrow fitted to his bow, seeking a target.  The black shape had disappeared – no, there!  While they had been distracted by the Dwarf, it had pulled itself up the siding to the roof.  They could see it only as a darker blackness against the night.  Legolas let fly another arrow.  The figure jerked, twisted around – had it been hit?  They could not see.  Gimli had pulled himself half out of the window, sitting on the sill and leaning backwards, trying to see above him. 

Legolas swung the bow over his back and ran towards the inn, was in through the doors and flying up the stairs almost before Aragorn was aware he had moved.  Gimli disappeared from the window.  Aragorn backed up, trying to see more of the roof, his own bow now held at the ready.  He heard muffled shouts from within the inn, then a thud that the Ranger could imagine as a thick body thrown against a heavy wooden door.  Another thud, even as Legolas appeared at the second window, the one Gimli had vacated a moment before. 

“Frodo’s door is locked!” the Elf shouted.  “He does not answer!  Gimli is trying to break down the door.  Can you see anything?”

Aragorn’s keen eyes sought any movement on the roof, the arrow fitted to his bow swinging to the side, following his gaze.  “No!  No, I can see nothing!  It has not come back over this side.” 

Legolas leaped lightly onto the sill, one of his long bone-handled knives unsheathed and stuck through his belt.  With ability that none of the mortal folk could equal, the Elf was outside, balancing on the sill, turning himself around and swarming up the building’s siding, long fingers finding sure purchase on the rough boards.  The Elf paused for a moment in his climbing but Aragorn could not see why, could only see the Elf as a dim form against the wood.  Then Legolas was reaching a long arm up to the roof’s eave and pulling himself over it.

A third thud and Aragorn winced at the impact of sturdy flesh against time-aged wood.  The Ranger swept his bow from one end of the roof to the other, half-hoping, half-dreading that the dark figure would show itself.  There were no buildings to either side to which it could jump, but what of the rear?  Was there another path it could take, another route of escape?

All other thoughts were drowned out in a shattering blast of noise, an ear-shattering detonation that sent a shockwave of sound coursing through the courtyard.  The few shards of glass remaining in Frodo’s window were blown out, the wooden casement tearing itself from the wall to smash near the Ranger’s feet.  Aragorn fell back a step then sank to his knees, the bow falling from numb fingers as his hands went to his ears.  Momentarily deaf, he knelt on the wooden boardwalk in the courtyard and stared up into the raging inferno of flames erupting from Frodo’s window.

* TBC *

Chapter Four

It was his warrior’s instincts, honed over years of battle, that warned Boromir more than any surreptitious sound made by their attackers.  He did not raise his head or look about, but his great shoulders tensed, muscles tightening as he shifted the little one’s weight to free his swordarm.  Pippin was still hunched over, miserably bringing up everything he had eaten onto the man’s boots and few sounds could have sneaked past his hacking and whimpers.  Those sounds echoed in the foul-smelling alley, drowning out the patient squeaking of rats in the storage barrels stacked against the rear of the roadhouse.  Boromir rubbed the tweenager’s back comfortingly with one hand, while the other stole to his sword.  He drew it soundlessly, his turned body and heavy cloak masking the movement.

One of the hidden figures surged forward with an impressive howl, the long knife Kent had kept concealed during their surveillance raised above his head.  Boromir shoved the choking hobbit against the wall and whirled to meet the man, his sword not raised but level with the man’s heart.  Kent froze, his weapon raised dramatically but uselessly above his head, suddenly frightened eyes staring into the cool hazel ones of the warrior facing him.

Boromir said nothing, merely moved the sword upwards, drawing it lightly over the apple of the man’s throat.  The thinnest trickle of blood welled up and began to run down the sweating skin.  The man closed his eyes and then opened them, casting them to his sides.  That was a mistake.  Boromir’s eyes followed, seeking what help the man silently begged for. 

“You,” he said softly, identifying the darker black of the second watcher’s cloak against the night, “come forward where I can see you.”  Behind him, Pippin had finally become aware of something outside of his own wretchedness, and was hugging the wall close in confusion and fear.

The dark figure stepped away from the shadows but did not advance into the open.  The glint of a drawn sword could be seen under the black cloak, but he did not offer to raise it.

“Come out,” Boromir growled, “or your friend here dies.”

“Kill him if you like,” replied a distorted voice, oddly muffled and hoarse.  “He is a fool and deserves death.”  Kent made a strangled cry of protest, drawing the Gondorian’s gaze back to him for an instant. 

“You may lower your arm,” said Boromir.  “Drop the knife.”  The long blade clattered on the filthy cobblestones and the warrior’s sword withdrew slightly from the man’s bleeding throat. 

“Did you not hear me?  Come out where I can see you or your comrade dies,” Boromir repeated.

“Kill him,” the other repeated indifferently.  “He has served his purpose.  I know my way around this cess-pit of a town, now.”

Boromir and Kent both stared at the dark figure, nonplussed.

“Do you seek to rob us?” growled Boromir, not knowing what to do.  “What is your purpose here?”

The dark form did not answer.  Instead, it emitted a snarling laugh and in an astonishingly quick movement, was gone back into the dark.

Frustrated and angry, Boromir lowered his sword and caught the man by his cloak-clasp, shaking him.  “You, then!  Who are you, and what is your purpose here?”

“Kent,” the man gasped.  “My name is Kent.  He hired me to show him my town.  Nothing more, I swear it!”

Boromir’s hand tightened in the cloak, lifting the cowering man from his feet.  Kent’s hands flew to his neck, struggling to draw in air.  “I have captained enough men to know when I am being lied to,” the warrior said softly, conversationally.  “If you do not tell me the truth, you will die before another minute passes.”

The man goggled and Boromir felt a small hand tugging on his surcoat.  “You’re choking him,” Pippin advised.  The tweenager’s face had lost its green tinge but he sagged weakly against the wall, exhaustion and illness and retreating adrenaline dampening his spirit.

Boromir relaxed his hold and the man’s toes lowered to the cobbles.  When he had air to speak, Kent coughed.  “All right, sir!  He paid me to help him take the little one, there.  To take the dark-haired one, smaller than the others.  To take him only, sir, not to hurt him.  I swear it, sir!”

“Your swearing gives me little confidence,” replied Boromir dryly, sparing a glance for the pale-faced hobbit.  “Why do you seek my friend?”

“I don’t know!”  Boromir shook him again and the man cried out.  “Truly, sir, I don’t!”

The warrior stared deep into the man’s fear-filled eyes, then flung him to the ground with a contemptuous oath.  Pippin flinched, retreating back to the wall.  The man stared at them for a moment in disbelief, then scrambled to a crouch and backed away.  “Thank you, sir.  You’ll not regret letting me go, I promise you.  If there is anything I can do for you -”

“Get out of my sight,” suggested Boromir.  The man gawked at him a moment, then turned and ran.  “Come, Pippin,” the warrior said gently.  “We must go back to the others.  We are leaving now.”

“Boromir,” said the young hobbit softly.  “I don’t think he meant me.”

 The warrior gazed at him sorrowfully.  “Neither do I, Pippin.  Come, we must gather Sam and Merry and return to the inn at once.”

Collecting the other hobbits, Boromir stuffed all of their purchases into a sack he had obtained and herded them back along the narrow, winding streets.  They smelled smoke long before they saw flames.  Retracing their steps from the now silent marketplace, they turned the last corner and stood stunned.  The man and the three hobbits gazed at the smoldering remains of the inn, faces blank, mouths hanging open in shock.  Folk still ran to and fro, throwing buckets of water on the smoking timbers, rooting among the blackened debris.  At last Pippin nudged his gaping cousin and leaned over to whisper in his ear, “At least they can’t blame this one on us.”

* * * * *

“Finally!” shouted Gandalf when the four moved closer, picking their way carefully among the ruins.  Seeing the hobbits hopping over the still-burning coals, Boromir swept up Merry and Pippin into his arms and ordered Sam onto his back, the sturdy hobbit’s legs wrapped around his waist.  Laden with hobbits and burdened with all their purchases from the marketplace, he struggled over the smoking ground.  The man felt heat rising through his thick leather boots and was grateful to identify a patch of unburned ground where he could put them and the heavy sack down.

“What happened here?” Boromir asked, his dazed gaze seeking the other members of the Fellowship among the wreckage. 

“Gandalf burned down the inn,” drawled Aragorn, drawing even with them and checking the hobbits over quickly. 

“I did not!” retorted Gandalf.  “All right, I did, but it was an accident.”

Sam had been performing the same inventory as Boromir, and had come up one short.  “Where’s Mr. Frodo?” he asked.  Merry’s bright head whipped around, horror dawning on his features.

Gandalf let go of his aggravation and regarded them sorrowfully.  Kneeling in the muck, he placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and one on Merry’s.  “Lads,” he said softly, “I have something to tell you.”

“Where’s Mr. Frodo?” Sam repeated, his voice rising.  Beside him, Pippin was looking about frantically, and would have already dashed off in search of his cousin had not Boromir’s firm hand restrained him.

Aragorn also knelt and captured Pippin’s hands in his own.  “You must not fear,” he told them, instantly wrenching up their apprehension, “Frodo has been taken.”

“Taken?”  Merry repeated the word as if he did not understand its meaning.

Now Gandalf spoke.  “Some creature … some thing … levered open his window and … took him … while I sought information downstairs.  The first I knew, Legolas ran past me, shouting that something perched on the Ring-bearer’s windowsill, seeking entrance.  I followed him up the stairs to find Gimli throwing himself against the door.  It was locked … locked as I made Frodo promise it would be.”  For a moment the old wizard looked his age, lined face tightening in grief and self-recrimination.  “I called for the key, but the Innkeep could not be found and there was not time to seek him.  So I ordered Gimli from the door and blew it down with Power.”

“White fire,” murmured Aragorn.  He looked up at a resounding crash to see Gimli heaving a charcoaled timber off a section of  slatboard siding, the Dwarf roaring for Legolas as he did so.  The Elf straightened from helping a group of men dig through some smoking wood to run lightly over to him, his feet touching the smoldering coals too quickly and lightly to burn.  “Gandalf was … rather upset.  The blast incinerated the door and roared through the room, catching the linens afire.  It must have exploded the lamps and the lamp oil splattered onto the walls.  Within seconds, everything was burning.”

“The room was empty,” Gandalf said, taking up the tale.  “Frodo was gone.   I threw out our packs and belongings while the others tried to douse the fire.”

“But we could not,” Legolas said, joining them.  Gimli puffed up behind him, his thick hands black with smoke and soot.  In them he held a section of siding, now broken down to manageable size.  “The inn was very old and the wood dry,” the Elf continued.  “The townsfolk formed a bucket brigade from the well, but little could be done.  Everyone escaped, but the inn…”  He trailed off and all eyes turned again to the isolated timbers and smoking ruin that had been the impressive two-story lodging-house.

“Gandalf,” rumbled Gimli.  “Look at this.”  The Dwarf held out the wooden siding, pointing with a thick finger at a mark carved in the wood.  “This piece of the building’s exterior survived the fire.  I could not understand Legolas’ missing his mark, so I sought for a reason and found … this.”

Gandalf ran his finger lightly above the rough mark, tracing its curls and jagged spikes, confusion on his face.  “It is a rune of some type, some magical mark…  This was carved on the wood outside Frodo’s window?”

“Aye,” affirmed the Dwarf.  “Could it have caused Legolas’ arrow to go awry?”

The Elf crowded closer to look at the rune.  “As I passed it in climbing to the roof, I felt a … a coldness.  A feeling of …” Legolas seemed to seek for words, finding none that suited.  “…malice … spite.  Old anger and old hatred.”  When Aragorn looked at him inquiringly, the Elf just shook his head, unable to articulate further.

The wizard’s hands lowered to the carven mark and he rubbed his fingers against it.  “I feel magic in it,” said Gandalf.  “I cannot discern its purpose, for it’s fashioning is unknown to me.  But yes, Gimli, it might serve such a purpose.  Keep it, and I will inspect it later in greater depth.”

“What about Mr. Frodo?”  Sam could be silent no longer.  “Aren’t we going ‘ta look for him?”

The Ranger’s gaze turned to the hobbit, looking keenly into the frightened round face, highlighted by a reddish glow as the few pieces of unburned wood caught and flared.  “We will, Sam.  I am hoping there is some trail from the rear of the inn, possibly over the roof of the stables.”

“The stables!”  Sam cried.  “Bill!”

“Bill is unharmed,” Aragorn hastened to assure him.  “All the horses escaped.  They are corralled two streets over.  The fire started at the front of the building, and there was time to evacuate all the animals.”  Aragorn rose to his feet and stared sorrowfully over the hobbits’ heads.  “But I fear that, between the fire and the water used to put it out, the ground will have little tale to tell.  I looked earlier but could only see the marks of mens’ passing – the earth has been churned into a morass of mud.”

“We also have a tale to tell,” put in Boromir, leaving off staring at the smoldering destruction.  “Pippin and I were accosted by a local and another, as we were … ahhh,” the man paused as Pippin stared at him beseechingly.  “We were … taking a breath of air at the roadhouse where we ate.  The first was an amateur, but the other…  The other left the first, a man called Kent, to his fate and from him we learned that he had been hired to abduct ‘the smaller, dark-haired’ halfling, as he put it.”

“Frodo,” breathed Gandalf.

* TBC * 

Chapter Five

“What about Mr. Frodo?”  Sam’s frustrated voice interrupted their discussion.  As far as Sam could see, talking could wait until after his master was found.  He glanced over to Mr. Merry and Master Pippin for support but found none; the two still seemed in shock over the burning of the inn.  Why didn’t the Big Folk get a move on?

“Sam is right,” agreed Aragorn decisively.  “I will seek any sign of their passing.  If he could walk, then the marks of bare hobbit feet should be easy to find.  If he could not…” the Ranger paused and wished he had phrased that differently as Sam’s eyes rounded with worry, “then it will be more difficult.”

At once Aragorn sprang away, his eyes scanning the churned earth.  Legolas followed, his attention on the muddy ground, elven sight compensating for the darkness.  

“Gandalf,” murmured Boromir softly, “I fear we may have another problem.”  The wizard turned around to behold a knot of men approaching them, obviously frightened yet determined, hands on their knives and swords.  Their faces were dark and angry, and they stared at the strangers with hostility.

At their front was the Innkeep, his face florid with anger and fear.  “You!” he shouted, pointing at Gandalf, “you burned down me inn, you did!”

“My good sir,” began the wizard, “I assure you it was an accident -” but the man was too enraged to listen.

“White fire!” the Innkeep shouted, the perspiration on his face glistening in the failing light of his burned livelihood.  “Set fire to me inn, you did!  Now everything’s gone!  Best inn in the town, it was!”  Some of the men looked askance at that, but they supported their own.  “Now, sir, how do you intend ‘ta make reparations?”

Gandalf drew himself up, standing tall with his staff in his hands before him, cloaked in dignity.  “I assure you -” he repeated.

“I don’t want no assurances,” the man fairly howled.  “I want reparation, I does!”

Gimli and Boromir moved to stand behind the wizard, their faces grim, their hands on their weapons.  The townsfolk blanched and fell back - they were farmers and herdsmen and merchants, not warriors.   Gandalf noted their fear with a glint of satisfaction in his eye.  “I said,” he began again, and this time was not interrupted, with two hardened and ready warriors at his back, “that you will be reimbursed for the unfortunate accident that destroyed your inn, good sir.”  The Innkeep looked slightly mollified.  “However … ah … I do not carry such a large sum with me, of course, and -”

“I knew it!” the man fair cried, spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. 

Merry tugged on Gandalf’s robe and the wizard spared a moment to glance at the hobbit.  Merry pushed something into his hand.  “I have my purse, and Frodo’s,” Merry whispered.  “We spent a lot in the market but there’s still a tidy sum of money here.  Take it, Gandalf.”

“Thank you, Merry,” Gandalf returned, weighing the two small sacks in his hand.  “But everything we have would not suffice, I fear -”

The Innkeep had watched this exchange avidly, unable to overhear their soft voices.  Now his face hardened, as did those of his neighbors and they moved forward purposely.  Gandalf pushed the three hobbits behind him, and Boromir and Gimli came forward, raising their weapons.  The hobbits looked about them in confusion, unable to believe this turn of events.  With a ringing chime, the wizard unsheathed his great elven sword and it glinted in the cold twilight like adamant.

“Hold!”

Both sides sighed in relief as several men dressed in short black capes bordered in white entered from one of the side streets.  At once the Innkeep turned to them, baying out his grievances.  “About time you lot got here!” he roared at them.  “These are the ones that did it!  The old man says he won’t pay!  What are you going ‘ta do about it?”

“I am going to find out exactly what happened, Pol,” the tallest of the men said.  Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows lifted to hear the educated accents of Gondorian military training.  Behind him, Boromir gasped, taking a step forward and trying to peer through the gloom into the man’s face.  The guardsmen spread out, surrounding the reduced Fellowship with military professionalism, swords drawn but not leveled at the strangers.  The captain had not noticed Boromir’s soft exclamation and addressed his remarks to Gandalf.

“Sir,” the man said courteously, “I think it best if you and your … group … accompany me to our stockade.  We’ll let tempers cool a little and I can hear your side of the story, and Pol’s.  Then we can decide what needs to be done.”  The captain bowed and motioned to the side with his sword.

Gandalf was not pleased.  “And I think not -” he began, anger on his face, then startled to feel Boromir’s hand on his arm.

“Gandalf,” Boromir whispered, “we cannot stand in the streets.  If we do not go with this man, we will be forced to kill him and his company and these townsfolk also.  No deaths have yet resulted from this unhappy chance; let us not start with these innocent people.”

“Aye,” added Gimli, equally softly.  “Think you also of a stout roof and strong walls around us tonight.  No other lodging-house will accept us and it is too late to leave this place.  There are worse options than a night spent in jail.  And if we choose to leave, I doubt they could stop us.”  The Dwarf’s thick hands shifted on his battle-axe, and the wizard was reminded of how much carnage that weapon could deliver.

Gandalf looked down to the hobbits clustered between himself and the other two.  All three had their small swords out, but were looking about them in dismay and confusion.   Pippin felt the wizard’s eyes upon him and raised his face, white with fear and worry.

“It is all right, Pippin,” Gandalf murmured softly.  With another soft chime, Glamdring was sheathed.  “Put up your weapons, all of you.  We are going with the captain.”

The man bowed then, his white-bordered cape fluttering with the movement.  “I regret we must confiscate your weapons.  They will be returned to you pending settlement of this … dispute.”  The warriors stiffened and it might have gone ill then, if Gandalf had not laughed abruptly and handed over Glamdring’s gleaming sheath.  The others surrendered their arms more reluctantly.  Had Gandalf not been watching so closely, he would have missed the infinitesimal closing of the man’s eyes and the breath of relief released.  The Innkeep and his friends watched warily, angry and unsatisfied, but out powered by the guard force.

“If you will accompany me, sirs,” said the captain graciously.

The Fellowship followed.  Sam tugged anxiously at the wizard’s robes.  “But what about Mr. Frodo?” he hissed, “and Strider and Legolas?”

“Peace, Sam,” Gandalf said softly.   “I have no doubt that Aragorn and Legolas know of this development.”  The wizard glanced about him then raised his voice.  “They will find Frodo.”  The rough voice softened again.  “If we do not go with these men, we will be forced to kill them.  Do you want that?”

“No, no … o’ course not.  But -”

“No talking,” said one of the guardsmen.  Sam gulped and was silent.

* * * * *

Legolas repeated the last words to Aragorn, his elven hearing catching the words the Ranger could not.  The two crouched behind stacked barrels, hidden from view, yet with a clear view of the events.  Aragorn leaned back against the beer-smelling wood and shook his head.  “Are you certain he said to find Frodo?”

“I heard him clearly.”  Legolas returned his arrows to the quiver slung over his back. 

Aragorn nodded then sheathed his own great sword.  “Then that is what we must do.  The others are safe enough, for the present.”

* * * * * 

Awareness returned to the Ring-bearer slowly.  How his head ached!  Had the fire in the hearth smoked and breathing it while he slept given him this dreadful throbbing ache?  He was lucky he didn’t burn the hair off his toes if he was careless enough to go to sleep in front of the flames…

Frodo tried to raise his hands to rub at his temples and found that he could not.  For a moment, this did not register through his haze of pain and confusion, then he understood that he was restrained. 

The hobbit forced open his eyes, struggling to pry apart lashes sticky with crusted matter.  He was in a dark room, dim and dingy, tied to a chair.  Tied to a chair.  Strong cords bound hiswrists to the arms of a man-sized chair.  Then his heart lurched inhis chest and his whole world narrowed down to a silver chain about his throat.  Yes … it was still there.  He could feel it coiled against his breast like a snake, cold and poisonous, a weight that never ceased in sucking the life from him.  It had not been taken from him.

His next thought was for his friends.  Had they been captured also?  The room was empty except for himself and the half-seen lumps of musty-smelling furniture piled against the wall.  Were the others all right?

A faint scuffling sound caught his attention and diverted him somewhat from the pounding behind his eyes.  A huge rat, near to the size of a cat, regarded him from underneath an overturned, broken-seated chair.  The rodent’s eyes gleamed at him, reflecting in the dim light that came through the room’s single dirty window.  As he watched in horror and disgust, it emerged from its hiding place and rose up on its hind legs, whiskers twitching.  It could reach him, he realized – it was large enough that it could attack him.  The vile beast seemed to know this also, and with a final peering at him from its malicious eyes, lowered itself to all fours and came towards him, sharp claws scraping against the dusty wooden floor. 

Frodo kicked at it desperately, muffling the cry that rose in his throat.  He managed to scoot the chair marginally back but did not have the strength to push it far.  The thought that he might overturn the chair stilled him.  Many black eyes now peered at him from beneath the furniture and corners of the room, all as large as the great rat.  Many, many of them…

“They hunger,” said a soft, hissing voice. 

Frodo looked about frantically.  What he had taken for some unidentified lump of furniture shifted slightly, resolving itself into a dark form draped in shadows.  The rats paused at the movement but it did not alarm them, and they crawled closer to the Ring-bearer’s chair, reaching up tiny clawed hands to touch the chair-legs of the prisoner.

Frodo looked up wildly.  He tried to pull up his legs but was tied too tightly; he could only tuck them sideways.  From the trembling of his thigh muscles, he would not long be able to hold that position.  He stared mutely at the shadowed figure, eyes wide with terror and pain.

The rat placed both fore claws on the lowest ring of the chair and pulled itself up, balancing easily on the narrow rod of wood.  Others crowded after it, weaving their lithe bodies around the chair legs, squeaking in rising excitement.  Frodo made an inarticulate bleat of fear in spite of himself.

“Once they taste blood,” came the sibilant voice, “I may not be able to pull them all off in time.”

“What do you want?”  Frodo tried to order his voice but it came out high and terrified.  “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I am ordered to, of course,” the voice answered, a trace of contemptuous amusement in its tone.  “Do not you know that you have many hunters on your trail, little halfling?  There is quite a price on that curly head.” 

The first rat had stilled upon hearing voices but now it raised itself to the second rung.  With a leap, it could be upon him, Frodo realized.  The others would follow in seconds.  He kicked at it again but the creature only watched, its snarling mouth drawn back over tiny white teeth.

“Who are you?  Where are my friends?”

“I took you from the inn,” the form continued, ignoring the hobbit’s questions.  “You are heavier than you look.  You owe me your life, you know.”

Frodo stopped staring at the rats and raised his eyes to the dark form.  The other nodded.  “Oh yes, the Grey Pilgrim burned it down, trying to open your locked door.  Ironic, yes?”  It laughed, a snarling, ugly sound.

“Burned it … burned it down?”  Frodo could not assimilate the information.  The rat sat back on its haunches and gathered itself to leap.

* TBC * 

Chapter Six

“Anything?” called Legolas.

“Nothing,” replied the Ranger.  Aragorn straightened, rubbing the small of his back.  Gandalf may have named him “greatest swordsman and hunter of this age of Middle-earth,” he mused, but not even Elendil himself could have made sense of the churned mud and earth that now surrounded the still smoldering remains of the inn.

The bucket brigade had not been concerned with preserving the ground, only with drowning the raging fire before it spread to the other wooden buildings of the little town. They had been successful, only the inn and its attached stables had gone up.  But the result was this morass under their feet, shifting earth sloshing with puddles of water and the track of many, many human boots.  People continued to track through the mess, turning over smoking piles of wood, putting out spot fires that flared here and there.  Some of the barrels from the taproom had been saved, but others had gone up in spectacular explosions of froth and flame.

“The earth will not speak, Aragorn,” the Elf growled.  Legolas looked up, his clear eyes catching and reflecting the starlight.  “We must seek another method of tracking Frodo.”

“If eyes will not serve, then perhaps mind might,” the Ranger replied after a moment.  Seeing the Elf’s blank look, he smiled.  “Put yourself in your quarry’s place, I was taught.  How would I flee, carrying a burden and running ahead of the hounds?”

“How do you know Frodo was being carried?”

“We saw the dark figure on the windowsill, did we not?”  Legolas nodded, his gaze clouded.  “Its arms were empty then, so it must have already taken Frodo and returned for some reason.  I would think to search the rooms.  Frodo would not be taken unless he could not prevent it – so he must have been knocked unconscious and possibly bound.  He was most likely lying on the roof, out of our sight.  We saw his kidnapper as it was exiting Frodo’s room, not entering it.”

“Ah,” the Elf murmured softly.

“Be that the case,” Aragorn continued, “we have been about this wrong.  Even townsfolk rushing towards a burning inn would not ignore someone carrying what appears to be an unconscious child.  They would want to know if the little one was hurt, if there was anything they could do to help...”

“So it is not muddied tracks we seek,” completed the Elf, “but the memories of Men.”  Legolas pulled Aragorn’s borrowed cloak more tightly about him in a vain attempt to hide his fair features.  People still mingled around the scene of the destruction, pointing and shaking their heads.  The two exchanged a glance and each chose a gawker to speak with.

* * * * *

The remainder of the Fellowship walked in silence, surrounded by the local guardsman.  Gandalf walked to the fore with the hobbits between him and Gimli and Boromir.  Most of the guards followed after the two warriors, their swords drawn but down.  At one point they were forced to stop to wait for a night-grocer’s wagon to rumble past, and the wizard was not surprised to feel a small hand tug at his robes.  He looked down into three anxious faces, strained and white in the gloom.

“Gandalf, they aren’t watching us like they are you Big Folk.”  Merry’s voice was soft, pitched low to carry to the wizard’s ears alone.  “And the guards are burdened carrying our swords and packs and things.  We could be gone before they knew it.”

Gandalf nodded, torn between the thought of unsupervised hobbits in a town of Men and having more of the Company at large.  His gnarled hands tightened momentarily on Sam’s and Pippin’s shoulders, then he removed them.  “Go,” he whispered.

The driver of the great wagon called out a question to the guardsmen and several of them answered, waving the man on.  It took several moments for them to realize that when their prisoners started moving again, they were three short.

“Now what?” Pippin asked, trying to control his gasping breath.  Sam bent double and fought to stifle a cough.  Their short but swift dash on silent hobbit-feet had been hidden by the darkness and distraction of the guards.  Only Gandalf had seen them go, his sharp eyes following the small forms as they reached the shelter of an outbuilding and hid there.

“We follow,” whispered Merry.  “We need to know where the guardsmen are taking them.”

Upon discovering their absence, the captain had halted his men and loudly demanded to know what had become of the little folk.  Gimli and Boromir genuinely did not know (but could well guess) and Gandalf unashamedly cried ignorance.  “It wasn’t my place to watch them,” said the wizard haughtily, “but yours.  Do not blame us if your men are inattentive.”

The captain had been furious, but quietly furious, with the constrained anger that spoke of leashed violence.  His men had performed a quick search of the surrounding area but it had been no great effort for the hobbits to avoid the great, blundering men.  Sam and Merry and Pippin had watched as the captain harshly ordered his men back into line, grinding his teeth all the while.  With an effort, he visibly relaxed.  So the little ones were gone.  What harm could such small folk do?

The hobbits ghosted after the others on silent feet.  They watched as Gandalf and the others were taken inside and locked in a stout cell, walled on one side by iron bars.  Gandalf went immediately to the single small window, also barred, and stared out into the night.  He nodded at the three pairs of watching eyes, then smiled at them and turned around to help Gimli and Boromir sort though their belongings, everything being returned to them with the exception of their weapons.

“An honest constabulary,” commented Gimli, unfolding several of the Company’s blankets.

“I suspect that is the doing of the captain,” Gandalf remarked softly.  “I heard the speech of Gondor on his tongue, Boromir.  Educated and noble-born, I think.  Though what an officer of the Tower of the Guard would be doing in this nameless place, I cannot imagine.  Do you know him, Boromir?”

“Not personally, no,” replied Boromir after a small hesitation.  “But there has been more than one desertion in the last years … men running when they could no longer bear the … despair of Minas Tirith.”

“If this is such a one,” replied Gandalf, “then perhaps he will remember his duty to his lord’s son.”

“Gandalf,” returned Boromir softly, “if he is a deserter of my father’s guard, then he would not wish us to carry tales of his whereabouts back to Gondor.  It would be to his advantage if we never left this place.”

* * * * *

The hobbits found a quiet refuge in a root cellar not far from the stockade.  The low ceiling and barrels and stacked bags of food comforted them.  It had been locked, of course, but then Samwise had demonstrated an unexpected talent.  “Don’t you tell Mr. Frodo, now,” he had implored the others as his strong, nimble fingers worked at the lock.  When it had clicked free, he had looked embarrassed but also proud.  “I don’t think he would approve … so best he don’t know.”

“He won’t hear it from us, Sam,” Merry assured him, pushing Pip ahead of him down the three wooden stairs.  Sam laid the clasp against the lock and quietly pulled shut the door; it would appear locked and undisturbed at a casual glance.

It was not completely dark inside as the moon and stars shone faintly through the cracks and knotholes of the wooden boards about them.  They collapsed to the floor and rested, tucking their cloaks about them for warmth. 

“We’ve got to get some money,” mused Merry, when they had somewhat recovered themselves.  “I gave my purse and Frodo’s to Gandalf, but Pip still has a few coins.”

An inspection of the tweenager’s purse revealed fourteen copper coins, no silver and not a hint of gold.  “I shouldn’t have spent it all in the market,” groaned Pippin.

“Well, we’ve got to have money,” Merry repeated, drawing up his knees and tucking his chin on them.  “In addition to our needs, we might be able to make bail for the others.  And we need to pay for the inn.  Ah … Sam –“

“No, Mr. Merry.  I’ll not be opening any more locks.  We can just all starve first.”

Merry scowled at him but only half-heartedly.  “All right, all right…  How can we get some money?  And still stay out of sight of the guardsmen?  They’ll be looking for us, you know.”

“I know.”  Sam was silent.  “What if we go ‘ta them and explain that somebody took Mr. Frodo?  They’d be helping us, then, wouldn’t they?”

“I think they would have been more willing to help if we hadn’t burned down the inn, Sam.”

“Good point, that.”

Pippin had gone to sleep leaning against a sack of meal.  Merry pulled several empty flour sacks over him and he and Sam moved to the other side of the tiny room to talk in hushed tones.  They did not sleep until much, much later.

The hobbits had been too exhausted not to sleep well, despite their worry over Frodo and the rest of the Fellowship.  Breakfast was provided by their unknown host; jars of peaches and plums, a bag of nuts and a small barrel of ale.  Pippin dug into his pockets and pulled out the apples and pieces of the sweet molasses candy he had purchased for Frodo, handing them out.  The hobbits leaned back against the crates and barrels, content for the moment.

Dust lay thickly on the glass jars and Sam regarded them thoughtfully.  “I don’t think anyone comes down here, much,” he commented.  “It’s storage and just that.”  He cracked open another walnut and picked out the halves carefully.

“All the better,” replied Merry, struggling to open a jar of peaches.

“I’ve an idea how to make some money, Merry,” ventured Pippin.  The tweenager had recovered his appetite and practically wolfed down his share of the sweet, sticky fruit.  Then he had again counted the coins in his purse and sat staring at them for some time, sliding them back and forth across the dusty wooden floorboards with a dirty index finger.

“I’m open to suggestions, Pip.  What is it?”

Pippin reached over and retrieved several of the walnut shells Sam had tossed away.  He balanced them in his hand a moment, then smiled.

“Oh no,” murmured Sam.

* * * * *

A cloak spread over a small barrel served well enough for a table.  Keeping a careful eye out for guardsmen, Sam lounged against a convenient wall, arms folded across his chest, eyes darting nervously.  Merry climbed atop a crate and started motioning passers-by over.  Some of the townsfolk had met the hobbits in the market the previous evening and remembered the friendly little folk.  None, at least, connected them with the burning of the inn.

“Find the lady!” Merry called to the curious townsfolk.  “Come over here, sir – wouldn’t you enjoy a game of chance?  It’s simple, Mistress, all you need to do is guess the right one.  You either win or you don’t.  You win and we double your coins.  Find the lady, sir?”

Pippin laid out his tools, his small, quick hands darting over the table.  When enough people had collected, he began to sing,

“A little fun, just now and then

 is relished by the best of Men.

If you have nerve, you may have plenty;

Five draws you ten and ten draws twenty.

Attention giv’n, I’ll show to you,

How umbrellas hide the peek-a-boo.

Select your shell, the one you choose;

If right, you win, if not, you lose.

The game itself is lots of fun,

Your chances though, are two to one;

And I tell you that your chance is slim

To win a prize from Peregrin!”*

On the cloak were spread three half walnut shells, arrayed in a line.  As the collected people watched, Pippin held up a dried pea (taken from a sack in the root cellar) and dramatically slid it underneath one of the half-shells.  Then his quick hands were moving over the cloak, sliding the shells across and between each other in dizzying patterns.

At last the quick hands slowed and came to a stop.  Pippin bestowed the townsfolk a brilliant smile, his green-gold eyes dancing.  “Now,” asked Merry, “who’ll be first?”

* TBC *

* Pippin’s little ditty is loosely adapted from the infamous shell man Jim Miner’s barker-song.   Also known as Umbrella Jim, Jim Miner plied his questionable trade throughout frontier America in the 1800s.  “Umbrella” refers to the half walnut-shells.  “The lady,” of course, is the pea.

Chapter Seven

The rat leaped, covering the space to where Frodo sat tied in but a heartbeat.  Its sharp claws scrabbled in the cloth of his trousers and then it was pulling itself up onto his chair, snarling muzzle drawn back over white teeth.

Frodo could not constrain himself.  With a wild cry, he threw himself backwards, a part of his mind remembering the other rats that congregated at the base of his chair but unable to stop himself; his body sought only to escape the abomination touching him.  The chair tipped, spilling him to the dirty floorboards.  And the rats swarmed upon him.

Frodo screamed as he felt the first bite; felt the tiny teeth close and meet in his leg, felt the tearing pain as the rat pulled away flesh.  Then fire flared behind his eyes and the agony became unbearable.

When he came to himself, he was still on the floor tied to the chair, his wrists bound cruelly tight to the wooden arms.  His leg hurt terribly … but why did he not feel the same pain everywhere?  The rats…  Forcing his eyes open, his uncomprehending gaze fell on the still forms about him.  Still, all still.  The huge forms lay without moving, and the overwhelming stench of burned fur and flesh rose to gag his nostrils.  The bodies still steamed gently, melted misshapen lumps, now strangely pitiable in death. 

Frodo whimpered, a scream reduced to pathetic little whines.  A sneering chuckle intruded on his terror.

The hobbit dragged his eyes away from the piteous forms.  His captor stood over him, concealing cloak thrown back.  Again he did not understand what his eyes beheld.  Then with a sickening lurch, he did.

The creature laughed as it beheld his expression.  “Not so pretty,” it marked in its sibilant voice.  “But were you whelped in the breeding-dens of Isengard, you’d not be so pretty either.”  It was hideous, hairless and misshapen, an unnatural blending of goblin and orc and human and something else.  “Saruman wanted more brawn and less brain,” it continued.  It snarled, showing teeth as sharp as those of the rats.  “A wizard’s experiment that should have died but didn’t.”

The creature moved towards him and crouched, tilting its head sideways to regard the bound hobbit on the floor.  “He threw me out, like garbage.”  A hand emerged from the cloak to stroke the hobbit’s face, ruffle curiously through the dark curls.  Frodo saw that it was clawed, the skin scaled and black like a snake’s.  The hand tightened in his hair and pulled cruelly, bringing tears to the hobbit’s eyes.  “Like garbage,” it hissed, and Frodo shivered to hear the hatred in that snarling voice.

“He never even gave me a chance to show him what I was.  What I could do.”  The hobbit stared at it, wide blue eyes mirroring his incomprehension.  The creature smiled.  It raised one clawed hand and traced a figure in the air.  The hobbit gasped to see flame follow the clawed finger, blossoming bright in the dim room.  The creature traced a flaming rune in the air, and the nearest smoldering form erupted into flame, consumed in fire.  In seconds there was only a crisped skeleton.

“So now I have what he wants most…” it continued, forcing the hobbit’s head back to meet its eyes.  The eyes were perfectly round, yellow, with a vertical slit like a cat’s.  “Why does he want you, little person?”

Frodo stared at it, too terrified to reply.  The clawed hand traced his cheekbones, the line of his mouth.  “I searched your room after I took you, you know.  Clothes, travel food, cooking pots … nothing that would justify the wizard’s interest in you.”  It leaned forward, bare inches from the hobbit’s face.  “Why does he want you?”

Frodo stared into those unblinking eyes and raked his mind for any answer other than the one that hung on a silver chain about his throat.  Not by word or action would he betray the trust placed in him.  The malformed hand released his hair and a claw traced the delicate point of the hobbit’s ear.  “So much gold the wizard has spent to hire hunters for you.  Many hunters.  I know of at least one other here.  That one was foolish enough to enlist local help instead of searching for you himself.”  The creature laughed softly, a forked tongue flicking out between the fangs.  “But I found you first.”  The hobbit shuddered as the tongue touched his face briefly, tasting him.  “You have not answered my question, halfling.  Why does Saruman want you?”

Frodo closed his eyes as the hand traced the curve of his eyebrows.  “And not only Saruman,” it continued.  “I took service with one who claimed his master is…” for the first time, the hobbit sensed hesitation, apprehension in the creature.  Its yellow eyes flicked up, around the dingy room.  “He claimed he served the Dark Lord.”  The creature hissed, and Frodo did not know what that meant.  “In any case, you are worth a great deal of gold, halfling.  Why?”

The hobbit remained silent and the creature laughed.  “Stubborn, are you?  Good.  You owe me, halfling.  Your friends shot at me as I left your room.”  It straightened, then, and pulled back the cloak.  The ragged clothes covering its side were dark with blood.  “I’m going to make you talk, little one.  You will tell me what I want to know, sooner or later.”

Frodo closed his eyes.

* * * * *

“A child you say?  No, I’ve not seen anyone carrying a child away from the inn.”  Legolas gracefully thanked the woman and tried another.

“No.  I’da offered ‘ta help if I saw a man carrying a little one, sir.  Was the little one hurt bad?”

Aragorn came up in time to hear the Elf’s vague reassurance.  “No luck?”

“None,” Legolas replied.  “Surely one of these people saw something.”

The Ranger shook his head, noting that the gawkers were beginning to drift away.  The excitement was largely over, most of the spot-fires extinguished.  “We must find a trail soon, Legolas.  We are the only ones free to find Frodo.”

The Elf nodded, his clear gaze scanning the remaining townsfolk.  “Aragorn, look.  By the well.”

The man jerked to attention when he saw the two coming towards him and turned to run.  But Legolas was quicker.  In an instant the Elf was by his side, slender but strong hands catching the man’s arm.  The man gulped and stared at them.  “Please,” said the Elf, allowing the borrowed hood to fall back from his face, “if you saw something, talk to us.”

The man took a deep breath and nodded.  “My name’s Kent,” he told them softly.  “I … I’ve been watching your party, sir, since you first came to the inn.  Please don’t be angry, sirs.”  The man took a deep breath.  “Your friend spared my life tonight when he could have killed me.  I - I came back here after he let me go, hoping to find the man who hired me.”  Anger sparked in that thin face.  “He left me to your friend, he did, after telling the warrior he could just go ahead and kill me.”

“Boromir mentioned you to us,” replied Aragorn cautiously.  “He is a good man.”

The man nodded again.  “That he is.  He could have killed me, and he didn’t.”

Kent stared at them a moment, then smiled tremulously.  “The man who hired me never gave me his name.  I never saw his face.  He wanted me to show him around, put him in contact with my friends.”  The man’s gaze dropped to glare at the muddy earth, angry and embarrassed.  “It was stupid of me, sir, but I needed the money.  He was looking for someone, a stranger.   ‘A dark-haired halfling,’ he said, ‘one smaller than his companion.’  I thought he meant the young one, but now I know he wanted your friend who was taken.”

“What did you see?” asked Legolas.

Kent’s gaze shifted to the Elf.  “I came straight back to the inn, ahead of your friends.  I thought he might have come back here.  But he didn’t.”  Kent stopped and took a breath.  “I was leaving when the inn went up.  I saw a man … I think it was a man – he was all covered up in a cloak – drop off the roof of the stables with something in his arms.  I thought it was a child.  I saw a white little face and dark curly hair.  But then…”

“What?” prodded Aragorn, stifling his impatience.

“The child was all wrapped up in a blanket.  But his feet hung out, and they were huge … all furry like the little folks’ I was paid to follow.”

Aragorn closed his eyes and beside him, Legolas released a breath.  “Did you see which way they went?” the Ranger asked.

Kent nodded.  “I did.  I’ll take you there.”

* * * * *

Frodo dug his fingernails into his palms, hoping the self-inflicted pain would distract him.  His chair had been righted and a lamp lit, then the interrogation had begun.  He would have to quit biting his fingernails, he thought absurdly.  Another slap, and the hobbit’s head rocked back on his shoulders.  He would not cry out – he would not.

Where were the others?  Slap.  Why had no one come to rescue him?  Slap.  Was anyone going to rescue him?  Slap.  

His captor’s questions echoed in his mind, drowning out his own thoughts.  “Why?”  Slap.  “Why?”  Slap. 

The slaps were becoming harder as his captor’s frustration grew.  At first the creature had treated the hobbit’s silence with amusement, pausing often to run clawed hands over the halfling’s face.  Frodo had shuddered and turned away.  It had caught his chin and forced his head back, laughing.

It no longer laughed.

With a snarling oath, it caught the hobbit by the hair, pulling the dark head back so far that the little one’s back arched, throat bared.  The halfling was still conscious, it knew – it had judged its blows carefully.  Small bones broke so easily.  It ran a claw along the diminutive jaw, dropping to draw a red line down the sweating throat.  The finger caught on something and the creature tugged irritably.  Withdrawing the claw, it saw that the tip was blunted. 

Intrigued, the creature knelt before the tied hobbit.  The little one’s head hung on his chest, eyes closed. But those so-blue eyes snapped open in alarm when the hobbit felt clawed hands exploring the base of his throat, clawed fingers parting the buttons of his shirt.

“What do we have here,” the creature growled.  “Did I waste my time searching your room, halfling, when I should have been searching you?  What is this that you are wearing?  What is this silver thing?”

The halfling stared at the creature for a moment, then as the clawed hands ran over the hobbit’s chest, the little one exploded into a frenzy of resistance.   Stifling a shriek, the hobbit thrust himself up in the chair so violently that he caught the creature off-guard, and it reflexively jumped back. 

“Well, that got a sound out of you,” it hissed.  The hobbit stared at it, panting, rage and defiance burning on his bruised features.  When the creature reached for him again, Frodo tried to bite it.  The creature snatched back its hand and stared at the little one in disbelief.  Red circles now decorated the hobbit’s wrists and the creature stared at him in awe and astonishment.

All too quickly Frodo’s rage spent itself, reducing him to quivering exhaustion.  It had been useless – he could not stop the creature’s clawed hands from ripping the buttons from his shirt.  The creature made a soft sound of wonder as it beheld the mithril mail coat Bilbo had gifted his nephew with.  Clawed fingers ran down the glittering links in wonder.

“Mithril,” it murmured in wonder.  “Mithril!  Finer than any I have ever heard tell of.”  The fine linen of Frodo’s shirt shredded as the clawed hands slashed it, pulling open the front.  “Here truly is a treasure beyond price…”  It straightened and stepped back, incredulity in its slitted eyes.  “Take it off.”

It was long moments before Frodo could order his mouth to speak.  “I can’t,” he slurred through battered lips. 

It stepped close again, raising a hand.

“I can’t,” cried the hobbit desperately.  “My hands are tied – I can’t take it off tied!  You have to untie me!”  Frodo closed his eyes, please … please… free me…

“Ah … yes,” said his captor.  “Yes, of course.”  Its enthralled eyes never leaving the gleaming vest, it drew a small knife from its belt and slashed the hobbit’s bonds.    

Frodo slumped in the chair, boneless.  Barely conscious, he almost did not feel the clawed hands snatching the base of the mail coat and pulling it off over his head.  The shirt was torn from it and thrown on the chair.  He struggled to focus on the creature as it ran the glittering coat through its claws, triangular jaw dropping in astonishment and greed.  Yes, thought the hobbit, take the lesser treasure and forget the greater…  Moving slowly, he reached down and captured the shirt.  Fingers that would barely work struggled to pull together the ruined edges.  All the while, he kept one small hand covering his breast, hiding what hung from a silver chain.

The creature seemed mesmerized by the glittering shirt.  It held it to itself, rubbing its face against the cool links, crooning in some hideous language.  Eyes only for the shirt, it did not see the hobbit fight his way to his feet and struggle stealthily towards the door.  Frodo placed a quiet hand on the knob and pulled.  Pulled harder.  It was locked.

He could not stifle the despairing groan that rose in his throat.  The creature whirled, startled to see that he had moved.  Frodo plastered himself against the door, one hand on the knob.  He faced his tormentor, seeking a weapon – anything…  The creature snarled at him, then its yellow eyes narrowed.  “What is that?” it hissed.  “What do you wear about your throat?”

* TBC * 

Chapter Eight 

“Nothing!  I wear nothing!”  Frodo edged along the wall, abandoning the locked door regretfully.  One hand he kept hiding the Ring, the other sought for anything he might use as a weapon.  Red warmth trickled down from his damaged wrists to spot the floor, black blots of wetness shining in the dimness.  But the dark, dusty room was barren; there was only the chair he had been tied to and the table and the lamp and the useless, rotting furnishings.  The burned bones of rats crunched beneath his feet, tiny ribs and vertebra catching between his toes.

“Take your hand from your throat,” the creature ordered, its yellow, slitted eyes gleaming in the wavering light of the lamp.  Both claws still fondled the mithril shirt and Frodo looked at it sorrowfully.  He did not regret its loss for its value, but Bilbo had gifted it him and he loved it for that reason.  But if he had to sacrifice the lesser treasure to save the greater, so be it.

“Leave me alone,” the hobbit returned, eyes enormous in his white face. 

The creature sneered at him, half a laugh and half a threat.  “Or what, little one?” it hissed, lipless mouth drawing back over the needle teeth.

“Leave me alone or I’ll set my gardener on you!”  Even as it came out, Frodo flushed at the absurdity and the creature laughed outright.

“I am truly terrified,” it snorted.  Then it lunged for him, a fluid, boneless movement most akin to a striking snake.  Frodo flung himself backwards, slipping on a partially consumed rat corpse, its innards wet and glistening.  The hobbit struggled for equilibrium but could not find it amongst the pile of sharp, shifting bones.  Frodo fell on his back and the creature was upon him.

The Ring-bearer felt a cold, clawed hand fasten around his fingers and start to pull his hand from his throat.  The silver chain dug into the back of his neck, then the fine links gave and the chain snapped.  Desperately, Frodo squeezed his hand shut even as the other pried it from his chest.

“What is this?” the creature snarled.   “What do you guard so fiercely?”

Holding the hobbit down easily with one clawed hand splayed on the small chest, the creature pulled the arm from him and opened the hand, bending the small fingers back cruelly.  Gold gleamed in the dim light.  Agonized beyond measure, the Ring-bearer could only watch as the golden glow reflected in the creature’s eyes.  The thing went still, its lipless mouth opening.  “No,” it whispered.  “No, it is impossible … this cannot be…”  The slitted eyes moved from the Ring-bearer’s palm to his eyes, staring into them in shock.  

Without warning, the hobbit relaxed.  The creature rocked back, thrown off-balance from the sudden lack of resistance.  Frodo pulled in his right leg and kicked for all he was worth, slamming his foot directly into the creature’s face.  Bone crunched.  The creature screamed, a high shrilling sound, and staggered back, dropping the mail coat to clutch at its flat nose.  Blood streamed down its face, poured over the clawed hands.

Frodo scrambled among the bones, twisting over onto his stomach and gathering his hands and feet beneath him.  The Ring lay in his hand, suddenly cold and so very heavy.  Gaining his feet, he stood swaying as the creature rolled on the floor and shrieked, its black cloak twisting about it.  Desperately the Ring-bearer eyed the window but could see nothing past the dark and the dust.  There was no way to tell if it was on the second floor, or what lay beneath it.  He had no choice.  The creature finally stilled and raised its bleeding face, death in its eyes.  The Ring-bearer braced himself to leap.

Wood exploded in a shower of splinters, dried-out, rotted timber crumbling.  Dimly, Frodo saw an indistinct dark form burst through the door, tattered cloak sheltering its flesh.  At the same moment, the window shattered in a torrent of shards, razored glass flying everywhere.  The hobbit saw only huge, dark forms and then the creature rising to its feet, clawed hands drawing its sword.

All Frodo knew was that the door was open.  Open!  Frodo turned and ran past the rising figure, a small form, dark and silent, unnoticed in the confusion.  He was though the doorway.  He bounced off the opposite wall and only by luck turned down the stairs, falling the last few.  Then he was up again and running, running as the sounds of battle filled his ears.

The dark figure that had come in through the window rose and shook glass from its slender form, long bone-handled knives ready in its hands.  “Take him!” roared the other, as at the same moment the creature unleashed a shrilling cry of it’s own and leapt upon the Elf.  The Elf turned aside its sword with knives crossed before his face, the sword catching and dragged to the side.  The creature used the momentum to turn and swing itself around to face the other, a Man, dark of countenance and furious of expression.

Aragorn’s long sword thrust at the creature but with astonishing speed it slithered aside, turning the blade with a clash of its own sword.  Black cloak swirling about it, it swung completely around, seeking to take the Man from the other side.  Aragorn met its blade with his own and metal screamed, sparks erupting from both blades.  With incomprehensible speed the creature pulled back, panting, its yellow eyes glaring at them in fear and hate.  The Man and the Elf circled around it, seeking to take it from either side.  Its hairless head whipped back and forth, blood still dripping unheeded from its nose. 

“Where is the hobbit?” Aragorn growled.  “What have you done with him?”

The creature did not reply.  Panting, it stared at them, eyes traveling to the door.  Legolas moved closer, blocking the exit.  Small cuts bedecked the Elf’s face and his hair glinted with shards of glass, but he paid the gashes no heed.  “You have no escape,” Legolas said softly, his fair face implacable.

The creature snarled at the Elf, hatred pulsing on its marred features.  It did not answer but crouched lower, scrubbing at its face, breath whistling through the broken nose. 

“Aragorn,” called the Elf softly.  The Ranger risked a glance, aware now of how quickly the creature could move.  The Elf held up something that glinted in the dim light.  With a sinking heart, Aragorn recognized the mithril mail shirt.

“Where is he?” the Ranger demanded again.  “Tell me and you will die cleanly.”

The creature straightened and the sword dropped, its point to the floor.  Neither Man nor Elf relaxed, but they took a step closer, their weapons still on guard.

The creature smiled at them, the blood from its nose shining on the needle teeth.  Then it raised a clawed hand and traced a rune in the air and fire erupted in the rescuers’ clothes.

With a startled cry, Legolas dropped his knives, slender hands beating at the flames that had exploded from his borrowed cloak.  Aragorn cried out wordlessly, trying to tear his from his body.  Both threw themselves to the dirty floor, rolling, seeking to smother the flames. 

With a snarling laugh, the creature slithered between them to the door.  It limped, the rags beneath the cloak dark with blood.  “Your second arrow shot true, Elf,” it snarled at Legolas.  “I will rejoice in the knowledge that you burn to death.”

Hands batting at the flames enveloping his clothing, Aragorn shouted, “Where is the hobbit?”

“Hobbit,” the creature repeated softly.  “So that is what the little one is called.”  Fire spread from the writhing figures to the floor, igniting what remained of the rat corpses.  Flames licked along the dried wood of the floor, up the walls.  The creature covered its broken nose with a clawed hand and turned back to survey the scene.  Smoke already was filling the room, fed by the air from the broken window.  “I will name it so before I kill it and take the Ring for myself.”  Then it was gone, booted feet thudding on the stairs.

Legolas cried out as his long hair caught fire, flames racing up to lick at his face.  Aragorn forced him down, pushing the Elf flat and forcing his head against the floor, smothering the flames with his chest.  His own back was on fire but the heavy leather coat retarded the flames.  Surging upwards, Legolas pulled out from under him and flipped Aragorn over onto his back, pressing him against the floorboards.   

“We must get out!” the Elf shouted over the snapping of wood and the crackling of flame.  “Aragorn, get up!”

Coughing, Aragorn dragged himself to his feet and looped an arm over the Elf’s shoulders.  Legolas winced as the arm tightened over his burns but caught the arm and held the other tight, half-dragging the man towards the door.  Both crouched, trying to stay below the level of the smoke as it rose and filled the upper air.  Aragorn stumbled, going to his knees, and with strength unheralded in that slender form, Legolas pulled the Ranger to his feet and dragged him to and through the door.

Fire came after them as they staggered down the stairs, chasing their footsteps, licking at their ankles like an over-eager puppy.  Fire raced up the matchstick walls, crawled across the ceiling.  The entire building was going up.  The two gained the entrance just as the timbers bracing the door fell, blocking the passage behind them.  Coughing and hacking, Legolas and Aragorn staggered across the alleyway to the shelter of another building.

       Cries and shouts echoed in their ears.  Already the townsfolk were in motion.  Men were running and pointing at the burning building, calling for water and bellowing at each other.  It was not so difficult for the two to remain unnoticed in the excitement and uproar.  They leaned against the sheltering wall and pulled clean air into their lungs.  “We must find Frodo,” gasped Aragorn, when he had the air to speak. 

Legolas coughed deeply, painfully.  “That … that foul thing has a lead on us.  How can we trail him in this confusion?”

Aragorn placed his hands on his knees and bent over, struggling to clear the smoke from his chest.  He spat, the saliva dark and clouded.  “We must -"

“Them!  Them’s the two that started it!”

The two raised their eyes to see a man pointing at them, anger on his face.  Those fighting the fire paused to stare.  In the flickering light, Aragorn and Legolas saw the thin, strained features of their guide, Kent, standing behind the man as the man raised his arm to point.

* * * * *        

Frodo ran for as long as he was able.  When he could no longer run, he walked.  The twisting streets confused him.  He did not understand how the towns of Men were planned – there did not seem to be any logic to the winding alleys and courtyards.  Panting and choking, he at last paused in a darkened doorway, huddling against the wooden entry, trembling from cold and exhaustion.  His wrists burned from the ropes and his face ached from the slaps, but worse yet was the leaden fatigue of his limbs.  He sagged against the door, scarcely able to keep his feet.

His hand was clenched so tightly that it was cramping and he had to use the other to ease it open.  His fingernails had cut bloody half-moons into his palm.  With a laugh that was half a sob, he recalled his resolution to stop biting his fingernails.  In the center of his palm crouched the Ring, perfect and round and golden, glinting at him, self-aware and evil.  He could almost feel the malice emanating from it.  With a gasping moan, he closed his hand over it and thrust it and the chain into his breast pocket.

Unable to stand another moment, the hobbit slid down the doorframe and hunched into a freezing lump in the darkness.  Frodo drew in his legs and wrapped his arms around them, seeking what warmth he could.  Only now did he feel the many places he had been cut and gashed by flying wood and glass.  The rat-bite burned fiercely, the first warning of infection.  He pulled the tattered remains of his shirt and waistcoat about him and shivering, laid his head upon his knees to await the dawn.

* TBC * 

Chapter Nine

“Them!  Them’s the two that started it!”

In an instant, Aragorn and Legolas were surrounded by angry, frightened men.  It was inevitable that someone should connect them with the group of strangers that had burned down the inn.  The crowd pressed closer, faces darkening, rough voices shouting accusations and questions.  The Ranger and Elf drew together, placing themselves automatically back-to-back, hands on their weapons.  Someone reached out and tried to grab Legolas on the shoulder.  With a graceful shrug, the Elf freed himself.  As he did, the borrowed, tattered cloak fell away and the men dropped back in startlement at seeing a non-human amongst them.

In the silence that followed, the two were astonished to see Kent struggling his way to the fore of the mob.  The thin man was using those bony elbows to advantage, his forward progress punctuated by “ouch!’ and “oof!”  He fought his way to stand beside them, small, close-set eyes darting nervously.  “It weren’t them!” he shrilled, then tried to modulate his voice.  “It weren’t them,” he repeated to his dumbfounded audience.  “Palton’s wrong.  I saw another man leave the building a minute or two earlier.  They didn’t start the fire.”

The man named Palton had followed Kent, growling under his voice.  “I saw them come out of that building,” he asserted loudly.  “The smoke weren’t so thick I couldn’t see ‘em!”

“If the smoke was already thick, then the fire must have been started earlier,” said Legolas gently, standing relaxed and poised, and ignoring his still-smoldering clothes and fine wisps of smoke curling from his hair.  The Elf smiled at Palton, then allowed his luminous eyes to wander over the crowd, moonlight reflecting in their starry depths. 

‘These rural folk have never seen an Elf,’ thought the Ranger.  Aragorn would have laughed at the expressions of awe and wonder as they stared at the prince of the Greenwoods, had the circumstances been less tense.  Legolas’ clear gaze returned to Palton and the man ducked his head and flushed under that immortal gaze.

“Maybe so,” Palton muttered sullenly, “but it’s mighty strange … your lot comes to town and our inn burns down, an’ now this building.”

“A most unfortunate series of accidents,” Legolas replied soothingly.  Aragorn stood quiet and still beside him, knowing too well how his dark looks and dangerous demeanor could cause the townsfolk to feel threatened and belligerent.  He kept his hand on his sword, but unobtrusively.  In this situation, the Elf’s sweet voice could defend them better than steel.  “But please believe me when I say that we did not start the fire … either fire.  I pledge you my word on this.”

Kent seized the following silence to interject, “Everyone knows the Fair Folk don’t lie.  Everyone knows that.”  Palton growled, about to protest, and Kent swung to face him.  “Pal, I’ve known you all my life.  Your mam and mine were friends afore we were born.  I say these folk were just caught in a bad place, and we’d be better off helping the others put out the fire before it spreads to the other warehouses.”

The crowd shifted, muttering among themselves, but the words of one of their own swayed them.  With many dark looks and angry mumbles the men dispersed, some going to aid the fire-fighters, others helping douse the adjoining buildings with buckets of water.  Aragorn and Legolas and their unexpected savior stood very still until the last the townsfolk had left, casting them hostile, uncertain glances over their shoulders.

When the last had moved beyond range of easy hearing, Aragorn released the breath he had been holding.  “Thank you,” he murmured to Kent.  The little man nodded, the perspiration on his face shining in the dimming flames of the fire.

“You were walking a fine line with the truth there, my friend,” Aragorn commented to Legolas.  The Elf raised an elegant, slightly singed eyebrow.  “We didn’t start the fires,” the Ranger continued.  “But they were started because of us.”

“Nevertheless,” returned the Elf with great dignity, “you and I did not start them.”

Aragorn grinned at him through a smoky mask.  “The letter of the truth, if not the spirit.  Have it your way, then.”

Legolas nodded decisively.  “Thank you, I will.”

 “Sirs,” hissed Kent’s voice from a small courtyard.  “This way, please, sirs.”  The little man led them to a deserted courtyard, weeds overgrowing once well-tended flowerbeds.  But the decrepit well in the center of the abandoned yard still worked, and the two were able to splash water over themselves and wash the grime from their faces.  Aragorn resisted the urge to remark on the Elf’s bedraggled appearance, the silky golden hair burned unevenly above the slender shoulders.  Superior speed, senses and reflexes Aragorn could forgive his elven kin and friends, but he had never quite accepted their ability to slog through the foulest terrain and emerge immaculate, while he looked like he had crawled through mud on his belly.

Aragorn took a deep drink of the icy water then turned to face their shivering rescuer.  “Thank you,” said the Ranger gravely.

Kent nodded.  “I figure I paid you back for your friend sparing my life.  I said if I could do anything for him in return, I would.  ‘An I did.  We’re even now.  You’ll tell him when you see him?”

It was Aragorn’s turn to nod.  “We will.  Boromir will be honored by your loyalty and bravery.”

The thin man puffed out his chest.  “Good luck in finding your little friend.  I hope he’s come ‘ta no harm.”

Legolas finished washing his face and joined the Ranger in watching the man depart.  “So do I,” the Elf whispered.

“We must find him, Legolas.”  Aragorn reached inside his jerkin and pulled out a compact lump that unwound itself into the Ring-bearer’s mithril coat.  “I mean to return this to him.”

“When did you pick that up?”

“When you dropped it, of course.”

“I was on fire, Aragorn.”

Aragorn nodded, the smile fading from his stern features.  “Yes.  Another complication.  A magic-wielding … whatever that thing is.”  He folded up the small, glittering coat and returned it to his jerkin.  “I wish we had never come to this cursed town.”

* * * * *

Huddled and freezing in some darkened doorway, Frodo was losing his battle against sleep.  It was too much to hope for that the creature and the unknown intruders had killed each other off.  Even now, one or both might be trailing him.  But for his life, he could not force himself to rise and move.  He was so tired that his hurts seemed a distant thing, present but unimportant.  The rope-burns on his wrists had stopped bleeding, as had the infected rat-bite.  Now both ached and throbbed with a pain that seemed to travel throughout his entire body.

‘Get up,’ he ordered himself.  ‘Get up and move.  They’ll find you if you don’t.’  His body did not obey.  The sun would be coming up soon.  Desperate, Frodo tried another tack.  ‘If they find you, they will take it.  They will take it away from you.  And all of this will be for nothing.’  From somewhere deep inside, defiance and anger stirred, and a nameless fear.  The hobbit dragged himself to his feet, pulling himself up by clinging to the doorframe.  He took a step and almost fell, catching himself on a rough banister.  The abused wrist stretched and the skin broke, shedding blood black in the faint pre-dawn light on the banister.  Steadying himself, the Ring-bearer drew in a great breath of icy air and stumbled forward into the dying night.

Not long after, a black-cloaked figure limped to the doorway where the hobbit had rested.  A long, forked tongue flicked out of its lipless mouth, tasting the scents on the air.  The occasional blood-drops it had been following were petering out.  Now it paused in the shadowed doorway and stood still, testing the air.  It leaned into the doorway and ran the forked sensory organ over a smear of dark liquid that glistened on the banister.  Then it raised its black head and hissed, hurrying after the failing scent.

* * * * *  

Boromir came awake with a gasp, convinced that the hordes of the Enemy were rattling their weapons before the city gates.  But no, it was only the Dwarf snoring.  The Gondorian soldier shut his eyes in relief.  The screams of the women and the wails of the men had been so real…

The faint sound of rustling cloth came to his ears and he looked over to see the wizard staring out of the small window, gnarled hands clutching the bars.  The sun was just clearing the horizon.  How odd to see the sun rise over ramshackle wooden buildings instead of majestic mountains or the receding shadows of a mighty forest.  Stifling a groan, Boromir rolled off the hard bench that had served as his bunk and joined the wizard, noting that a washbasin and water had been put out for them, as well as other necessary sanitary accoutrements.  Not the restful night in a feather bed he had been hoping for, but better than awaking in a cold bedroll.  Much, much better than not awaking after the attentions of an angry mob.

Gandalf nodded absently in greeting, his attention on staring distractedly out of the glassless window.  Seeing the wizard’s hand tight on his staff, Boromir forbade to interrupt, but suddenly Gandalf sighed and shook his grey head.  “I cannot find him, or Aragorn or Legolas.  There are too many bright sparks of life too near … I cannot sort out theirs.”  The wizard rested his forehead against the cool stone of the windowsill for a moment.  “I thought I had Merry and Pippin and Sam for a moment, but then the sparks merged with many others and were lost.”  Gandalf turned himself around and dropped wearily onto the bench below the window that had been his bed for the night.

The man did not understand the wizard’s words and did not wish to inquire more closely into things that made him uncomfortable.  Instead, he turned to practical considerations.  “Gandalf, we must take our leave of this jail before the guardsmen’s commander questions us too closely.”

The wizard raised deceptively mild eyes to meet his.  “What do you suggest?”

Boromir leaned over and fastened his strong hands onto the bars, pulling then pushing against them with all of his strength.  Sunk deep into the quarried stone of the windowsill, the bars did not even quiver.  “They – do – not – budge,” the man grunted.

“Your father taught me well the advantages of a stout prison, Lord Boromir,” came a cold voice.  The commander of the town’s garrison stood outside the wall of bars, his eyes locked on the image of the White Tree embossed into Boromir’s gauntlets.

* * * * *

This time Frodo could not catch himself when he slumped against a shadowed door to rest.  His fall continued, landing him with a hollow thump on a small wooden platform.  Voices were raised from inside the door and in a panic, the hobbit tried to gain his feet.  He could not.  The door opened and a child of Men stood there, one no taller than he.  A boy of about ten years, as he understood their ages. 

The two stared at each other.  The boy’s mouth hung open, his brown eyes goggling the battered, bleeding figure on his doorstep.  Frodo summoned what he prayed was a reassuring smile.  “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.  “I won’t hurt you.  I -”  the rest was lost in a cough.  “Please,” the hobbit whispered desperately, “may I have a drink of water?”

“Mama!” the boy shouted, uncaring of the early hour and his still-sleeping neighbors.  “There’s a halfling fainted on the porch!”

The creature snarled as the human female and her whelp lifted its unconscious quarry and carried the little one inside.  It would have rushed them still, but her cries had brought a male and an adolescent male to help her.  It could have killed the four unarmed humans easily, but not without noise that would draw unwanted attention.  There was no help for it.  It could draw no risk to itself that might prevent it from obtaining the hobbit’s treasure.  The sun was rising and stirring could be heard in the neighboring homes.  It could not risk being caught in the light, where no cloak was sufficient to disguise what it was.  Consoling itself with how it would enjoy killing the humans and amusing itself with the hobbit until it died, the creature turned its back on the scene and sought a dark and quiet lair to wait out the day.

* TBC *  

Chapter Ten

With a snort, the Dwarf woke and shot straight up in his bedroll, forgetting that he lay not upon the soft earth but upon a bench.  His thickly muscled hands flailed in the air for a moment, then he lost his balance and rolled off the bench, falling to the flagstone floor of the garrison in a clatter of chain mail.  Gimli rolled over and was on his feet in an instant, taking in the tense scene through heavy-browed, blinking eyes.  Those broad hands sought the haft of his great battle-axe before he remembered that it had been confiscated along with all their weapons.

That shattering crash had brought two more of the guardsmen to their commander’s side, silent and well-trained.  With a wave of his hand, he sent them back out of the cell, his cold grey eyes on the waiting wizard, warrior and dwarf.  “You do not remember me,” the tall man stated, his eyes moving to Boromir.  “You were but a youth when I was sent from the Guard of the White Tower in disgrace.”

Boromir looked carefully at the man who stood on the opposite side of the barred wall.  “No,” he confessed.  “But you know me?” he added as the silence lengthened between them.

“Oh, yes,” replied the commander. “You much resemble your father.  It is not likely that I would forget his features, when he had me stripped of my rank and whipped through the streets of Minas Tirith.”

Boromir stared at the man, wordless.  “And now the Steward’s son and heir comes into my grasp,” murmured the man, seemingly more to himself than to the three prisoners.  “Accused of burning down an inn, and causing much disruption and damage to the little town I have claimed as my own.  Far … very far … from his lord father’s sheltering arms.”

“What was your crime?” asked Gandalf, his rough voice low and unthreatening.

The commander glanced at him, seeing no doubt only a disreputable old man, leaning on his worn walking stick.  “I was broken of rank and disgraced for the unforgivable crime of requesting that my last son not die in the service of Gondor.”  The cold face hardened, rage burning there that had gone unquenched for years.  “Arleod was fifteen.  He was the last of my five sons.  The others had already died on the border.  I begged Lord Denethor to spare Arleod, saying I had given four sons and my entire life in the protection of Gondor.  But it was not enough.  Arleod was sent to the Eastern border … and died in his first action there.”

The man was silent for several moments, his face remote.  “His mother could not bear losing the last of her children.  She hanged herself.”

“And you?”  This from Boromir, his arms folded across his chest, consciously or unconsciously hiding the White Tree on his gauntlets.

The commander withdrew his gaze from whatever hell he had been revisiting.   His burning gaze centered on Boromir to the exclusion of the other two.  “I returned to the Tower and resigned my commission, telling the Steward that no longer could I serve him.  That I wished only to leave Gondor and find what peace I could in some nameless place.”  He laughed abruptly, a short bark without humor.  “As you see, I received my wish.  But that was only after I was shamed before my command and driven from the City I had served all of my life.”

“And now?”  Again it was  Gandalf who spoke so softly. 

With an effort, the man tore his gaze from Boromir’s pale face and focused on the wizard.  “The man whose inn you burned down will be here at midday, as will the town magistrate.  You will both have the opportunity to present your cases.  After you are found guilty, you will be given the chance to make restitution, in full, to the Innkeep.”  Gandalf moved to protest but the commander cut him off.  “I know you do not have sufficient funds with you.  I very much doubt the Innkeep will accept a letter of credit from you.  It will then be my pleasure to have you hanged as common criminals.”

“You cannot do that!” protested Boromir.  “We meant no harm!  Let me send to my father – he will provide the gold.  Double the worth of the inn, if the man wishes it.”

“The only thing I will send to your father,” whispered the commander, his face white except for his smoldering grey eyes, “is your body and that of your friends in coffins.”  With that, he turned on his heel and was gone.

Gimli cleared his throat and spoke for the first time since picking himself up from the floor.  “We must leave this place,” the Dwarf rumbled.

* * * * *  

Frodo scrunched shut his eyes, trying to ignore the morning sun shining into them.  It was an old battle between him and Sam – Sam would throw open the shutters of his bedroom and Frodo, out of sheer stubbornness, would avoid waking up for as long as he could.  Then the smells of frying bacon and sausages would drift through Bag End, and he would bow to the inevitable and follow his growling stomach into breakfast.  But why did his wrists burn so?  With a groan, fuzzy memory returned to the hobbit.  The rope-burns that he had gained in his frantic struggles had bitten deep and were now crusting.  It felt as if bracelets of fire adorned his wrists, and even the slightly movement of his fingers brought unbearable agony.  He stopped trying to move and lay still, returning awareness bringing with it knowledge of the need for silence and subterfuge.

He cracked his eyes open a little, the shimmering in them giving way to the blurry outlines of a small room with a fire burning brightly in a hearth.  He was in a bed, he realized, clean and warm, wrapped in a nightshirt underneath layers of quilts.  So he had finally gotten a bath, he thought, and the chuckle that rose in his throat became a cough and betrayed him.

“Mama!  Mama, he’s awake!”  A young Man-child stared at him from a stool beside the bed, brown eyes lustrous with excitement.  The boy rose and skittered from the room in search of his parent.  Frodo stared after him blankly, then full memory crashed down upon him.  His hand flew to his throat.  Yes, it was still there, strung around his neck.  They hadn’t taken it.  The Ring lay cold and gleaming upon his breast, a spot of ice against him underneath the warmth of the quilts.

He craned his neck, looking about the small room.  His clothes lay folded across the back of a chair.  It looked like someone had made an attempt at brushing them and a needle still stuck out from the ruined shirt, a row of neat stitches running along one rip.  The chair stood before a small desk, one leg propped up on a brick.  A small wardrobe completed the furnishings.  From the wooden toys and other personal possessions of the room, the hobbit guessed that it belonged to the lad he had just seen leave.  Frodo settled back into the bed and reluctantly took stock of himself.

His face and jaw were very swollen.  He could almost feel the imprint of the creature’s claws against his skin.  Now that he was fully aware, the rope-burns on his wrists hurt worse than ever.  The rat-bite on his leg hurt also, burning and itching, and he became aware of a low-grade fever that made him feel both hot and cold in turns, swinging without warning from one extreme to the other.  He was very tired and his whole body ached with a throb that seemed to go through him with each heartbeat.  He raised a hand and felt at the bump on his head where the creature had struck him.  It, at least, no longer hurt.  It seemed to be the only part of him that didn’t.

Further inventory was interrupted by the entrance of a large human woman, the boy clinging to her side.  With a flutter of skirts, the stout woman arranged herself on the stool and laid a no-nonsense hand on his forehead.  Eyes the same rich brown as the boy’s regarded him.  She smiled at him and Frodo returned the smile, feeling his heart surge at the generous affection in her demeanor.  Withdrawing her hand, she reached out and snagged the boy, drawing him down to lean against her knees.  “Well, Master Halfling,” she greeted him, “what brings ye all hurt and bleeding to our doorstep?”

* * * * *

“ …Select your shell, the one you choose;

If right, you win, if not, you lose.

The game itself is lots of fun,

Your chances though, are two to one;

And I tell you that your chance is slim

To win a prize from Peregrin!”

Pippin’s voice was beginning to crack and his hands beginning to cramp on the walnut shells.  The hobbits’ small pile of copper coins had grown steadily and now boasted a silver here and there, and one lonely gold.  Merry understood well how even the most disappointed loser could not take umbrage with that sweet face smiling up at him; Pip charmed everyone who crossed his path.  The youngest hobbit had submitted to having his curls ruffled and his cheek pinched by a steady parade of housewives and merchants, all too captivated by the foreign halfling-child to resent losing a few coins.  And Pippin had exerted himself, green-gold eyes shining, a high flush on his sharp face as he made shameless calf-eyes up at the townsfolk, thoroughly enjoying himself.

From his look-out position atop a barrel, Sam shook his head.  “How does he do it?” he asked Merry, who was leaning against the barrel and watching his younger cousin bespell the Big Folk clustered around their little improvised game-table.

Merry grinned.  “Pip loves being the center of attention, Sam.  He genuinely likes people; Big Folk, Elves, hobbits … I’ve never seen someone he couldn’t charm if he set his mind to it.  He’ll be a Thain to be reckoned with, someday.”

“Aye,” growled Sam.  “I’ve no doubt o’ it.  Still, it’s a good thing these folks are so taken with the game that they don’t give it much thought.”

“What do you mean, Sam?” Merry asked, then winced as he considered his words.

“Well,” the sturdy hobbit remarked, folding his arms as his quick grey eyes continued to scan the crowd for any sign of a guardsman, “Master Pip’s song says a body’s chances are ‘two to one.’  But that just ain’t right.  The Big Folk think they either win or they don’t, and that’s true, but it ain’t right.”  Merry drew a breath but Sam continued on, oblivious.  “If you think about it, the Big Folk have one chance in three o’ winning, cause the pea’s under one of three shells.  But they got two chances o’ three of losing.  Now Master Pip, he’s got two chances o’ three of winning, and only one chance out of three of losing.  So these folks’ chances aren’t ‘two to one’ like they’re being told.”

“Lower your voice, would you, Sam?” whispered Merry, glancing around nervously.

“It just don’t seem right, Mr. Merry,” continued Sam stubbornly.  “I think -"

“Oh, poor Pip!” remarked Merry loudly.  “I think I really ought to spell the lad a bit.  I’m the one who taught him the game after all; I should do a bit of the work.  Excuse me, Sam -"

Before Samwise could protest (or finish what he had been about to say), Merry had pushed himself away from the barrel and instigated himself at Pippin’s side.  Pippin surrendered the barrel-top to him gratefully, rubbing his hands and flexing his fingers.  Merry looked up into the eager, intrigued faces around him and flashed his own sparkling smile.  “I’m a little out of practice,” he confessed demurely, deliberately dropping the pea and having to snatch at it to retrieve it before sliding it under a walnut shell, “so I hope you’ll go easy on me, good folk.  Now, who’ll place a bet?”

Pippin gravitated towards Sam, stopping to chat with folk in the crowd and visit with all who greeted him.  When he finally arrived at Sam’s barrel, his hands and pockets were stuffed with meat-rolls and baked goods and sweets that the good townsfolk had pressed upon him.   Pippin stuffed some of the overflowing bounty into Sam’s hands and plopped himself down on a nearby crate to watch Merry work.  Around a mouthful of meat-roll, the tweenager sought the older hobbit’s eyes.  “Sam, some of the Big Folk told me that Gandalf and the others are going to stand trial for burning down the inn at midday.  And that the commander of the guard wants to hang them.”

“Hang them?”  Sam dropped his roll, his face going chalky.

Pippin got up and drifted closer and Sam crouched down so that none would overhear them, his round face suddenly shining with perspiration.  Pippin wished he had thought to soften his news.  “We’ve got to get them out of there.  We’ve got enough money to live on for a while.  Enough money to post a reward to anyone to might have seen who took Frodo, or tell us where Aragorn and Legolas have got to.”

Sam nodded.  “I think you’d best tell Mr. Merry.  We’ve been lucky so far – no guardsmen have come ‘ta put an end to this.  But all it would take would be one sore loser to turn us in.”

Pippin nodded in turn and without another word drifted back to Merry.  Merry’s patter and gleaming smile faltered as Pippin whispered in his ear and his bright blue eyes shut for a moment.  More soft words were exchanged between the two.  Sam frowned; Merry was shaking his head and turning back to the game, the eager young Man before him waiting impatiently. 

Pippin was making his way back to Sam, his face strained and unhappy.  “He says we need more money,” whispered Pippin, when he came within gentle hearing distance of Sam.  “He said he was going to raise the stakes.”

“What does he mean by that?” asked Sam.

Pippin shook his head.  “I don’t know.  He said to watch and be ready to leave in a hurry.”

“Oh no,” murmured Sam.

* TBC * 

Chapter Eleven

After that, Samwise and Pippin noticed a marked swing of luck in Merry’s favor.  The Brandybuck began accepting larger bets, distaining copper coins for silver, and several silvers at a bet.  This discouraged some of the crowd and they drifted away, but others took their places, mostly men, with full purses and avid expressions.

The play became more intense, and Sam’s anxiety wrenched up with it.  He rarely looked at Merry now but kept his gaze roving over the crowd, his keen eyes worried, watching for the white-bordered black capes of the guardsmen.  Pippin, too, was uneasy but his gaze was almost solely on his cousin, watching how the Men crowded close as Merry’s swift hands darted over and around each other, the walnuts shells sliding on the smooth surface of their improvised game-table.

The easy smile had faded from Merry’s face – he was concentrating now, intense and disciplined.  The townsfolk won now and then, but by far Merry took in more silvers than he handed out.  Pippin knew that the game’s chances did not account for such a run of luck, and his stomach tightened, the meat-roll and sweets he had eaten earlier roiling unpleasantly.  “What is he doing?” he whispered to himself.  “What is he doing?”

* * * * *

Frodo attempted a half-bow from his reclining position, not the easiest of honors to make.  “Frodo Baggins, at your service,” he said, ignoring the pull of abused muscles.  He coughed then, and the matron hastened to help him upright so that he could accept a drink of cool water.  She steadied it for him, her eyes on the abraded skin of his wrists. 

“I’m Marly,” she informed him, “and this scamp here be my son Brion.  My older boy Rich and me husband, Peter, helped carry you in, though I doubt you’ll remember them.”

Frodo frowned, having some vague memory of more Big Folk pass through his mind.  There had been the dawning light, and pain, and exhaustion so deep it rasped his bones.  A wooden porch … and shouts from inside a door.  Huge forms, lifting him…  Yes.  It was difficult to form words around his swollen face.  “I fear not.  But you have my thanks for the rescue.”

She nodded.  “I hope ye don’t mind that I cleaned you up some, sir.  You were a dreadful mess.  I tried to repair your garments,” Marly said hesitatingly, freckled hands smoothing the quilts over him.  “Brushed out your clothes and restrung that ring on its chain for you.”  If she noticed the sudden paling of the hobbit’s face, she gave no sign.  She reached out and picked up his shirt, pulling the needle through and tying off the thread.  “But your shirt’s done for, I’m afraid.  I tried to sew it up … but, well … it’s not fit for a dust-rag.  Best you wear one of my boy’s, if you don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” said Frodo.  Then he turned to the human child.  “Do I also owe you thanks for the nightshirt?”

The lad nodded, his face beaming.  “We’re almost the same size.  Are you my age?”

Frodo laughed.  “Young sir, I am fifty years old.”  He smiled at their startled expressions.  “My folk – hobbits – age differently than Men.”

“Hobbits,” repeated the woman slowly, wonderingly.   She smiled at him and Frodo felt warmed by her expression.  Her face was round and creased with laugh-lines, the blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun, already greying at the roots.  She was not young, but her eyes sparkled with compassion and affection, a generous soul whose kindness extended to any in need.

All the more reason he must leave this place, and quickly. The others would be frantic about him; Sam, his cousins, Gandalf...  He could not bring danger to these good folk.  Frodo tried to shift himself to the edge of the bed and gasped as agony tore through him, emanating from his leg.  He stifled a cry, the pain so intense that he pressed his hands to his mouth, fearing he might be sick.

The woman’s expression changed immediately and the hobbit found strong hands pressing his shoulders back into the pillows.  “Now don’t you go trying to get up, Master Baggins.  You’ve got some nasty hurts, there.  That bite on your leg’s gone infected and it looks right bad.   My Peter’s had some healer’s training and he’s going to lance it when he gets home.”  Seeing his wince, she rushed on.  “Don’t you worry, sir.  We couldn’t afford for Peter to finish his training, but he knows enough to treat infections and simple injuries.  All our neighbors come to him, them that can’t pay for a real healer.  He’ll do right by you.”

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered.  The severity of the pain has startled him, draining him of the pleasant haze of his awakening.  The fever was re-asserting itself and his head was beginning to throb.

Seeing those brilliant eyes unfocus, Marly raised a hand to the hot forehead in worry.  “Brion,” she murmured, “you run and wet a cloth for Mr. Baggin’s forehead.  Cool him off some.  Hop to it, lad.”  The boy darted away.  “Master Baggins…” she said, hating to rouse him, but Brion would be back in moments.  The so-blue eyes opened again and struggled to focus on her.  “Sir – I have to know.  Is someone huntin’ you?  Should I send for my Peter?”

Frodo fought to concentrate.  So much depended on his answer.  But he would not deceive her for his own safety.  “I fear it is so, Mistress Marly.  An evil creature took me from my friends and held me, doing the damage you see.  I escaped and fled during  … a commotion.  I did not see any pursuit, but it may be so.”  He stopped and swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.  “You take me in at great risk.”

The hobbit was startled to feel a warm hand stroke his hair gently.  “Thought it was something like that,” she muttered.  “Don’t you fear now – my lad and I aren’t helpless.  I’ll send Brion for Peter, and for me older boy.  We can talk when you’re feeling better.  You just sleep now.  Just sleep.”

Unable to even reply, the Ring-bearer sank back into darkness.

* * * * *

There was no hope now of tracking either Frodo or the creature, Aragorn thought dismally.  The time they had been delayed by the mob had allowed others to muck over the ground, totally obliterating any bare hobbit-prints or sign of the unnatural thing that hunted him.  They had searched as best they could in the night, then waited impatiently for the sun to rise so that they could conduct a more thorough examination.  The sun had not cleared the horizon before the two were desperately searching the muddied ground, looking for any indication of the direction in which the Ring-bearer and the creature had fled.  Legolas straightened from shifting aside some debris in hopes of uncovering untrammeled ground, but it was hopeless.  The usually eloquent earth could tell them nothing.

The Ranger slammed his fist into his hand, swallowing an oath.  Legolas glanced at him in surprise, unused to seeing the normally self-contained Ranger so frustrated.  “Peace, my friend,” counseled the Elf.  “We will find him.  This town is too small to hide such odd folk as hobbits forever.”

“We don’t have forever,” growled Aragorn, anger and fear burning in his blue-grey eyes.  “We don’t even have a day.”

Legolas regarded the singed, dirty Ranger speculatively.  “Aragorn, when last did you sleep?”

Aragorn opened his mouth to snap at the Elf, then closed it with an effort.  Legolas was right.  He had had no rest since the morning of the day they arrived in this little town.  Wearing himself into exhaustion would gain them nothing, would not help Frodo.  “I thought so,” commented Legolas.  “Let us find a quiet place.  You will be the better for a few hours’ sleep.  I will keep watch.”

“Insufferable Elf,” muttered Aragorn under his breath.

“Arrogant Man,” returned Legolas easily.  “We passed a small grain silo some way back.  It had no windows and the loading door was on high off the ground.  None would think to look for us there.  And it would be both cool and quiet.”

Now that his attention had been drawn to it, Aragorn was aware that he was achingly tired.  “All right,” he agreed, somewhat less than graciously.  “You’ll wake me before midday?”

“I will.”

* * * * *

Merry was becoming tired; Pippin could see it.  The quick movement and deftness required by the shell-game was taking its toll.  A fine trembling had started in Merry’s shoulders and was traveling down his arms.  Should he offer to take his place and let his cousin rest?  Pippin could see that the purse was heavy with silver coins now, and several gold.  Could they not stop, and turn their energies to locating Frodo and helping Gandalf and Boromir and Gimli?

Even as closely as he was watching, Pippin missed what started the argument.  One of the Men reached out and caught Merry’s arm, snarling something that Pippin could not hear.  Merry looked up, a frightened expression on his face.  The Man tightened his grip, pulling the hobbit half over the barrel, the walnut shells crushed beneath him.  The table tipped, Merry’s weight tilting it to the side.  He twisted, trying to jerk himself free, and the Man’s face went red, fury rising in his eyes.  Then Sam was off the barrel and he and Pippin were racing to Merry’s aid.

“He’s cheatin’!  That pea should have been under this shell!”  The man, a squat, overstuffed fellow, pushed the captive hobbit back and peeled up one of the shells, revealing its emptiness.  Keeping one meaty hand wrapped ‘round Merry’s arm, the Man hauled him cruelly back and reached out to turn over the other two shells.  Both were empty.  Pippin made a choking little bleat, his heart in his throat.  Sam balled his hands into fists and measured the distance to the man’s soft belly.

The man was turning back to Merry and others were crowding close, their faces sweating and angry.  The man forced uncurled Merry’s hands and stared in astonishment when first one palm then the other was shown to be empty.  Merry stared at him, white-faced.  The man sucked in a great breath of air, his own face paling.  “I – I’m sorry, little master.  I thought -”

Merry wrenched his arm free.  “You insult me, sir.  This game is over.  Come on, hobbits, we’re leaving.”  Snatching up the small sack that served as their purse, the young hobbit glared at the man.  The man stepped back, shame-faced and confused.

Pippin fell into line behind Merry, Sam bringing up the rear, his grey eyes still smoldering.  “Where the pea, then?” someone asked.  A dead silence settled over the little group, and the men that had stepped away looked at each other then closed again. 

“It must have fallen when you upset the game-table,” Merry supplied, pulling Pippin around and pushing the tweenager before him.  “We’ll never find it now.”  Pippin stumbled, too confused to order his feet.  Sam closed the gap, keeping himself between the younger hobbits and the Men. 

The beefy man glared at the hobbits, uncertainty and anger warring on his face.  “I don’t think so.  I think this little cheat still has it.”

“Sir, I assure you -"

With a speed that belied his bulky build, the man lashed out, catching Merry’s hands for a second time.  As Pippin and Sam watched, horrified, the fingers of Merry’s right hand were spread.  Then those of his left.  When the man forced apart the third and fourth fingers, the pea dropped to the ground.   It bounced once in silent accusation, then rolled out of sight between the townfolks’ boots.

“Merry,” whispered Pippin, “you didn’t.”

Merry did not reply.  He looked ill, swaying slightly on his feet.  Then his eyes met those of his fellow-hobbits and Pippin read the message there, long practice allowing him to understand that silent communication.  That same look was in Merry’s eyes through countless unauthorized forays into Farmer Maggot’s fields, though countless midnight raids of the pantries of Brandy Hall and the Great Smials.  Pippin squeezed Sam’s arm.

Sam knew that look, too.  He knew how it usually meant trouble for someone.  If not Master Pippin, then for him and his master.  His rear had smarted for days after that look in Mr. Merry’s eyes had talked him into showing them where his Gaffer kept his home brew.  The Gaffer hadn’t dared to discipline Mr. Merry or young Master Pippin, of course, but he had complained to their fathers.  Sam hoped the two had got theirs but had never worked up nerve to ask them.  And now that look of Mr. Merry’s -

“Run!”

* TBC * 

Chapter Twelve

The grain silo was cool and quiet but very close.  Aragorn’s exhaustion was so great that he fell into a deep sleep as soon as he lay down upon the narrow catwalk that crossed the musty-smelling wheat-bin.  Legolas crouched by him for some hours, resting without sleeping in the manner of elven-kind, clear eyes unfocused and relaxed.  The Elf reluctantly returned from the green meadows of his mind to attend a faint rumbling sound, a vibration of the earth in the distance.

With unparalleled grace, the Elf rose silently and drifted back to the silo door.  Built high off the ground to allow the grain-wagons to funnel their loads into the storage area, he and Aragorn had had to leap up to it and pull themselves in.  Its very height would discourage casual interruption, for who would search for strangers in such a place?

Legolas placed his pointed ear against the door, then the palms of his hands.  The rumbling was growing.  He glanced uneasily at the sleeping Ranger.  It was almost time to awaken him anyway.  Even as Legolas moved to rouse him, Aragorn abruptly rolled over and raised himself up on his forearms, awake and alert. 

“What is it?” Aragorn asked in a whisper.

“I don’t know.”  The thick wood of the door muffled Legolas’ keen hearing.  “I think I hear Men – many Men – shouting.  They sound angry.”

The Ranger joined the Elf at the door but could not discern the noise so finely.  But it was definitely growing louder.  “You don’t think -" began Legolas.

“It is too great a coincidence,” returned Aragorn.  “Three hobbits, alone in a town of Men?  Let us open this door a little.”

This they did and Legolas leaned out with Aragorn supporting him.  His head turned rapidly to the sides.  “I can see much of the streets from up here.  There is … a disturbance … approaching.  Many Men.  They are chasing - oh no.”

Aragorn resisted the urge to drop the Elf.  “Oh no what?”

“The halflings – it is Merry and Pippin and Samwise.  They run before a mob.”

Aragorn groaned.  “What have they done now?”

Legolas raised himself up enough to award the Ranger a look of mild reproof.  “That I cannot tell.  But they look very frightened and near exhaustion.  They are coming this way.”

Now the mob was close enough for the Ranger to see them.  The three hobbits were running flat-out, but the men were closing.  The men were shaking their fists and roaring with anger.  Pippin’s face was very white and his eyes enormous; he looked utterly terrified.  Merry ran behind him with uncharacteristic grimness, his blue eyes searching for an escape.  Samwise came last and Aragorn saw Sam glance back over his shoulder; the nearest man only yards behind him.  Aragorn saw fury and resignation in those grey eyes, and he feared what Samwise was about to do.

“Aragorn, quickly!”  The Ranger tore his gaze from the impending massacre to see the Elf bracing himself, hands spread to catch the sides of the door.  Understanding instantly, Aragorn wrapped his hands around Legolas’ knees as the Elf bent his legs.  Aragorn propped his feet against the wall as Legolas pushed himself upside-down out the door.

Pippin was sobbing, tears running down his sharp face, almost spent.  He stumbled as they rounded the corner of the small intersection fronting the silo and Merry caught him, pushing him ahead, but the stumble had slowed them both.  Sam struggled not to crash into them, his feet skidding on the cobbles.

“Run!” gasped Merry.  “Pip, run!”

Pippin clung to his cousin, choking.  “I – I can’t -” he managed, tears closing his throat.

In that instant, Sam made his decision.  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo,’ he thought as he whirled, his small sword in his hand.  ‘You’ll understand, I know.  If I can cut the leaders enough so they’ll fall back an’ let ‘em escape…’

Facing back, waiting for the first of the Men to round the corner, Sam did not understand the “Uumph!” he heard.  He spared a glance behind him and almost dropped the sword in astonishment.  Merry and Pippin were nowhere in sight.  What -?

Strong hands fastened under his arms and he was lifted from his feet, choking back a cry of startlement.  Sam slashed upward with the weapon and heard, “Peace, Samwise!  I am helping you!  Lower your sword!”

Sam tilted his head back and met clear eyes that crinkled in amusement at his expression.  “Peace,” repeated Legolas more gently.  Sam nodded and sagged in the Elf’s grasp, allowing himself to be pulled up and through the high door of some sort of storage facility.  Dragged in on his back, Sam saw Aragorn release Legolas’ knees and run past them to close the silo door.  Merry and Pippin were hugging each other in shock and relief.  As Legolas released him and sat up, they rushed forward and caught up Sam in that embrace, all three staring at their rescuers in astonishment.

“Are you all right?” Aragorn asked.  Three sweat-soaked curly heads nodded, none yet having the breath to speak.  He reached out and tousled Pippin’s curls.  The tweenager stared up at him, eyes still panicky.  “Now then,” the Ranger said gently.  “Tell me what happened.”

Merry grimaced and coughed, but got no further.  “Quiet!” hissed Legolas.  “They are coming!”  All were silent as the mob emerged, shouting questions at each other, kicking over barrels and trying the doors of the surrounding buildings.  Legolas dropped and opened the door only the slightest bit, Aragorn beside him.  The two watched through the crack as the men milled about in anger and confusion, shouting threats into the air.

“We must leave this place,” mouthed Aragorn silently, watching as the crowd searched every possible hiding spot.  Merry crawled up beside them, hobbit-quiet.  The Ranger pointed at the only other exit, a square ventilation shaft set farther up the wall.  With a glance at Pippin and Merry, Samwise went first, holding up his arms for Legolas to pick him up and heft him into the shaft.  Once inside, Sam turned around in the narrow space and guided Pippin in. 

Two hobbits, one Elf … where was Merry?  Aragorn looked back just in time to see a blur of motion that was acknowledged a heartbeat later by a shrill yowl from the street.  Aragorn shot to the open door, jerking the hobbit roughly back by his collar, furious gaze centering on the empty sling.  Merry glared at him, unrepentant.  “Let me go!” the hobbit snarled.  “I still have two more walnut shells -”

“The silo!  The silo!”  A beefy man was rubbing his neck, blood on his hands, staring up at them.  Aragorn slammed the door shut and snatched up the hobbit and ran with him to the shaft.  Merry twisted in the Ranger’s arms, still intent on delivering his walnut shells with lethal force. 

“Stop that!” hissed Aragorn, giving the hobbit a shake.  Merry subsided, but not without muttered growls.  The rumbling of the mob was growing louder – they were discussing entry into the silo.  Two men were struggling to lift the fat man by his legs, the three tottering uncertainly while hands supported them from all sides.  The man latched onto the silo door and was fighting to stay upright to open it.

Aragorn shoved the hobbit into the passageway and Merry slammed into Pippin with an “oof!”  The three crowded together and an instant later, a thud and a shaking of the wall announced Aragorn’s arrival, followed by Legolas.  Crawling on their hands and knees, the five slogged their way through a thick layer of grain-dust to the rough mesh that protected the shaft from marauding pigeons and roof-rats.

It gave easily.  Samwise stuck his head out and looked around, then reported,  “There’s a drop of about six feet ‘ta the roof of another warehouse.  I can’t see any o’ the Men, but I can hear them.  It looks safe enough.”

“Go on, then,” encouraged Aragorn.  Sam turned himself around and the hobbits used the Big Folk’s chain in reverse.  Sam locked hands with Pippin, who had his ankles held by Merry, who was held by Aragorn, who was held by Legolas.  Thus supported, Sam was lowered gently to the adjoining roof, and Pippin after him, and Merry.  Aragorn could not turn around in the narrow space and had to be lowered face-first, landing on his spread hands with a small thump.  The hobbits held their breath but no sounds of discovery drifted up to them from the milling mob below.  Legolas joined them a moment later, using his arms to catapult himself into a ball and roll.

Aragorn and Legolas stayed low and edged just close enough to the roofline to see what was happening.  The beefy man had forced the door open and was peering inside the silo, his day-adjusted vision failing him in the murky interior of the storage facility.  The two men holding him up were swearing and teetering under his weight, and he was swearing down at them.

Shouts interrupted the exchange of insults.  “Where are they?” and “Can you see the little buggers?” and from the fat man, one loud, “When I get me hands on that little -”  The small group on the roof cast about them frantically.  Sam and Pippin crawled to the rear of the flat roof and sought a way down, returning to report a small stairway to the ground.  Aragorn silently motioned them towards it.  “Light a torch!” someone shouted.  “They must be hiding in there!”

Sam’s eyes traveled to the grain silo.  “Half a moment,” he whispered.  “They’re not -”

Merry had come to the same conclusion.  “Aragorn, we’ve got to go,” he whispered urgently.  The Ranger and the Elf looked at the hobbits in bewilderment.  Merry and Sam glanced at each other than fastened their hands in the Big Folks’ cloaks, tugging them into motion.  Pippin pushed from behind.  “You aren’t a farming folk, like hobbits – you don’t understand – we must go!” 

More shouts were rising from the other side of the buildings.  The beefy man was demanding a torch and others were trying to shout him down.  Someone lit one and handed it up to him.  Men scattered, howling.  “Get down, get down!” cried Sam, no longer trying to drag Aragorn and Legolas away.  Not understanding, they nevertheless dropped obediently.  Merry pulled himself over a very pale Pippin and Sam fell beside them, covering his ears.

BOOM!  The explosion was so loud that the small party of refugees did not actually hear it; but felt it only as a terrible pressure on their eardrums.  The shockwave rolled over them with the force of a thunderclap.     

Aragorn turned over on his back, muscles twitching.  Legolas was rubbing his ears, his fair face twisting in agony.  The hobbits had sensibly clapped their hands over their heads and that had protected them, a little.  Aragorn dragged himself to his feet.  “What was that?” he asked, or tried to – he could not hear his own voice.  Then small hands were winding themselves in his cloak, and he was being urged to move.  Merry and Pippin had him in tow and Sam was tugging Legolas to his feet, the Elf’s expression still stunned.

With insistent yanks on their clothing, the Ranger and the Elf were guided between the buildings and past the mob.  Small openings between the edifices afforded them glimpses of the destruction; most of the men were on the ground, stirring feebly and groaning.  None saw them or seemed to recognize them.  Smoke was billowing all about, rolling down the narrow streets, filling every corner and crevice.  The smoke was brown, not black, and it clogged the lungs unlike any smoke the Ranger had known.  Coughing and choking, they stumbled on for some time.  At last the hobbits allowed them to stop, pulling the Big Folk into a deserted courtyard.  All five cast themselves on the ground, too spent to take another step.

After some time, Aragorn cleared his throat and tried again.  “What was that?”  This time he could hear his words.

Sam coughed and spat.  “What that was, was right stupid.  Grain silos are full o’ dust and chaff, and any idiot knows you don’t light a fire in them, or let a spark anywhere near ‘em!”

Legolas fought his way to a sitting position, long arms dangling limply between his raised knees.  “I did not know that.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” Merry gasped.  “But you’d know it if you spent the fall bringing in the harvest, and setting it in storage for the winter.  In addition to the dust and chaff, grain can ferment and produce a highly explosive gas.  If the silo is poorly vented, all it takes is a spark to set it off.  Just striking your flint to light a pipe will do it.”

Legolas collapsed back against the cool earth.  “Traveling with hobbits is most educational,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

“Do you think anyone was killed?’ asked Pippin.

“Let us hope not,” replied Aragorn.  “We have already burned down their inn, and Legolas and I unfortunately fired a warehouse.  This little town will never be the same.”

Pippin had been darting glances at the Ranger and the Elf, trying to understand their filthy appearances and singed hair and clothes.  Now he focused on Legolas’ formerly glorious blond mane.  “Is that what happened to your hair?”

The Elf nodded.  “It will grow back,” he said indifferently. “I am more concerned about finding Frodo.”  He was nearly buried under a torrent of questions, urgently posed in shrill hobbit voices.  “Please, a moment,” Legolas requested.  He coughed then continued, “We found the Ring-bearer but lost him again when his captor set fire to the warehouse in which he was held.  There was no chance of trailing them in the ensuing confusion.”  He paused and looked at their strained faces.  Tears were starting to drip from Pippin’s eyes again, and the Elf reached out and squeezed the small shoulder reassuringly.  “Do not fear,” he added.  “We will find him.”

With a groan, Aragorn dragged himself to his feet.  “There is a well here.  We could all use some cleaning up.”  So saying, he dipped the bucket into the well and hauled up the cool water.  It was clear and fresh, and eagerly accepted by the small company.

They were using more of the water to wash the dirt and smoke from themselves when Merry clapped his hand to his forehead.  “I almost forgot!  Aragorn, we must go to the guardhouse!  Gandalf and Boromir and Gimli were arrested for the fire at the inn, and the commander wants to hang them!”

* TBC * 

 Chapter Thirteen

“What is he, then?”

“He says he’s a ‘hobbit’.”

“What’s a hobbit?”

The whispered voices did not really disturb the Ring-bearer, but they pulled him from the pleasant place of safety and comfort that his exhausted and battered body had retreated to.  If he tried very hard, he could ignore them and return to that warm pain-free shelter.  But such an action would not be courteous, and Bilbo had raised him better than that.

Slowly, he pried his eyelashes apart.  Splotches of late-morning sun painted the rough whitewashed walls, and the smells of luncheon permeated the small dwelling.  The two dark blurs leaning over him frightened him for a moment, but with a few blinks they resolved into two human children, Brion and an older lad who must be his brother Rich.

“Hullo,” offered Frodo with a smile.

“Hello,” the boys chorused in return, returning his smile shyly.

The two parties stared at each other curiously.  Frodo saw two boys, one his size with dark, tufted hair and one larger with light-brown hair and ears that stuck out from his head like jug-handles.  But their grins were identical, freckled snub-noses wrinkling beneath sparkling brown eyes.  For their part, the boys saw a pale creature with the most beautiful blue eyes they had ever seen, set in a gentle, fine-bone face framed by dark curls.  But that face looked strained and tired and as the boys watched, pain flashed across it and the hobbit gasped.

“Mama!  Mama!  Mr. Baggins’ awake!  And he’s hurting, Ma!”

Frodo winced and raised his arms to quiet the boys.  The sudden movement was a mistake.  Fire slashed up from his lower body, drenching him instantly in perspiration.  He slid to the side off the pillow and Brion caught him.  The older boy shot upright and ran for the door.  His “Ma!  Da!  Come quick!” seemed far away and then it receded in the darkening distance.

Someone was stroking his hair. The large warm hand moved gently over his curls, pushing back those that inevitably fell into his eyes.  The hobbit sighed, reluctant to return to full consciousness.  It was so much nicer here in this dark, hazy place, with the comforting touch of a friend upon his face.

“Mr. Baggins?”  A woman’s voice, and the gentle hand was withdrawn.  Marly, his mind supplied.  And Brion and Rich and the woman’s husband … Pete.  Yes, Pete.  “Won’t you wake up, sir?  I’ve some chicken soup and bread right out o’ the oven.  And you must be thirsty.”

He was, Frodo realized, quite terribly so.  His throat ached with it and even his skin felt dry and too small for his body.  With an effort, he forced his eyes open and looked into the woman’s anxious features. 

His reward was a beaming smile that lit Marly’s plain face and turned it into a thing of beauty.  “Well, hello!” she greeted him.  “Glad to see you return to the land of the living.”  Two smaller faces peered at him from the open door and Frodo tried to pull himself up in the bed.  He groaned in spite of himself and immediately the woman pressed him back down.  “Don’t you go moving around now, Mr. Baggins.  Pete’s going to work on that leg as soon as you get a little food into you.”

The younger boy drifted closer.  “Da says you won’t feel like eating, after, so you better do it now.”

“Brion!”

“It is all right, Mistress Marly. Truly. The lad was only being honest.”  Brion flashed him a quick smile of apology and thanks.  The hobbit forced thoughts of the imminent future away with a deliberate force of will.  “That smells wonderful.  And please, call me Frodo.”

“If you call me Marly.”

Frodo nodded.  “Could Brion or Rich carry a message for me?  I need to let my friends know that I am safe and in good hands.”  

* * * * *   

“What time is the town magistrate supposed to arrive at the jail?” asked Aragorn, valiantly trying to scrub the remaining soot from his face.

“The townsfolk I talked to said at mid-day,” Pippin volunteered.  Far less filthy than the Ranger and the Elf, he and Merry were sitting by the well on the ground, arms clasped around raised knees, watching as the two Big Folk struggled to rid themselves of the accumulated dirt.  Samwise was trying, with little success, to brush out their cloaks.  Legolas was doing better than Aragorn - even his garments were shedding ashes and grain-dust more completely than his friend’s.

“Hanging seems a severe retribution for burning down an inn,” commented the Elf, engrossed in trimming his hair, evening out the burned areas.  “The owner is unlikely to receive restitution from a corpse.”

“I don’t think the guard commander cares about the innkeeper being repaid,” said Pippin slowly.  “A lady told me she is paid to take food to the guards, and one of them told her that it seemed to be a personal matter between the commander and Boromir.”

“What could a guard commander in this nameless place want with Boromir?”  Aragorn gave up on trying to wipe off the filth and upended the bucket over his head, water draining down his face and running down to form grey puddles at his feet.

“The lady didn’t know.  I didn’t talk to anyone that did.  Did you, Merry?”  Meriadoc was staring blankly at the tops of his knees.  “Merry?”

With a start, the older cousin looked at the younger.  “Did you say something, Pip?”

“I said -" began Pippin, slightly aggrieved by his cousin’s lack of attention.

But Aragorn overrode him.   “I know that look, Merry.  What are you thinking about?”

Merry raised his bright head slowly, his abstracted expression resolving into one of focused intensity that the other members of the Fellowship knew well.  That quicksilver mind was at work, and the Ranger had learned to respect it.  “I was thinking about how to get Gandalf and Boromir and Gimli out of jail.  How much money do you have?”

Legolas and Aragorn both opened their purses and joined their coins to the hobbits’ ill-gotten gains.  Sam whistled.  “Never seen so much money in one place before.  What are you going ‘ta do with it, Mr. Merry?”

Merry was busily separating the piles of copper and silver and gold into piles, quick hands darting over them with the same deftness they had demonstrated in the shell-game.  Merry looked up to grin at the stocky hobbit.  “I’m not going to do anything with it, Sam.  You and Pip and I had better stay out of sight for a while.  Till this – ah – unfortunate misunderstanding is cleared up, anyway.”  He paused to pour the small pile of gold coins through his hand, watching as they clinked gently back to earth.  “Aragorn and Legolas, however, are going to have to clean up better than that.”

“Why?” asked the Ranger warily.

“Because you are going to get our friends out of jail,” replied Merry reasonably.  “And no magistrate is going to accept bail from a couple of ill-favored ruffians such as you two appear to be.”

“Merry,” Legolas responded, “we do not have enough money to make bail for three on such a charge.”

Merry paused in his sorting to wave a hand airily.  “Don’t worry about it, Legolas.  I’ll take care of that detail.”

“Oh no,” muttered Sam, then wondered why that utterance sounded so familiar to him. 

 A half-hour later, the two had been cleaned up as much as they could be without soap or a change of clothing.   Merry stood before them, hands on hips, and regarded them critically.  Legolas returned the hobbit’s examination with cool amusement.  Aragorn watched Merry suspiciously and tried to fan his clothing dry.  “I think Legolas had better give them the money,” the hobbit said at last.

“They will probably arrest us on the spot and then there will be five to liberate,” muttered Aragorn. 

Merry shook his head.  “On what grounds?  You and Legolas weren’t there when the inn burned down.  That man you told us about cleared you of the fire at the warehouse.  No one saw us when the silo blew up.  You two are innocent.”  At the Elf’s elegantly raised eyebrow, Merry reconsidered his words.  “I mean, you aren’t wanted for anything.” 

“Yet,” growled the Ranger ominously.

“You should leave your weapons with us, though,” Merry continued, ignoring Aragorn’s comment.  “You’ll look less like a threat if you aren’t armed.”  The two sighed and unburdened themselves, entrusting all but their knives to the hobbits’ care.

* * * * *

The guardsman on desk duty inspected the oddly damp strangers doubtfully.  But the training his commander had instilled in him triumphed over his distrust … that, and awe of the one of the Fair Folk that regarded him so disdainfully.  “If you sirs will wait here,” the guardsman said, “I will fetch the commander.”

Legolas examined the wooden bench offered him as if he thought it might soil his clothing.  Aragorn swallowed a smile and dropped into the plank, stretching his long legs out before him and crossing his boots at the ankle.  When the guardsman had gone, Aragorn looked at the Elf from the corner of his eye.  “Why the attitude?”

“It has been my experience that underlings are more attentive to their duties when faced by one of superior position,” returned the Elf softly.  “Or one of apparently superior position.”  At the Ranger’s soft laugh, Legolas continued, “We did not wait to see the commander, did we?”

Both rose to their feet when the guard commander entered the room.  Aragorn almost took a step back at the sheer hostility radiating from the man.  The commander’s cold grey eyes traveled over them, noting every missed smudge and crisped hair.  They would find no friend here.  The Ranger opened his mouth to give courteous greeting, but the commander interrupted him.

“The town magistrate will be arriving shortly.  When he comes, your friends will be allowed to prove their innocence, if they can.”

“May we see them?”  This from Legolas, at his most charming.

The commander eyed the Elf.  “I can find no reason to deny you admittance,” he said reluctantly.  “You have two minutes.  No longer.”

Aragorn and Legolas were escorted by the commander himself into the cell area.  Once there, he stood with his back against the door, allowing them some communication but not privacy.   Gandalf stood with his back to them, staring out the barred window.  Boromir sat on the floor, scrubbing at some stubborn stains on his boots with a cloth.  Gimli was asleep on one of the benches, beard pointed to the sky, snoring sonorously. 

Boromir looked up as they entered.  “Gandalf,” he murmured.  The wizard turned instantly, hands tightening on his staff.  Gimli woke up with a snort and swung his heavy boots to the floor, silent and watchful.  All three came to the bars and clasped wrists with Aragorn and Legolas.

“You are well?” said Aragorn and Gandalf together and laughed.  Gandalf stared at them.  “Why are you wet?”

“It is a long story and can wait.”  The Ranger moved closer to the bars and dropped his voice,  “We have the hobbits –“

“Frodo?” asked Gandalf, his expression easing.

“No,” Aragorn replied regretfully.  “We found his kidnapper but lost them again.  Frodo was free and he ran before we could stop him.  I think he is hurt.  His abductor came after -”

“You lost him?” the wizard interrupted, bushy brows drawing down and his face flushing dangerously.  “Aragorn, I entrusted you with safeguarding the Ring-bearer and you lost him?”  He paused for a breath and Aragorn countered, dawning anger on his own face.

“Good job there, Gandalf.  Burn down the inn, lose Frodo, refuse to pay the bill, very nearly start a riot, get the Fellowship thrown in jail…” Aragorn paused.  “Have I missed anything?”

“Gentlemen,” came the Elf’s soft voice, “may I remind you we have an audience?”

The wizard glared at Legolas but lowered his voice, recognizing the truth of the Ranger’s words.  “Very well.  I made some mistakes, too.”  Gandalf drew in a deep breath.  “The first was agreeing to enter this misbegotten town.”  He released the breath and closed his eyes.  “Our priority must be to find Frodo.”

“Agreed.  But to do that, we must get you out of this place.”

Gimli glanced between the two, relieved the potential clash had passed.  “How do you propose to spring us?”

“Aragorn,” Boromir interrupted, “there is something you must know -”

“Time!”  The commander barked harshly.

With a sigh, the Ranger released his grip on the bars.  He would have spoken again but Gandalf shook his head.  The wizard pressed his face against the bars and whispered, “If I must, I will free us.  But such an act would advertise ‘Gandalf is here’ to all who have eyes to see.  Any hope of passing through unheralded would be lost.”

 Aragorn nodded and stepped back.  “Wait,” he mouthed at them, and saw three slow nods in reply.

* * * * *

Neither the Elf nor the Ranger had noticed the dark form that kept to the shadows and watched them as they entered the guardhouse.  It lurked there, unseen and unheard, black cloak hiding it from even the closest inspection.  Abandoning its hiding place, it crept to the outside of the barred window and turned its head sideways, pressing an ear almost against the stone.  The Man’s words and the wizard’s came to its straining ears and it clasped one oddly-distended gloved hand over the other ear to better isolate and comprehend the soft words of the conversation within.

“Ring-bearer,” it heard, and “he is hurt” and “lost.”  The voices rose briefly then dipped below the range of its hearing.  The figure snarled and muttered beneath its breath in a growling, distorted voice.  So they’d lost the little one.  The other hunter had taken it, and it had escaped that one, too.  The dark form had no wish to meet that unnatural creature.  It knew little of that one …but enough that it would not move while the sun was in the sky.   Briefly it considered seeking out the townsman, Kent, and either paying or terrifying the little weasel into accepting employment from it again.  But gold might not buy the stupid little man’s loyalty this time and it dared not make another such mistake.

No.  It had the measure of this little town now, and greater understanding of the halflings and their guardians.  Almost taking the wrong halfling had been Kent’s fault – perhaps it owed the big warrior a favor for stopping the snatch. 

Briefly the cloaked one considered its options and found them limited.  The figure pulled its cloak about it and returned to the shadows, hoping that someone would seek to contact the prisoners and so provide it a trail to the one it had been sent to find.  As it sank to the ground in a rustle of black cloth, it pondered the little it had been able to overhear, including the word, “Ring-bearer.”

* TBC *

Chapter Fourteen

When Frodo had finished the chicken soup and the bread, Marly took the tray from him.  “Thank you, Marly,” he said, and received that beaming smile in reply. 

“My pleasure, Mast … Frodo.  You just rest now, and Pete and I’ll see about that leg in a few minutes.  Would you like ‘ta give Brion your message now, sir?”

“Please.”  Frodo sighed and sank back into the pillows, closing his eyes.  With something in his stomach, he felt less sick and shaky.  A slight shift of the mattress and a faint creak informed him that the boy was perched on the end of the bed.

Brion grinned as the hobbit’s eyes opened, still delighted with their unexpected, fascinating visitor.  “I’m to run a message for you, sir?” he asked.  Before Frodo could reply, the boy rushed on, “I know everybody.  Just tell me who to look for.”

Frodo had to smile at the child’s enthusiasm.  “I don’t know where my friends will be, as the inn at which we were staying burned down -”

“I saw that!” the boy interrupted, his eyes dancing with excitement.

Frodo nodded; such an event would be the most excitement this little town had seen in quite a while.  “Look for a tall old Man in grey robes, with a ridiculous pointed hat and a staff as tall as himself.  Or another Man, tall, dark -”

Again the boy interrupted him.  “I saw you all come into town yesterday afternoon, sir.”  Frodo nodded once more; there had been so many gawking townsfolk that he did not remember the boy.  The hobbits had been busy gawking right back.  “I’ll ask around and find them, sir.  Someone will know where they’ve gone.”

“When you find them, please assure them that I am all right and in good care.”  The boy beamed again, brown eyes glowing with pleasure.  “I am certain that my friends will want to return with you and collect me.”

Brion bounced to his feet and bowed extravagantly.  “At your service, sir!” 

Marly escorted her son to the door with the usual “be careful” and “don’t you get into trouble” that he had heard every day of his life.  Assuring his mother of his good behavior, Brion scooted out the door.  The woman smiled as strong arms stole around her waist and pulled her in for a gentle kiss on the back of her neck.

“He’s off, then?”

Marly turned around in her husband’s arms.  “Aye.  I don’t know how much time you’ll have before Frodo’s friends come.  We’d best get to it, luv.”

Peter smiled and hugged her before releasing her.  “Time for me to meet this odd creature?”

Marly frowned at him, though sparkles twinkled in her eyes.  “He’s not an ‘odd creature.’  He’s a hobbit.  And he’s hurt, Pete.  I’ve taken care of the little cuts and the rope-burns, but that leg looks really bad.”

“That’s why you wanted Brion gone?”

“No need for a boy that age to see this,” the woman replied.  “Rich and I will help you.  He’s getting your things ready.”  The man nodded and turned away from her, to find her arms around his waist this time and her face pressed against his back.  “Be as gentle as possible, luv.  He looks to be a lad no bigger than Brion, though I know he’s adult among his own folk.  It just wrenches me heart to see pain on that sweet face.”

Peter chuckled.  “Ever the mother.  But … you’re right.  He does bear a resemblance to our scamp.”  Gently he disentangled her arms then raised her hand up to his lips.  “All right, then, let’s get to it.  The longer an infection sits, the worse it gets.”

Frodo had almost managed to retreat back into sleep when a soft cough jolted him back to wakefulness.  Opening his eyes, he saw a tall man standing behind Marly and knew where the boys had gotten those snub noses.  The man smiled and Frodo felt from him the same warmth and generosity of spirit that his wife radiated.

Marly introduced them and the two exchanged half-bows.  Then Peter pushed back the sleeves of his son’s borrowed nightshirt and examined the crusting rope-burns.  “Do ye want to tell us about this?”

Frodo hesitated.  He could not involve these good people in the danger that hunted him.  The two humans watched as conflicting emotions chased across the hobbit’s pale face, his instinctive reaching out in friendship warring with the need for secrecy of the last months.  “Forgive me,” said the hobbit at last.  “I cannot.  Other lives than mine are at stake.  My presence here puts you in danger, and the sooner I am gone, the better.”  

The man accepted that answer, though he obviously wasn’t satisfied with it.   To the Ring-bearer’s relief, whatever Peter had been about to say was deterred by the arrival of his older son, a wire basket of steel utensils still steaming in the youth’s hands.  Frodo’s face went white as he saw it.  Marly moved around to the head of the bed and gently pressed his shoulders back into the pillows.  “We’ll make this as easy on you as we can, Frodo, but it’s going ‘ta hurt.”

Carefully the man lifted the quilts that covered the hobbit’s body and moved them from the injured area.  Pressed back against the pillows by Marly’s unyielding arms, Frodo could not see the wound.  But he tried to struggle upright when he heard her soft gasp.  “Rat bite,” growled the man, leaning down to examine it better.  “Dirty things … carry all sorts o’ disease … took a good bit out of you, didn’t it?”  Marly pushed him down again with a little comforting squeeze of his shoulders.

Gentle fingers traced around the injury, then pressed down.  Frodo gasped in startlement and pain as the fingers palpitated his leg, fire flashing up through him to break out as sweat on his forehead.  The fingers were withdrawn and Pete looked at him remorsefully.  “Ahh, I’m sorry there, Master Frodo.”

“Da,” said Rich in a soft voice.

“I see it, boy.”

“See what?” asked Frodo, pleased at how calm his voice sounded.

The man glanced up but did not answer.  Instead, he addressed himself to his son.  “Move the lamp closer, Rich.  Yes, there.”  Frodo felt his leg being lifted carefully and turned.  “You’d better help your mother hold ‘im down.”  Peter cleared his throat and when Frodo met his eyes, the man dropped his gaze, a flush stealing over his craggy features.  “I’m sorry, but I’ve nothing ‘ta give you for the pain.  Sedating herbs and teas are right dear … and…”  Helpless, the man repeated, “I’m sorry.”

The hobbit nodded and closed his eyes, small hands clamping onto the wooden bedframe as if to hold himself to life.

* * * * *

The commander of the guard escorted Aragorn and Legolas back and turned them over to the guard on desk duty.  Legolas tried to engage the officer in conversation but the commander only stared at him, such fury in his grey eyes that the Elf desisted.  Luckily, they did not have long to wait.  The garrison door blew open and the town magistrate breezed in, followed by the glowering innkeeper.

To Aragorn’s eyes, the magistrate looked like nothing as much as an overgrown hobbit, amiable face now scowling.  A fringe of curly white hair encircled a round head with a face red with exertion, beads of perspiration gathering on the temples despite the coolness of the winter sun at mid-day.  The little man did not look happy to see them.  No doubt this had much to do with the constant stream of soft-voiced, aggravated words the innkeep was pouring into his ear.

“Wot’s this, then?”  With a wave of his hand, the magistrate silenced the irate innkeep and the Ranger’s respect for the little man went up a notch.  Without waiting for a response, the rotund man plowed on.  “Is it true you won’t pay for the damage the old man did?   Settin’ fire to an inn and endangering folks’ lives is a hanging offense in this town, sirs, an’ if you think you can just -"

“We have every intention of making full reparation, your honor,” interjected Legolas so smoothly that the little man was caught with his mouth open, gaping like a fish.  “In fact,” the Elf continued, “I have the sum with me now – this moment.   Full payment for the inn and all its furnishings and stock – double the worth of the inn and all it contained.”  So saying, the Elf withdrew the heavy sack that Merry had handed him.  Working open the knotted drawstring, Legolas spread the fabric to reveal a shimmering pile of gold coins. 

The magistrate tried to speak and inhale at the same moment and broke into a fit of noisy, messy coughs.  The commander took a step away from the wall, his cold face flushing as his eyes traveled to the cell area.  The innkeep made a sound that resembled a cat with its tail caught in a door and surged forward, dirty hands reaching out to clasp the sagging bag.  Legolas released it to him and stepped back, clear eyes amused but wary.

“Oh…” with a visible effort, the magistrate gathered up the shards of his composure.  Aragorn watched as thoughts of how this bounty would benefit his little town’s economy flowed behind those shocked eyes.  “Ummm…  Does this satisfy your complaint, then?”

Wordless, the innkeep nodded, the weight of the sack pulling his arms down.  He heaved the sack on the desk guard’s desk and watched as it listed to the side, a bright yellow river flowing from its mouth.

“No!  No, I’ll not accept this!”

The round little magistrate turned to the commander in astonishment.  “What do you have to say about it?”  The commander ground his fists into his sides, impotent rage in his cold face.  “The complaint has been satisfied,” the magistrate continued, “an’ most generously, I might add.  Release the prisoners!”

Instead of obeying, the commander moved to the desk and dug his fingers deep into the sack, picking up one of the golden coins from the bottom.  A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.  “You might want to have a look at some of these coins, first,” he said in a quiet, non-committal voice, all traces of his earlier fury gone.  “They’re false.”

* * * * *

Brion scurried along the dirt-strewn streets he had known all of his life, puffed up with the importance of his mission.  Friends called to him to come join in their play but he shook his dark head and hurried on.  It did not take him long at all to find out what had happened to Frodo’s friends – their fate and the latest mishaps were on everyone’s lips.  The boy didn’t even have to ask anyone; he just sidled up to his elders’ conversations and listened.

The boy knew where the garrison was, of course, as he knew the location of every building in this little town that was his world.  His route took him past the still-smoldering site of the inn and he watched for a few minutes as men worked at cleaning up the debris, carting away charred timbers and trying to salvage what they could.  Water from the effort to save the building had turned the ground into a muddy morass and the boy contemplated crossing the expanse in dismay.  His mother would make him clean his boots if he got them dirty.  With the straightforward practicality of the young, he decided that feet were easier to wash than boots.  Leaning against a convenient wall, the boy took them off and tucked them safely behind a barrel.  In less than a quarter-hour he stood at the rear of the jail, straining up on the mud-encrusted tips of his toes, trying to see into the cell through the small barred window.

If he dragged himself up to the window, he could see the backs of the old man and the warrior and the Dwarf as they gathered at the bars to speak with the man and the Elf.  This was as close as he had ever been to one of the Fair Folk and the boy stared in astonishment.  He could watch for only seconds before his young arms gave and he slid down against the wall.  When he had shaken them out and pulled himself up again, the Elf and the Man were leaving, the others crowded along the bars, staring after them desolately.

Which group should he approach?  He knew the guards, of course, but he doubted if they would let him speak with the prisoners.  The dark, dangerous looking man and the Elf rather intimidated him.  No, better if he waited until they left the room, then he would call the kindly-looking old man over to the window and deliver Frodo’s message.  Then the old man could tell the other two to follow him home -

“Got you, halfling!”  Brion’s head snapped back on his neck as a leather glove clamped over his mouth and nose.  His hands unlocked from the bars in surprise and he clawed at his face.  The boy felt himself pulled backwards then a black cloak was thrown over his head and he was pressed against something soft with an arm clamped over his chest.  He tried to scream but the leather glove covering his face slammed his head forward into the stone wall, and he knew no more.

* TBC * 

Chapter Fifteen

“Counterfeit?”  Aragorn surged forward, his hands digging into the sack.  Gold coins spilled from his fingers, rolling onto the rough desk to fall to the guardhouse’s floor with dull clinking noises.  He picked one up and eyed it, then another.  Then he dug down deep into the sack as the commander had done and pulled out a third.  This he started to set down with the others then paused, unguarded confusion on his face.  He turned it over in his hands, then put it into his mouth and bit down hard upon it. 

The Ranger spat it out into his palm and held it up.  Copper winked dully underneath a thin gold wash.  Aragorn dropped it and put his hand over his eyes, murmuring too softly for the others to hear, “Ah, Merry, what have you done now?”

Legolas alone heard the whispered words.  The Elf’s eyes widened in alarm.  He started to speak but was interrupted by a howl from the innkeeper.  “No, no!” the man cried, sounding as if he had lost his dearest friend in the world.  The man flung his arms around the sack and its scattered contents, his thick chest heaving with choking sobs.  “Noooooooo!”

Aragorn lowered his hand to find a sword-point an inch from his throat.  The commander’s steel-colored eyes gleamed as his other hand toyed with the coin the Ranger had let fall.  Over the gasping cries of the innkeeper, the man commented, “Most ingenious.  Copper coins washed in … goldenrod flowers and yellow ochre, if I am not mistaken.  You gentlemen know something of herb-lore.”  He cautiously tasted the other side of the coin.  “Coated with a binding agent of …” here a careful lick, “water and grain dust.  A most resourceful glue.”  He scraped a fingernail over the coin, then again harder.  “And effective.  They would certainly pass casual inspection, to eyes that were blinded by greed.”  He paused for a moment to toss a glance of contempt at the innkeep and the town magistrate.

The magistrate’s face had gone dead white upon the commander’s revelation.  Now it was slowly regaining its color, flushing a beet-red hue that did not go well with the curly white fringe around his balding head.  Growling inarticulately, he too inspected the coins.  “What’s this?” he demanded, finding his voice at last.  Fleshly fingers fastened onto one of the coins and pulled, holding up something almost invisible into a shaft of the mid-day sun that slanted through one of the garrison’s windows.  The sunbeam glinted off a single bright filament. 

Deftly Legolas plucked it from his fingers and examined it, those clear eyes focused and intent.  “It is a thread,” confirmed the Elf.  “I suspect it was soaked for the dye, to further enhance the golden tint of the coating.”  He raised his eyes to meet those of the Ranger, amused despite the danger they were now in.  “I have little doubt it is from a certain yellow waistcoat.”

Aragorn nodded resignedly.  He sought the commander’s unyielding eyes.  “You must believe me when I say that we had no knowledge of this.  My friend and I mixed our own money in with … other coins and another took the gold and placed it in this sack.  And did more, evidently.”  He grimaced, a rare pinking of tanned cheeks that spoke volumes of his chagrin and embarrassment.

A grain of doubt showed in the guard commander’s eyes.  He had captained enough soldiers over many, many years to know when a man lied, and his instincts told him now that this tall, dangerous-looking man was telling him the truth.  Against his will, he found himself respecting this vagabond warrior.  The sword-point wavered slightly, then firmed and rose again.  “Be that as it may,” the commander remarked in his cool disinterested voice, “I am sure you will understand when I decline to release the prisoners to you.”

“I should say not!” snarled the magistrate.  His comrade was still clutching the sack to himself, an expression of agony on his face.  “Wot did you think you were getting away with, eh?  Trying to cheat us, eh?  You’ll join your friends in that cell, now, you will.  You can all rot together -”

“A moment, please.”  The magistrate started; Legolas had stood so still and silent that the little man had forgotten him.  “A moment,” the Elf repeated, those sunlit eyes clouded.  “There is a great deal of money here.  A great deal in genuine gold.  If you add to it the gold in the two purses offered you last night, surely that is enough for bail?”

The magistrate’s mouth dropped open.  The innkeeper made a faint gurgling sound, one meaty hand clenched around the sack, holding it to his breast like a lover.  “You would have all this money now,” Legolas continued in a soft, persuasive voice.  “And more to come, to pay for the inn.  Double the worth of the inn and all its furnishings and stock, as originally promised.”

With an effort, the little man closed his mouth.  “And how do we know you’ll deliver?”

Legolas drew himself up and his eyes flashed.  “I am Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Greenwood,” he declaimed in his clear, ringing voice.  Aragorn stared at his old friend in amazement; rarely had he seen the Elf use the power and prestige of his royal birth.  “Allow me to send to my sire.  The funds will be delivered to you with all the speed that elvish-horses can race the wind.”

The magistrate and the innkeeper looked at each other and licked their lips in an identical, unconscious gesture.  “So much,” encouraged Aragorn softly.  “So much money.  Think of all the ways it would benefit this town.  And so much more to come…  Would it truly be such a hardship to wait but a little while?  Surely what is here, and the gold in the other two purses, can buy the temporary freedom of our three friends?”

“Two.”  They all turned to the guard commander.  The officer had lowered his sword when Aragorn made no move to escape or defend himself.  Now the man’s grey eyes burned, kindled from within by some private fire.  Those eyes flicked to the magistrate.  “Keeping one here will ensure that the others do not … decide to abscond without making the reparations they promised.”

Slowly the round little man nodded, swayed by the pleading looks of the innkeeper and his own avarice.  “Yes … good thinking.”  He turned to face the Ranger.  “All right.  We will keep one of your friends here -”

“The man,” interrupted the commander softly.

The magistrate frowned at him.  “What?”

The guard commander raised his voice slightly.  “We will keep the soldier here as surety for the good behavior of the others.  The old man and the Dwarf may go free.”

Aragorn startedto protest and his hand almost strayed to his sword hilt, then he remembered that he had left it with the hobbits.  Legolas had seen the almost imperceptible movement and shook his head slightly.  It seemed Merry had been right that the townsfolk would deal with them more easily did they appear less of a threat.  Aragorn’s gaze returned to the Elf.  Legolas’ brow was furrowed and his gaze opaque.  Knowing that his friend sometimes caught undercurrents and tensions more clearly than himself, the Ranger kept silent.

The guard commander looked at them as if he expected objections.  When he received none, some of the edginess left his face.  “Their weapons and personal belongings will be returned to you.  The money,” and here he again flashed that cool glance of contempt at his superior and the innkeeper, “we will keep as insurance of your good manners.”

When Aragorn and Legolas were escorted into the holding area, Gandalf and Boromir and Gimli were pressed to the bars, pressed as close as the cell would allow them to hear the conversation in the adjoining room.  Another time the Ranger would have smiled to see them so, but there was little leeway for levity now.  Swiftly the bail arrangement was explained to the three.  The great iron key was turned in the lock and the barred door opened.

With a glance at the others, Gimli went first, his slow exit providing Gandalf a moment to talk with Boromir.  “Do not fear,” the wizard said softly, “we will be watching, always.”

Boromir nodded, but his face was strained.  “The commander wants my death, Gandalf.”

“He has been pushed beyond all rationality by his hate and desire for revenge,” replied the wizard softly.  “Whatever grievance he holds against the Steward may not come before our mission.  I will not permit you to come to harm.” 

Then the great door was closed upon Boromir and he stood alone and desolate as the others left.  

* * * * *

“Hisst!”

At Aragorn’s signal, three small shapes emerged cautiously from behind the barrels of the root cellar and guided Gandalf and Gimli down into the hobbits’ hiding place, with the Ranger and the Elf following.  Momentarily blind from the transition from bright sunlight to gloomy murk, the four followed the tugs on their hands and clothing and felt their way down the steps into the cool earthen storage area.  Their packs and other burdens were taken from them and stacked against the wall, and Aragorn sighed in relief when the familiar hilt of his sword was pressed into his hands.

“You lot are going to have to bend over some,” Sam informed them as Gandalf straightened and caught his forehead on a wooden beam.  So warned, Aragorn and Legolas crouched down and sought seats on the dusty plank floor.  Gimli did not have to hunch over; he sat down and looked about the root cellar with approval, his hands caressing the great battle-axe between his drawn-up knees with tenderness.

“Were you followed?” asked Merry, guiding Gandalf to sit down on some flour sacks.

“Where’s Boromir?” questioned Pippin anxiously, looking up at the closed double doors in confusion and worry.

The four had had time to speak with each other on the short walk to the agreed-upon meeting place of the root cellar.  “Meriadoc,” said Gandalf quietly, his hands clenched tightly around his staff, “I would like to speak with you.”

* * * * *

“I think you’d better give him something to bite on, luv,” murmured Peter softly as his great, gentle hands turned the hobbit’s leg, his face pressed up inches from the inflamed wound in order to see it the better.

Frodo’s eyes, huge with apprehension, darted from his face to Marly’s.  Wordlessly, the woman tore one of the linen strips her son had brought in with the surgery utensils and folded it many times, making a thick pad.  Frodo stared at it a long moment before opening his mouth to accept it.  When it was securely in place, he laid his head back on the pillow and turned his face to the wall, closing his eyes.

But he could not block out the contributions of his other senses.  “Move around, boy, an’ hold his other leg,” he heard and felt a moment later Rich’s tentative hands grasp his unwounded leg and press it into the mattress.  A cool hand stroked his forehead briefly before resuming its hold on his shoulder, keeping him still.  The sharp scent of an antiseptic came to his nostrils, then something cool was brushed over the wound, causing him to shudder.  It burned with coldness and he clamped his teeth on the gag, sweat starting from his face even though Peter had not yet begun to cut.

At the first touch of the knife he jerked violently, unable to prevent it.  His eyes flew open to behold Marly’s white face and the tears in her eyes that were sliding down her full cheeks.  Seeing his gaze upon her, she inhaled through her teeth, catching her husband’s attention.  “Talk to him, luv.  It may help.”

“Do you want to hear what I’m doing, Frodo?” Peter asked, his hands still hidden from the hobbit’s view.  Unable to reply, Frodo nodded.  “The infection where that dirty thing bit you has turned septic,” the man continued in his gentle, even voice.  “There’s an ugly red streak starting from the bite and leading up towards your heart.  It’s only a few inches long now.”  The man fell silent and again the hobbit felt something burning cold drill into his leg.  “I’m going to cut along it and drain it and disinfect it.”

The man’s next words were lost in a wave of red blackness that washed over him.  When his mind would have sank gratefully into darkness, his body fought, keeping him aware.  He cried out in spite of himself and again that cool hand brushed across his face, this time wielding a cloth soaked in cold water.  “Easy, easy,” a caring voice whispered above him, and he struggled to call Marly’s name to mind.

The adamant steel that was the knife was withdrawn and he heard Peter exhale.  At his feet, Rich echoed the sound, a breathy gulp in his voice.  Again the cold burning, which he now understood was the liquid antiseptic being poured into and over the wound.  Something vile frothed from the injury and ran down the side of his leg, to be wiped away by the man.  A nauseating smell rose in the air, putrid and suffocating.  The boy made a soft sound of revulsion and sickness, but the trembling hands on the hobbit’s leg did not falter.

Frodo was perspiring greatly now, shaking with chills and tremors.  His heart was pounding so hard that the front of Brion’s borrowed nightshirt fluttered.  Were he not held down so forcefully, he would have shaken off the restraining arms and fought his way to freedom, even knowing that the Big Folk were trying to help and that he must submit to this.  

“One more little cut,” came the man’s voice, “and it will be over.  It’s draining nicely, Frodo.  Good thing this didn’t wait a couple o’ days … once the poison involved invades into the bloodstream, the body’s defenses secrete toxins…”  The man’s voice droned on, comforting in its monotony, mouthing words the hobbit did not understand and could not seem to attend to.  Again the pain, immediate and intense.  The world came abruptly back into sharp focus.  Marly was holding him down by leaning on him, her head aside his.  Rich was pressing down his other leg with both hands, freckles standing out in sharp relief to his wan face.  Peter’s head was tilted down, his face intense, professional yet compassionate of the small person writhing under his hands.  This time the knife, dripping and red to the hilt, was set back on the bandages and the rest of the burning cold liquid poured over his leg until the container was empty. 

Frodo choked and Marly tugged gently on the gag.  He stared at her blankly for a moment before opening his mouth, feeling the dry cloth pulled from his tongue and peel back off his teeth.  “It’s done,” she crooned, hands stroking his sweat-soaked curls, “it’s all over now.  Pete’s just going ‘ta put in a few stitches…”

It seemed impossible that the tiny needle should hurt as much as it did.  Or that he could feel the thread tug through his flesh.  When the needle looped around through the lips on the other side of the wound to draw the stitch together and seal it, the hobbit’s strength gave way at last and he fainted.

* TBC * 

Chapter Sixteen

“Wake up, halfling.” 

Brion felt his shoulder shaken, but the warm wool coverlet that he seemed to be wrapped in was too comfortable to release.  His mother and brother both routinely resorted to shoulder shaking and the boy had developed an immunity to it.  He shrugged off the leather glove and tried to burrow deeper into the bed.

Only it wasn’t a bed.  Unyielding wood met his squirming, and the scent of a wool rug gone to mustiness.  For some unfathomable reason, he was lying on a mildew-ridden carpet on the floor.  If he got his clothes dirty, his mother would –

A bucket of stale water was thrown over him, and the boy found himself on his feet, gasping, rivulets of water running down from his dark hair.  He stared at the black-cloaked form that stood before him, unable to force sense upon his awakening.  Seeing the expression on his face, the dark figure abruptly laughed, then coughed.

The figure coughed again.  “It is hard on the throat to rasp so,” the figure muttered.  It cleared it throat extensively, then addressed the boy again.  Brion lost the first few words, so shocked was he by the higher register in which the figure spoke.  Seeing his pole axed stare, the figure stopped and with a sigh, threw back the black hood.

Glossy raven hair tumbled down from its pinnings, framing an olive-skinned face of delicate structure.  Brown eyes so dark they looked almost black returned his stare.  She was beautiful, the boy thought, then his mind seized and stumbled on the pronoun. 

Amusement sparked in the lovely eyes, outlined by thick black lashes like butterfly wings.  Returning his regard, she slipped the black cloak from her shoulders then tugged off the gloves, revealing slender hands with greatly elongated fingernails, filed to a blunt tip and painted.  Brion had never seen such long nails before, or painted ones.  He stared, open-mouthed.

“In my country,” the woman said, “in the South, only the nobility may grow their nails to such length.  It is a sign that we do not work the soil like the peons my noble father sold me to purchase.”  She waved the hand before her eyes, admiring the contrast of olive skin against the bleeding red paint.  “Of course, it makes it difficult to carry out my chosen profession of assassin and thief.

“And now kidnapper, evidently,” she murmured grimly.  “Shut your mouth, halfling, before a fly flies in.”

This Brion did, while inching away from her.  She wore breeches like a man, black leather, soiled and stained with long wearing and a worn linen tunic of quality make.  A long sword hung at her side, slender and sharp as she, and knives were tucked into sheaths tied at her thigh and forearms.  A low belt of shaped metal stars hung at her waist and the boy saw light glint off one, as if the edges were razored.  The woman watched him inventory her, smiling, and reached up to gather up the raven locks and wind them in a tight braid around the crown of her head, fastening them with a hair-clasp made of a tiny throwing dagger.

“You do look very young,” she remarked.  “But not as different from human folk as I was led to believe.”  She leaned forward to examine him more closely and Brion fetched up with a wall against his back, unable to retreat further.  “Your feet look normal enough, if extremely muddy.  Do you truly grow hair upon them?” 

She thinks I’m Frodo! Brion realized with a shock that went clear through him.   Chagrined, he realized he had been backing away from the door of the small room.  She was between him and it. 

The woman followed his gaze without turning around.  “It’s locked,” she informed him.  “And the buildings on both sides of this little place stand empty.  Screaming would avail you little.”  Her gaze swept him up and down dismissively.  “Do not think you could overpower me, halfling.  I am strong and well-trained and you look just like a little boy.”

That stung.  “I’m not a little boy,” Brion retorted.  “I’m ten!”

The woman paused in adjusting her belt of stars and those dark, dark eyes raised to him.  The boy was reminded of his father’s stories of the tiger that waited in the grasslands.  Her eyes looked like that.  “What?” she said after a moment.

“I’m ten,” Brion repeated stubbornly.  He was aware that answering her so probably wasn’t the wisest move he could make, but she had insulted him.  “I’m not a little boy.”

The woman went perfectly still, like the tiger just before it pounced.  Then her hand tightened on the hilt of one of the long knives.  “What is your name?”

* * * * *

“Frodo?  Can you wake up a little, please?”

A woman’s voice, soft and sweet.  Someone was stroking his hair, gentle caressing motions that soothed and comforted.  He did not want to wake up.  There would be pain when he did; he was almost sure of it.

“He’s fighting it, luv.”

“Can’t say I blame him, Marly.  I wouldn’t want to wake up either, if someone’d been cutting on my leg.”  Another set of warm hands, these ones larger and rougher-skinned, turned the limb gently, unwrapping the bandages that he could dimly feel as pressure and restraint.  “But he’s got ‘ta get some liquid into him, and this leg needs to be washed again.  It’s still draining something awful.”

“I’ve echinacea tea ready, an’ there’s some left for a poultice.  That ends it though … all that’s left in the herb garden is goldenseal.”

“What I wouldn’t give for some powdered myrrh.  Or -”

“Or half a dozen other medicines, we can’t afford, luv.  We’ll do the best we can with what we have, like we’ve always done.”

“Frodo?  Come on now, you must wake up.”

The voices were becoming impossible to ignore.   He tried valiantly, though.  He was quite certain now that he didn’t want to wake up.

* * * * *

“Come here, Meriadoc,” said Gandalf quietly.

“I’m comfortable right here, Gandalf,” responded Merry, safely out of arm’s reach and intending to stay that way.  Pippin was clustered close to his cousin’s side, while Sam stared at them in bewilderment, aware that something was wrong but not what.  He’d been too busy trying to help Aragorn and Legolas clean their filthy clothing to pay much attention when Merry ordered Pippin to gather dandelions and flowers and had started washing his yellow waistcoat in the bucket from the well.  It had certainly needed it, to Sam’s way of thinking.

“Would you like something to eat?” Merry added hurriedly.  “There’s bags of apples and nuts, and we’ve opened jars of peaches -"

“Is Boromir coming soon?” interrupted Pippin.  The tweenager left Merry and scrambled up to the closed doors, trying to angle his head to see out without opening them.  “Did he have to stop for something?”

“Meriadoc.”

“I’m not sorry!” flashed Merry suddenly.  Pippin stopped craning his neck and stared at his cousin.  Sam looked frightened and worried.  “It worked, didn’t it?  You’re here!”  Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a glance.  Gimli sat with his head down, resolutely keeping himself out of the confrontation.  “There was still more in that sack than that dirty old inn was worth!”

“I am not arguing that, Meriadoc.  You are probably right.  And your little ruse would most likely have succeeded completely, were it not for the suspicions of the guard commander.”  Pippin left off trying to see out and resumed his place at Merry’s side, winding his small hands in Merry’s still-damp waistcoat, his sharp face glancing worriedly from the wizard to his cousin.  Merry put an arm out and Pippin wiggled in close, giving comfort as well as receiving it.

“Gandalf, where’s Boromir?” asked Pippin, when no one said anything for long moments.

Gandalf’s gaze shifted to him and the tweenager flinched back.  “He is being kept at the jail as surety for our ‘good behavior’ as the guard commander put it.” 

Merry said nothing, but his bright head dipped.  Pippin looked into the lowered face then stared at Gandalf.  “I don’t understand.”

“Merry dyed copper coins so that they looked like gold, Pippin,” Aragorn told him gently.  Pippin stiffened.  “It was a well-thought out scheme that might have worked, had not the guard commander delved to the bottom of the sack and fastened upon one of the counterfeits.”  The Ranger noticed that Pippin’s arm tightened upon Merry.  “The magistrate was about to release them, until your cousin’s little game was discovered.  Then he was going to jail us all, had not greed overruled him.”

“Meriadoc,” the wizard said again, his voice gravelly.  Merry met his eyes and the small face paled.  Gently he unwound Pippin’s clinging hands and moved forward to stand before the wizard.  Pippin followed, both hands up to his mouth, eyes wide and anxious.  Sam drifted closer, preparing himself to intervene, through in what he knew not.  Then Gandalf was surging forward and Merry cried out in spite of himself.  Pippin shrieked and suddenly the wizard had one small struggling form between his arms and two others attached, one hanging on each arm, shouting, “Don’t hurt him!  Don’t hurt him!” and “Don’t you turn him inta anything unnatural!”

Aragorn was on his feet and trying to pry a shrieking Pippin off Gandalf while Legolas caught Samwise around the waist and pulled.  The wizard rose to his feet, a silently fighting Merry in his arms.  “Enough!” bellowed the wizard.  “Be still, all of you!”

Dust drifted down from the earthen roof in the silence that followed the wizard’s roar.  “Merry,” said Gandalf quietly.  “I wanted to say ‘thank you.’  With that, he gently hugged the trembling hobbit and sat him down.  Merry’s legs folded underneath him and he collapsed in a heap.

Aragorn lowered Pippin to the cool floor and Legolas, Sam.  Pippin immediately latched onto his cousin, staring at the wizard with frightened eyes while Sam stood glaring about him and brushing himself off with hands that shook.

“You are not angry?” asked Merry after two tries.

“Yes, I am angry,” replied Gandalf.  “And annoyed.  And amused and grateful.  Now two of us are free when three were incarcerated.  You understand Men much too well for my comfort, young Meriadoc.  I pity the humans you have dealings with when you become Master of Buckland.”

“I didn’t mean for you to get in trouble -” began Merry.

Aragorn shook his head at the hobbit, silencing him.  “There was enough genuine gold to bail out Gandalf and Gimli, but not Boromir.  Now the town magistrate and the commander await double restitution from King Thranduil, Legolas’ father.”  Merry darted a quick look at Legolas.  The Elf gazed back at him serenely.  

“His Majesty will send it, of course,” continued Gandalf in a softer voice, “but we cannot delay here so long to receive it.  Time presses too urgently upon us.  We must find Frodo and resume our journey.”  He eyed Merry, who still stared at him defiantly and with some confusion.  “Merry, I do not say what you did was … dishonest.”  Merry opened his mouth but Gandalf overrode him.  “As you said, it worked.  And that miserable innkeep has already received more than his miserable hostel was worth.  But in the future … please refrain from helping us in quite that manner again.”

“Does that include running shell-games?” asked Pippin.

“Pippin!” hissed his cousin in strangled tones.

Gandalf rubbed his eyes wearily.  He looked over to see Aragorn and Legolas laughing quietly.  Sam was staring intently as his furry feet, color high in his round face.  Gimli looked back and forth between them in confusion, then met the wizard’s eyes and shrugged his thick shoulders.  “I don’t think I want to know about this…” growled the wizard more to himself than them.  Then he sighed, accepting the inevitable.  “What shell-games?”

* * * * *

After the old man and the Dwarf had departed with their friends, the commander of the guards went back into the cell area and stood outside of the bars.  He had waited until the town magistrate had left, the innkeep with him, the bag of genuine and false gold clasped between them.  Stupid little men, he thought.  In Gondor such would never hold the trust of the people.  The Steward was a hard man, but fair.  He had admired Denethor all of his life … until doing his duty under the Steward had cost him the lives of his family.

Now the Steward’s heir sat on a bench in a cell, entirely at his mercy.  Boromir raised his eyes to meet the grey eyes of the man who hated him so, not for any personal reason but for what his father had done. 

“I am sorry for the loss of your wife and sons,” murmured Boromir.

The commander’s face twisted before he regained control of himself.  “I look forward to your father being sorry for yours.”

Boromir rose and came forward.  His hands grasped the bars and he stared into the relentless eyes of his countryman.  “Please,” he said softly, struggling to say words that did not come easily to the captain and leader of men that he had been all of his life.  “You must not hamper my friends and I.  We are entrusted with a mission that may end the war our people have fought since darkness rose once more at our borders.  If our Quest succeeds, Gondor will know peace.”

The guard commander stared at Boromir, not understanding his words but recognizing their absolute sincerity.  “Peace?” he asked.  “What is that to me?  To my wife and sons?  I will only know peace when the Steward bears the pain that I bear, every day of my life.  When he receives word that his son is dead, killed while trying to escape from prison.”

Boromir stared at him helplessly.  “I am not trying to escape.”

The guard commander smiled but it was only a baring of his teeth.  His eyes burned with adamant hatred.  “You will.”

* TBC *  

Chapter Seventeen

The southron woman had decided upon her course of action.  It had taken very little to overcome the boy’s fear and distrust of her … a few lies, a little food and water, a feigned apology and a hug.  The boy talked freely, cheerfully telling her the location of his home and about his family and their unexpected guest without reluctance, showing a willingness to trust that was unknown among her own people.  He had gratefully accepted the tea she offered him, never tasting the soporific and had apologized upon waking, embarrassed at falling asleep “like a baby.”  Their friendship was sealed when she gave him the small box of painted soldiers she had picked up on her way back.  It was obvious that he had never received such an extravagant gift.  He did not seem to believe that she would do him harm.  Stupid child.  She would slit his throat without hesitation.  She would have already taken care of the inconvenient detail of his life, did not she seek some resolution to this second mistake.  Third time pays for all, she thought.

She had given him the name Alissa to call her by, since he seemed to need some label for her.  His foolish trust was most puzzling.  Deftly she turned his chatter back to the halfling.  “You said he carried nothing of value?”

The boy nodded.  “Frodo didn’t even have a purse on him.  The only thing he had was a gold ring strung on a silver chain.  The chain was broke, but Mama fixed it.  The ring was a pretty thing, but not very big and rather plain.”

“A gold ring,” she murmured, trying to tie this information in with the whispers she had overheard at the stockade.  Her employer had not informed her why the halfling was wanted, only that the little one and all his possessions were to be brought to him.  “Was it set with a valuable stone?”

The boy shook his dark head.  “No.  Just a plain gold ring.”  He hesitated.  “It’s going to be dark soon, and Mama will be making supper.  May I go?”

 Dark soon.  The other hunter upon the halfling’s trail would emerge, then.  She had no wish to meet it.  She must obtain the halfling before the creature found the little one.  Alissa smiled at the child, feeling long-unused facial muscles pull.  “Soon.  I’m very sorry to have hurt you, Brion.”

The boy returned her smile, his natural and brilliant and innocent.  He rubbed at the small scrape on his forehead, which she had blotted before he had recovered consciousness.  “It was an accident.  You thought I was falling off the bars.  It was good of you to try to catch me, even if you did hit my head against the wall in doing it.”

Stupid child.

* * * * *

I knew it, thought Frodo ruefully.  I was right.  Waking up was a bad idea.

Slowly, the hobbit opened his eyes.  “Ah, that’s better,” someone murmured.  A great dark blur moved closer to him and leaned over, and resolved into the Man, Peter.  Late afternoon sun slanted at his back.  “Welcome back to the land of the living, Frodo.  How do you feel?”

Frodo truly did not want to give consideration to that question.  He tried to speak but his lips stuck together, and the inside of his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.  His discomfort was noticed immediately, and a large hand slipped behind his back, raising him carefully to place a cup of cool water at his lips.  He thanked the man with his eyes, and Peter smiled in return.

“Now,” the man pressed, “ how do you feel?”

Another set of hands placed more pillows behind his back, and Peter eased him back against them.  Marly came around into the hobbit’s line of sight and perched her generous self gently on his bed, careful not to jostle him.  Her eyes lit with warmth when she saw him awake and aware, and Frodo found himself smiling back.

“I do not hurt,” he answered cautiously.  “My leg feels … feels tight, and aches and burns a little.  But it isn’t too bad.”

“Good!” answered the man heartily.  “Let’s have a look at it, then.”

Those large, warm hands lifted his leg and unwrapped the linen bandages.  Frodo kept his eyes averted, not trusting his stomach to behave itself.  But his eyes were drawn involuntary back when Marly gasped.  Hastily Peter lowered the leg, moving his body to obscure the hobbit’s view.  “Oh,” he said in a soft voice.

“Is something wrong?” asked Frodo, slightly alarmed.

“Pete?” whispered Marly.

The man did not reply.  Frodo felt his leg lifted again, turned to the side to take advantage of the westerning sun.  Then hands were probing over the sutures and the hobbit gasped, biting his lips against a bitter cry. 

“Why don’t you give him a cuppa that echinacea tea, luv?” the man said after a moment.  To Frodo’s ears, the man’s voice held an odd, strained note.  Marly rose, and returned a moment later, pressing a mug into Frodo’s hands.  He could not hold it with one, and resorted to wrapping both around the mug.

“Is everything all right?” Frodo pressed.  “It doesn’t hurt much … well, not very much,” he added, being a truthful hobbit.

Reluctantly, Peter raised his gaze to meet that of the halfling.  “The leg should have stopped draining by now, Frodo.  But it looks worse than ever.  The blood poisoning has advanced several more inches.”  Frodo’s hands tightened on the steaming mug, unaware of the heat burning into his palms.  Unnoticed, Marly took it from him.

“But it doesn’t hurt very much,” the hobbit said slowly.  “If it is worse, should not it hurt the more?”

“It doesn’t hurt so much because the tissues are losing sensation due to the infection, Frodo.  The pressure is strangling the conduits of the body that carry blood and nutrients to the leg.”  Peter shifted on the bed, unintentionally exposing the leg to the hobbit’s view.  Frodo’s stomach rose in his throat.   “There must be something caught in the wound, something dirty sheltered by the flesh.  Causing this corruption.  I’ll have to re-open the leg an’ find it.”

Frodo made a sick sound and the man’s gaze shot to his face.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I could not clean the leg as well as if I had had proper medicines…”  The man’s face twisted and he fell silent.

Frodo swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.  “Regardless, I am in your debt.  It would be much worse if you had not drained it as best you could.  Are … are you going to do this now?”

The hobbit did not understand the sudden conflict in the man’s face.  “No,” he said decisively.  “There is something I need to get at the apothecary’s first.”  So saying, he rose from Frodo’s bedside and went to the little hearth, prying out a loose brick.  Behind it was a small stack of coins, obviously the family’s emergency funds.

“You can’t do that!” exclaimed the hobbit.  “I won’t take your savings, I won’t -"

Peter smiled at him.  “You will, Master Frodo.  I tried to treat what I knew was a bad infection without what I needed, and you’re suffering for it.  I’ll do it right, this time.”  These last words were not addressed to Frodo.  The hobbit followed the man’s gaze as it traveled to his wife.  Marly looked at the small amount of money in his hands, saved for their future through effort and deprivation.  It was hoped that the little pile would someday grow enough to allow Peter to complete his healer’s training.  Or to send their sons to school.  It was all they had, the sum of their hopes and dreams.  She nodded.

“No,” said Frodo.  “No, you musn’t -"

“Rich!” called the man, overriding the hobbit’s protest.  The boy appeared in the doorway and the man gave him swift instructions.  If the lad knew that this was all the money his family had, he gave no sign of it.  “And be sure you come straight back,” Peter finished.  “Then I want you to find that brother of yours.  This town isn’t so big that he shouldn’t have brought back Frodo’s friends by now.  It’s almost supper-time.”

“Aye, Da,” the boy responded, and with a smile and a bow for the hobbit, took his leave.

“Make sure you buy enough, son,” Marly called after him decisively.  “And I want some chamomile and some gingerroot, to encourage sleep and relieve pain.”

Frodo tried one more time.  “I promise that I will replace the money, when my friends arrive,” he said softly.  “One of my cousins holds my purse.  Your kindness will not go unrewarded.”

“I won’t pretend that that wouldn’t be appreciated, Master Hobbit,” Peter said frankly.  “But repayment or no, helping you get better is what matters to Marly an’ me.”

“Frodo,” said the woman, “we’ll hear no more about it.  You drink this now.”  She extended the echinacea tea towards him.     

The cooling mug dropped from Marly’s hands and shattered as something flew through the unglazed window that fronted the small home.  The three inside ducked instinctively as the object smashed into the bedside table and fell to the floor with a clatter.  Tea from the broken mug pooled on the table and began to run down the sides.

Peter ran to the window and stared out, his craggy face blank with astonishment.  Marly sensibly caught up one of Frodo’s discarded bandages and began to sop up the mess.  To her amazement, the missile was not a ball such as the boys used in their street-games, but a rock.  Around it, tied with twine, was a piece of paper. 

Peter returned to her side, growling, “Those boys … they scattered fast enough when it came through the window.  Not a one in sight.  I’ll speak ‘ta their fathers…”

“Pete.”

“Thank goodness it didn’t hit anyone.  What, luv?”

With shaking hands, Marly held out with paper to him.  He looked into her shocked face.  “What -?”  She looked about to faint.  He took the paper absently, his attention on her white face, and caught her under the arm to guide her to a chair.  “Sit down, luv.  What’s wrong?”

“Brion -” she gestured wordlessly to the paper.

Peter angled it into the fading light and struggled through the fine, cursive script.  I have your son… it began.  Peter suddenly found it very necessary to sit down himself. 

I have your son.  If you want him back alive and unharmed, trade me the injured halfling for him.  Brion tells me that there is a public garden near the town square.  Meet me there one hour after full darkness, with the halfling.  Tell no one.  If you do no follow my instructions, I will kill your son. The note was not signed, of course. But folded into the corner of the paper was a small smear of blood, and a tuft of dark hair that both parents’ hearts knew at once.

* * * * *

Pippin sighed in relief and scooted back against Merry.  From the look on Gandalf’s face when Merry had explained the source of the funds used to bail them out, he had feared that mayhem was imminent.  But then the wizard had placed both his great hands on his upraised knees, and laughed and laughed and laughed.  He had laughed until tears came to his eyes.  Tears had streamed down his face, collected in his beard, and dripped onto the dusty wooden floor in little pitter-pats of mirth. 

Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli looked at him in some concern.  Gandalf groaned and wiped his eyes.  “Hobbits,” he gasped, and was off again.

At last the wizard’s amusement spent itself, and he was able to meet their eyes with some degree of decorum.  “No more shell-games, Merry.  Promise me.”

Merry hesitated, and Gandalf’s sharp eyes narrowed.  At last the young Brandybuck promised, though with obvious regret.  Pippin was relieved when no punishment seemed to be forthcoming.  The tweenager decided he would just keep quiet about Sam picking the lock to this little root-cellar in which they sat.  No sense in pushing their luck.

“Right then,” said Aragorn, hiding his own relief.  “Now, how shall we find Frodo?”

Though several suggestions were put forth, they really had little choice.  It was decided that they would search for the Ring-bearer, street by street, building by building.  Gimli and Legolas and Aragorn would each take a section of town, and search.  Gandalf would stay behind and use his own method of searching, sparing some Power to watch over Boromir.  But then they ran into an unexpected obstacle.  The hobbits would not be left behind.

“It only makes sense to search in pairs,” argued Merry.  “What if a message must be carried to Gandalf?  In any case, Frodo will need us as soon as we find him.  We know he is hurt.  He’ll need us, Aragorn.”

“I’m not staying here an’ waiting,” declared Sam firmly.  “You’d have to tie me an’ stuff me in a sack to keep me from looking for him.”

Aragorn cast about desperately.  A hope came to him.  “All right.  You can come with us … if you can disguise yourself so that you don’t look like the three halflings the guardsmen are searching for, those that started a riot then blew up a grain silo.”

“We didn’t -” objected Pippin, stung.

Aragorn folded his arms.  Pippin trailed off and stared at his furry feet.

“Boots,” said Merry suddenly, his eyes on his cousin’s feet.  He scowled at Pippin’s feet thoughtfully, then at his own.  “We’ll wear our cloaks and draw the hoods up over our heads.  It will be dark.  If we wear a pair of your spare boots, we’ll look like human children.  The guardsmen are looking for hobbits, not a Big Person and a – I mean, an adult and a child.”

Pippin was already rooting in the packs, pulling out a pair of soft leather boots belonging to Boromir.  He sat down on his behind and tried to stuff a foot into one.  He rolled over on his back and pulled with both small hands.  He stood up and stamped his foot.  He backed up against the wooden slat wall and slammed his foot against it, trying to cow-kick the boot on.   After three hard backward kicks, he made a strangled sound and slid down the wall to sit on the floor, pain on his face and tears in his eyes. 

“Merry, I don’t think this is going to work.  Man-boots are just too small for us.”

Merry had watched his younger cousin’s antics, ideas flowing through his quicksilver mind.  Pippin was the smallest of them all; if he could not wear a pair of boots, Merry and Sam had no chance of it.   “Nonsense, Pip.  We’ll just have to … alter … the boots.  Maybe cut them at the sole.  Tie them together with string.”  Seeing their dubious expressions, the hobbit continued, “Who looks at peoples’ feet anyway?  We’ll put the boots on and dip our feet in mud.  It will look like we are just wearing very muddy boots.”

The experiment was carried out on Boromir’s already battered boots.  After the soles were sliced off, Merry tied them at Pippin’s toes and ankles and arch of the foot.  Then the tweenager made a quick dash outside in the failing light and (with much enthusiasm) stomped through a mud puddle.  Back in the root cellar, the Company examined the result by the careful light of Gandalf’s staff.

“Well,” said Merry, “it is not too obvious.”

Aragorn just shook his head.  “I have no better suggestion, if you will not be reasonable and stay behind with Gandalf.”  Three sets of adamant eyes denied that option.  “All right.  Merry, Sam, don your boots.  We have rested and eaten, now it is time to find Frodo.”

The hobbits were unwilling to take another pair of boots from Boromir, so in the end Aragorn and Gandalf each donated a pair.  Legolas’ boots were too slender and Gimli’s boots too thick, and hob-nailed besides.  After coating his with mud, Sam wiggled uncomfortably.  “Don’t see how you Big Folk wear these.  Unnatural, this.  Makes me feel like my feet are strapped to a slab.”

“Can you walk, is the question,” said Legolas.

They could, though not easily or gracefully, waddling like geese.  Gimli and Sam took one quadrant of the little town, Legolas and Pippin another, and Aragorn and Merry the third.  It was agreed that each team would return to the root cellar at the first hint of light in the sky.  Hopefully, one of them would have located Frodo by then.  Gandalf watched them go, a faint light shining from his staff, the illumination growing brighter as darkness descended in full.

* TBC * 

Chapter Eighteen

Alone in the quiet root cellar, Gandalf sat with his staff between his upraised knees, searching for the missing Ring-bearer in his own fashion.  He would have preferred to stand outside under the stars, but someone might ask questions if he were seen.  The closed wooden doors were no barrier to the Istari, merely an inconvenience.

Because he knew approximately where they would be, he quickly found six of the bright sparks that were the lives of the Company.  Legolas’ spark was a slow-burning glow, most unlike the flickering, transient sparks that surrounded it.  Gimli’s spark burned steady and strong, as unwavering as the core of the earth.  Aragorn’s spark shown bright but veiled, a bonfire glimpsed through smoke.  The hobbits’ life-sparks burned more brightly than the Big Folks’, dancing and bowing, and the wizard smiled to see them.  A seventh burned sullenly, and the wizard worried briefly over that.  Staying alert for any flare in the spark that would signal fear or sudden distress on Boromir’s part, he closed his eyes and raised his head, seeking the spark of incandescent brilliance that was Frodo.

Aragorn had said that he was injured.  How badly, they did not know.  His spark would be burning more dimly, the life-fires that fed it lower.  Gandalf knew Frodo’s spark well, had watched it grow brighter and more complex over the years of their friendship.  But there were so many sparks waving and weavingand burning in this little town.  The wizard set himself to examine them, one by one, until he could find the radiant one he sought.

One flickering, dancing blaze lost among hundreds of larger, bright-burning flames that were the townsfolk...

* * * * *

“Aragorn, stop.  Stop!”

The Ranger slowed, then turned in surprise when he realized that Merry was no longer by his side.  The young hobbit was leaning against a wall, one foot raised, brushing mud off the concealing boots.  Merry’s face, what he could see of it in the darkness, was drawn with pain.

“What is it, Merry?”  Aragorn knelt and gently cradled the drawn-up foot, feeling the tightness against the confining leather.  Turning it to catch the distant light of a torch, he saw that large water-filled blisters were forming on Merry’s heels and the sides of his feet.  Merry gasped as he pressed one.  It split and the hobbit jerked involuntarily.

“Why did you not say something sooner, Merry?  These need attention.”

“I did not want to slow us down.  We’ve got to find Frodo, Aragorn.”

“We will, Merry.  Or Legolas and Pippin will, or Gimli and Sam will.  You will do us no favor by crippling yourself.  If you are in such a state, then it is likely that Sam and Pippin are, too.  We had best find an apothecary and get an ointment to cleanse and heal these.”

Merry kept the hood pulled low over his face and stayed behind Aragorn as the Ranger asked passing townsfolk the location of an apothecary open at night.  His courteous tone quickly won them directions to the single shop that did business past dark.  The two kept to the shadows whenever possible - they had seen a guardsman in the marketplace and another talking to a man in the town square.  It was clear that the hunt for the halfling miscreants was still on.

A pair of torches, burning brightly in the murky dark, lighted the healer’s shop.  A boy waited at the counter so Aragorn and Merry loitered in the doorway, unwilling to intrude upon the youngster’s privacy.  Merry was surprised, therefore, when Aragorn suddenly stiffened and leaned towards the soft-voiced conversation.  “Powdered myrrh?” the Ranger muttered to himself.  “Why would that boy need such a powerful drug?”

Unnoticed by the two already in the shop, Aragorn drifted closer and Merry followed on sore but still silent hobbit-feet.  “I don’t know how much he weighs, sir,” the boy was saying earnestly.  “But he’s about the size of my little brother Brion.  Except for his feet, that is.  They’re huge.  And they have hair on them.”  Merry almost yelped as Aragorn’s hand closed forcefully on his shoulder, halting his rush forward.

“Patience,” counseled the Ranger in the softest of voices.  “Do not frighten him.”

Hearts racing, they waited while the boy made his purchases.  He lingered to carefully count his change and Aragorn swiftly bought the ointment, telling the shop owner which ointment in what concentration with such confidence that the shopkeeper stared at him in consternation.   The boy left the shop, never noticing the pair that followed.

“Merry,” Aragorn whispered.  “We must get word to the others.  Can you make it back to Gandalf?”

“Yes,” returned the hobbit, determinedly ignoring the increasing intense stabs of his feet.  “But Aragorn, you need me.  Isn’t there another way to signal them?”

“I don’t…” the Ranger began, then his eyes fell on the small shop they were passing.  The shopkeeper was removing a tray of shiny metallic objects from the window in preparation for closing.   “Can you trail the boy by yourself for a moment?  I will follow as swiftly as I may.”

With that he darted into the shop.  Merry struggled after the retreating figure, the blisters on his feet sending stabs of hot pain up his legs which he ignored stoically.  Luckily the boy did not walk quickly, pausing to peer into alleys and open areas.  Merry realized he was searching for someone.

So intent was he on his quarry that he jumped when Aragorn’s hand closed upon his arm.  “Well done,” the Ranger whispered.  “Merry, you are injuring yourself.  I will carry you.”

Before he could protest, Merry found himself swung up on the Ranger’s broad back.  Swallowing his protest, he locked his legs around Aragorn’s waist and clasped his hands around the man’s neck.  Both of them looked down at the hobbit’s enormous feet.  “Merry…” Aragorn began.

“I know, I know,” muttered the hobbit.  “We might as well hang a sign around my neck – ‘Halfling, Wanted by the Guardsmen.’  How about this, then?”  The hobbit wiggled and the man shifted him over to rest on his hip, as one would carry a child.  Merry sighed, accepting the indignity.

The Ranger was fumbling with something, putting it to his mouth.  “Cover your ears, Merry,” Aragorn said.

“Why?” asked Merry.  “What is -”  The rest of his query was lost in a series of shrill blasts that seemed to drill right through his eardrums, on the very edge ofhis hearing.  Merry gasped, his pointed ears tilting back, hands clamping hard over his ears.  “That hurt!” he said reproachfully.  “What is that?”

Aragorn held up a shiny tin tube for him to see.  “It is a special whistle used by shepherds to direct their dogs in controlling the flock.  It sounds in ranges above human hearing … but not above that of Elves – and hobbits, evidently.”  He handed it to the hobbit who examined it curiously then tried a couple of soft toots, not so powerful as Aragorn’s blasts as he didn’t want to deafen himself.  Several howls answered the nearly inaudible toots and delighted, he set himself for a slightly louder blast when Aragorn recovered it from him.  “We do not want to confuse Legolas.”

“What a wonderful thing!” exclaimed Merry.  “Small, light … easily transportable.  I can see a market for these in the Shire.  Of course, we would have to alter the range of the sound a bit, so that the dogs can still hear it without it hurting our own ears.”

“With the Brandybucks controlling the franchise?” asked Aragorn dryly.

Merry nodded, pleased beyond measure.  “Of course.  I found it, didn’t I?”

“Actually,” returned the Ranger.  “I found it.  I think I should receive half the profits.”

“Half!” Merry exclaimed in mock outrage.  “Ten percent, at the most.”

“Thirty,” replied the Ranger.  “But we can settle this later.”  He retrieved the whistle and turned them around, facing the opposite direction.

Merry leaned into Aragorn’s shoulder and laughed.  “A dog whistle?  To summon an Elf?  Won’t Legolas be offended?”

“He will applaud my ingenuity,” returned the man with a grin.   Aragorn raised the whistle to his lips and Merry hastily covered his ears.  He repeated the series of blasts, which the hobbit knew must be some code.  He would have to ask Aragorn to teach it to him sometime. “Now we must find a way to get word to Gimli and Sam and Gandalf.”

* * * * *

Another heard the almost inaudible shrill blasts, above the range of hearing of human folk.  The creature had waited impatiently for full dark, sleeping little, its mind on the treasure it had almost possessed.  It did not know the code and dismissed the whistle-notes as beneath its notice.  It had amused itself for a while burning alive the small brown mice that scurried along the baseboards of the dusty shed in which it had taken refuge from the Sun.  Their tiny shrieking death screams cheered it and distracted it from its broken nose and other pains.  When that diversion paled, it gathered its voluminous cloak about itself and brooded on what it had chanced upon.

Power unimaginable was within its grasp.  Power and revenge.  After it had killed the pitiful humans, it would take the Ring.  The little one it would keep alive for a while.  It owed the hobbit for that kick, and for the hurts taken in kidnapping it.  Those hurts would be repaid many, many times over before he finally allowed it to die.  With such a treasure as it was about to possess it could draw out the miserable little being’s agony for years uncounted.  What a pleasant thought.  The creature rose from the dusty bench in the dirty shed that had been its hiding place for day, and slipped out into the dark.

* * * * *

Pippin almost bumped into the Elf as Legolas stumbled, an unprecedented occurrence in the hobbit’s recollection.  The tweenager grasped the Elf’s arm and steadied him, noting the expression of discomfort on Legolas’ fair face.  “What is it, Legolas?  Are you all right?”

“Quiet, Pippin,” said the Elf absently, his head turning, obviously listening.  Pippin immediately shut his eyes, listening too with all of his might.  He could barely catch the short, staccato bursts of not-sound.  

He was still listening fiercely when the Elf tapped him on the head.  “Come, little one.  We are to meet Aragorn and Merry in a place.  Hurry.”

Pippin gulped.  “Legolas, you go on ahead.  I can’t.  Hurry, that is.”

Hearing the distress in the young one’s voice, the Elf turned gracefully and knelt before him, looking into his eyes.  “Why can you not?”

“These boots -” Pippin got no farther.  Legolas’ slender hands were already untying the twine that held Boromir’s battered boots to the hobbit’s feet.

“Oh, Pippin,” the Elf said softly, and Pippin felt an unaccountable urge to burst into tears.  Legolas stroked his long hands over the blisters and the burning pain seemed to decrease.  “No more of these,” he said, drawing his dagger then cutting the leather boots up the sides and peeling them away.  “Can you walk, or shall I carry you?”

Freed from the chafing boots, Pippin dug his toes into the cold, soft earth gratefully.  “I can walk.”

* * * * *

When they saw the boy walking up the steps to a small house and letting himself in, Aragorn sought an unlit porch and lowered Merry to the wooden floor, crouching in the darkness.  The man raised the whistle to his lips and blew another series of inaudible bursts, then repeated it.  This time Merry covered his ears without needing a warning.

He unplugged his ears at a cry from within the house - a shriek, rather.  The boy appeared in the doorway, a sheet of paper clutched in his hand. The light of a distant torch was just sufficient to illuminate his face, white as the parchment.  He looked wildly about but did not see them in the darkness.  The boy leaped from the top step and landed in the street, gathering his legs under himself to run.

In a flash Aragorn was out of hiding and had caught up the boy, the Ranger’s hand over his mouth.  The boy’s eyes went even wider and he tried to twist himself free, kicking at his captor.  His arms went back over his head and caught at Aragorn’s long hair, winding themselves in the tangled locks and jerking.  Merry saw Aragorn’s eyes tear but he did not relax his hold, whispering to the boy all the while.  He swung the boy off his feet and clasped him against his body, pulling them both into the shadowed porch beside Merry.

A long sliver of light appeared on the recessed doorway of one of the neighboring houses and an old woman peered out apprehensively.  Her gaze swept over them, seeing nothing amiss in the darkness and the boy struggled, trying to free himself.  But he was no match for the man.  They all watched as the woman shrugged and closed her door.

The boy sagged in Aragorn’s grip, tears of fear running down his face.  “Peace, youngster,” Aragorn whispered in his ear.  “Do not be afraid.  I swear I will not hurt you.  I promise you.  We seek only to speak with you.  Will you keep silent if I remove my hand?”

The child nodded frantically.  Aragorn dropped his hand, only to clamp it across the boy’s mouth again when he felt the boy’s ribcage expand. 

Merry moved forward and the boy’s eyes fastened on him, widening in shock.  “Please,” the hobbit whispered.  “We won’t hurt you.  We seek my kinsman.  He has been taken from us.  We mean you no harm.”

The boy twisted his head, obviously wanting to talk.  Cautiously Aragorn withdrew his hand.  “You’re Frodo’s friends?” the boy asked, eyes devouring Merry with eager curiosity.

“I’m his cousin,” Merry assured him, his heart leaping upon hearing Frodo’s name.  “Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service.”  Merry placed one hand upon his stomach and the other at the small of his back and bowed.  “This is Aragorn.  He isn’t as frightening as he appears.”  Merry smiled at the lad and waggled his eyebrows, trying to convey to the boy that the Ranger was harmless. 

The boy looked like he doubted that.  He flushed, remembering his attempt to cry out after he had said he would not.  Aragorn smiled at him, guessing what the lad was thinking.  “I would have shouted out, too, had two such disreputable-looking ruffians plucked me from my doorstep.”

“Speak for yourself, sir,” objected Merry, glad to see the boy no longer looked quite so frightened.  “I’ll have you know that I am considered quite the handsome rake in the Shire.”

“Frodo talked about the Shire,” interjected the boy eagerly.  “It is the land of the halflings, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we prefer to be called ‘hobbits’,” said Merry.  “May I ask your name, young sir?”

The boy flushed again and attempted a bow.  Aragorn released him and stepped back.  The youngster hardly noticed.  “Forgive me, sirs.  My name is Rich.  Richard, actually, but no one calls me that unless I am in trouble.”

“Me, too,” agreed Merry.  “I mean, everyone calls me Merry unless I am in trouble.”

The boy paled and Merry wondered what he had said.  Rich swayed on his feet and Aragorn reached out to clasp his shoulder.  The boy turned to him and thrust the paper he had been holding in a death-grip at the Ranger.  “They’ve taken my brother!” he cried.  “Da says they’ve been told to trade Frodo for him!”

Aragorn took the paper from the boy’s shaking hand and read it, then passed it to Merry.  The hobbit angled it to catch the light of distant torches and struggled to make out the uncertain, straggling script:

Son,

We’ve taken Frodo to the public gardens near the town square.  We’ve been told Brion will be killed unless we give Frodo to them.  Frodo will not permit us to seek help from the guard.  He has required us to agree.  Don’t tell anyone.  Stay home.  Wait for us.  Stay home.

“Aragorn?”

Three startled gasps greeted the Elf’s gentle query, Aragorn’s hand going to his sword.   Legolas froze and put his hand on Pippin’s shoulder, holding the young hobbit back until he knew the situation.  Pippin’s curly head turned from person to person, catching the tension but unknowing of its source.  “We did not mean to frighten you,” Legolas continued when they had been recognized.  “Is everything all right?”

“Have you found Frodo?” asked Pippin, his eyes on Merry.

“No,” said Aragorn grimly.  “Things have gone ill.” 

Rich was staring back and forth between the two parties, torn between horror and confusion and fascination at seeing an Elf and yet another halfling.  Suddenly he shuddered and sank down on the deserted porch, dropping his head into his hands.  Aragorn crouched down by him.  “Lean over, Rich.  Put your head between your knees.  Good.  Now breathe.  Good.”  His hand on the boy’s back, the Ranger rubbed in slow, comforting circles while he addressed Legolas and Pippin over the bowed head. 

“This is Richard – Rich.  This boy’s family has been kind enough to care for Frodo.  The one who took Frodo must have trailed him to Rich’s home.  Now his younger brother is being held for his ransom.  His parents have gone with Frodo to make the exchange with the abductor.”  Merry handed the note to Legolas, who read it then passed it on Pippin.

“What are we going to do?” murmured Pippin in the silence that followed.

“Legolas and I are going to the public garden.  You and Merry and Rich will stay here, Pippin.”

“No!” cried Pippin and Rich together, but suddenly Merry was between them.  “Hush,” said the hobbit.  “Hush.”

Aragorn met Merry’s eyes and nodded.  Merry returned the nod, his hands tightening on his cousin’s shoulder, and on the boy’s.  Without another word, the Ranger and Elf slipped out into the darkness and were lost to sight in moments.

“Merry, they can’t leave us behind!” whispered Pippin.

“They aren’t going to, Pip.  We’re just going to let them get far enough ahead to think that they are.  Rich can guide us to the gardens, can’t you, Rich?”

“Aye,” the boy responded.  “That I can.”

They waited for almost five minutes before starting out.  Despite their damaged feet, the hobbits were much quieter than the human boy, and without telling Rich why, Merry required them to drop farther back to be out of range of the Elf’s keen hearing.  Intent on trailing Aragorn and Legolas, none of the three heard the stealthy steps that came after them, nor saw a cloaked figure lift the paper from where a stunned Pippin had dropped it.  After a moment, the paper flared into a single tongue of bright flame and was consumed.  Hissing its soft laughter, the shadow followed them into the night.

* TBC * 

Chapter Nineteen

“Frodo, breathe.  You must inhale or you will pass out.”  Peter’s eyes were worried, for he had seen ill and injured people try to resist pain before by refusing to breathe.  It did not work.  It was better to embrace the pain; the clenching of the body as it strove for oxygen made the suffering more intense.  One only disrupted the natural rhythms of the body and made things worse.  Such was true for the hobbit trembling in his arms.  He was clearly in agony, his body stiff as he tried to resist the waves of pain that sought to overwhelm him.  Frodo kept one arm locked around the man’s neck, his wounded leg supported carefully over Peter’s arm, trying to make no sound as the man carried him.

Marly could not bear it.  “Stop, luv,” she begged her husband.  “Let us all rest a moment.”  The stout woman was puffing, but the perspiration that ran down her face had more to do with fear than exertion.

“No,” gasped the hobbit.  “Peter, keep going.  We have -”

“We have plenty o’ time,” the man interrupted him soothingly.  “The ransom note said one hour after full darkness – we’ve a good half an hour yet.  Frodo, let me help you.  Let me try to lessen the pain if I can.”

Frodo shook his head but Peter ignored him, easing them both down upon a plank bench outside a closed tailor’s shop.  When the note had been found Frodo had declared he would walk if Peter would not carry him.   Never for a moment had the hobbit even considered asking the lad’s parents to spare him, to sacrifice their son for him.  The knowledge that the fate of the world hung about his throat on a silver chain was an agony to him, but at that moment the fate of the world was a remote, unconnected thing, while the knowledge that a small, kind-hearted boy who had defended him was in danger because of him was real and immediate.  Many wicked things had been done in the name of the evil he bore; he would not permit this one.  If he had to drag himself on his belly to the gardens near the town square, he would, and no one would stop him.

Despite Frodo’s insistence the boy’s father had sat in his chair for a long time, trying to think of another way, his hands opening and closing impotently on the ransom note.  He finally concluded sadly that he knew not what else he could do but accede to Frodo’s demand.  Such a thing as this was outside his ability to understand, and Frodo, for all his small size, seemed much wiser than he when it came to dealing with such matters. Tears had begun to stream from his eyes as he lifted the tendril of dark, unruly hair from the paper and tucked it carefully into the breast pocket of his tunic.  Then he had wiped his eyes and risen, and written a note to his elder son.  Rich should be back soon but there was not time to wait for him.  And Peter did not want to face him; the boy was just old enough to think himself able to handle adult affairs.  His father did not want him to be present when they left with Frodo, not least because he was shamed that he could think of no other alternative than to give in to Brion’s captors demands.  Both he and their mother could endure this better if one of their children was safe.

Frodo had held out his arms and Peter had picked him up, Marly weeping but silent at his side.  The man had been as gentle as he possibly could be, but picking up the hobbit then walking with him had opened the floodgates of pain that had been mercifully dammed.  The hobbit’s leg continued to drain foul-smelling yellowish liquid, staining the bandages.  Peter pointed out the sights of their little town as they walked; the blacksmith’s forge, the stables, an alehouse that boasted an excellent brew.  He did not think the hobbit was paying much attention, but the sound of his own voice comforted him, and perhaps distracted Frodo from a little of his misery.

Peter winced as the hobbit’s small hands tightened on his arms with unexpected strength, bracing his back against the rough outer wall of the shop.  He shifted the hobbit in his lap, urging Frodo to lean back against his wife so that he could examine the leg.  Marly wrapped her arms around him and pillowed his head on her breast.  She had always comforted her children so, and her husband too in times of great grief, as when he had given up his dream of being a healer.  She knew that Frodo was an adult among his own folk, but the mother in her would never believe that a dear one was too old to be babied.  Stroking the dark curls, she could not help but think of how much he reminded her of Brion.  Terror kindled anew in her heart for her child in the hands of a kidnapper.

Shuddering, Frodo complied, and for a moment seemed actually to relax just a little.  Then he abruptly wrenched his eyes open.  “We must not be late!  My leg is fine.  Peter, please.  What is the hour?”  Frodo stared about him, obviously confused.  “We must go at once, or we will be late.”

Trying to soothe Frodo with soft shushing noises the man’s rough-skinned  but gentle hands continued to unwrap the linens, peeling them back from the swollen, discolored leg.  Frodo made a small, involuntary sound and stiffened against Marly’s body.  Her arms tightened around him and she cooed quiet reassurances, as if he were one of her own.

Peter collected the soiled bandages and set them aside.  He hesitated momentarily, thinking of the cost of linen, then balled them tightly and added them to a pile of rubbish that spilled from an alley.  After a moment, he nudged them under the pile with a foot.  It was almost too dark to see, but his skilled fingers told him that the swelling was greater than before, and just by holding his hand above the injured limb he could feel the increased heat coming from the infection.  Helplessly, he looked at his wife over Frodo’s head.  Her arms tightened around the hobbit at the fear she saw there.

Peter pulled out a roll of fresh linen from his pocket and commenced re-wrapping the leg.  Frodo did not resist, forcing himself to remain so still that his entire body quivered with the effort of it.  When the bandaging was done, the man offered him a drink from his waterskin and the hobbit accepted gratefully.

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of Brion’s borrowed nightshirt.  “Now may we go on?”

Wordlessly, Peter slid an arm under the hobbit’s knees and the other around his shoulders.  Frodo grit his teeth together as the man lifted him as carefully as he could.  Marly moved in front of them and pulled the edges of her husband’s cloak over the small form.  Her gentle hands lingered on the clasp, then reached up to softly touch Peter’s cheek but there was no real comfort for any of them.

Farther away and several streets over, two tall forms sought the dictated exchange-place by another route, delayed slightly by a wrong turning caused by the narrow, ill-lit streets.  Legolas’ fine nostrils flared distastefully as he examined the slimy cobblestones that paved the larger intersection.  “Foul oppressive place,” he muttered under his breath, earning him a soft, strained laugh from his companion.

“The towns of Men do not appeal to you?” Aragorn teased.

“This one does not.  There is nothing green and growing here.  Other than slime on the paving-stones.”

“Such is the reason that Men construct gardens, my friend.”

The Elf shook his head, luminous eyes reflecting the light of emerging stars.  “Such places are artificial, Aragorn, and no true gardens.  The trees and grasses are crowded together, as if Men begrudge them the space to grow.  They are dark and close and shadowed and cannot raise their song to the sky.”

“That is surely the reason the boy’s kidnapper chose such a place.  Darkness and concealing branches and shrubbery.  There will be no watching eyes as those good people are forced to trade Frodo for their son.”  Aragorn hesitated at another intersection, growling something to himself about “rabbit warrens.”  Then he made up his mind and the two moved swiftly and silently towards the rendezvous place.

Rich and the two young hobbits were following a faster route, ducking through alleys in a path that would have thoroughly confused someone not born in the little town.  They clambered over a short picket fence and dropped on the other side, breathing heavily.  Pippin stifled a yelp when his blistered feet landed in a puddle, then swished them in the cool mud.

Merry leaned against the fence, gathering his breath for a moment.  “I’m sorry, Pip.  The boots weren’t such a good idea, were they?”

“I don’t think we could pass for human children anyway, Merry,” Pippin replied.  “It was a good effort, though.”  He gave his cousin’s arm an encouraging squeeze and Merry nodded dismally.  So far they had been fortunate.  People worked hard and retired early in this little town, and no Big Folk had witnessed their furtive progress.

Rich sucked in a breath of cool air and let it out noisily.  “Come on, then,” he whispered, and the hobbits did, silently, limping slightly.

* * * * *

Not so far from the root cellar where a wizard searched for a Ring-bearer using powers outside of mortal understanding, another rejoiced in the falling night.  The commander of the guard stood outside the cell that contained the focus of years of hatred.  Revenge would not bring back his own lost loved ones, but the pain that Denethor would soon bear for the loss of his son and heir was a balm to a dead and bitter heart.

The commander had dismissed all of his men, including the guardsman scheduled for the watch upon the prisoner, proclaiming that he would take the night watch alone this night. The man had been reluctant to leave, more than a little afraid, distrustful of his superior’s dark, fey mood.  He had offered to stay and share the duty, but the commander had dismissed him abruptly, then followed him out as the man left for the evening, marking that he had indeed departed.

Boromir rose when the commander entered the holding area, wary and apprehensive.  Yet the man did nothing but stand and stare at him, hands behind his back.  “Did you wish to speak to me?” Boromir asked.

The man straightened and his cold grey eyes glittered.  “Your father bereaved me of all that I cared about.  Now I shall do the same for him.”  Cold trepidation woke in Boromir’s breast and he backed slowly and carefully from the bars, his mind cataloging what in the small cell could be used for defense or attack.  If he could reach a bench in time, it would make a passable shield.  A blanket might be used as a whip.  The chamberpot might be thrown.  But there was little else in this stark, bare room.

“It was said even so many years ago that you were the favored son,” the commander said quietly.  “That Denethor loved you above all else, even above your brother Faramir.  I…” the man stopped and swallowed convulsively.  “I cannot say which of my sons I treasured most; they were all so different in their looks and minds and hearts.  But each one I loved, and when they died, one by one, I followed them into the grave.  If there is truly justice in the world, your father’s heart will break as mine did, though it be only once and not five times over.”

The commander’s eyes met the soldier of Gondor’s and the glittering fey look in them increased, the oil lamps set high on the wall lending his eyes a metallic sheen, unnatural and inhuman.  He shifted slightly and Boromir’s heart caught in his throat as he glimpsed the crossbow the man held loosely behind his body, a bolt already loaded and resting in the cradle.  Gandalf, thought Boromir desperately, help!  Help!

The watch that the wizard had set over the incarcerated member of the Company alerted Gandalf at the sudden agitation then flaring of the life-spark that was Boromir.  Gandalf was aware of it immediately, brought his full attention to bear upon it.  He stood quickly and narrowly avoided bashing his head on the beam again.  Staff in hand, the wizard was out of the root cellar and running towards the guardhouse, robes billowing behind him at a pace that few would have credited him for.

Boromir fetched up against the bench, his cautious retreat ended by the solid wood.  As he moved back, the commander moved forward, until his hand rested on the cell’s lock.  A clicking noise and the door swung open.  Boromir held himself very still.  “What is this trickery?” he asked, in as even a tone as he could manage.  “What do you do?”

The commander smiled dangerously at him, moving away from the door.  “You are escaping, Lord Boromir.”

“No,” Boromir replied carefully.  “I am not.”

The commander moved the crossbow from behind him and leveled it at his captive’s heart.  “Yes, you are.  Ignobly escaping legal incarceration.  Come out, my lord.  A bolt in your heart will be difficult to explain if you are supposed to be fleeing.”

Rage sparked in Boromir’s heart.  “Do not speak of ignoble acts.  You held a position of command in the White Tower.  You swore to uphold the highest standards of honor.  You cannot do this thing.”

To Boromir’s surprise, the commander did not grow angry but only laughed, or perhaps choked.  “My honor is buried beside my wife and sons in the cemetery of Minas Tirith.  Come out, you who were once my lord, or I will shoot you where you stand. Then I will simply claim that I came upon you just as you had picked the lock and opened the door.”

Given no choice and deciding that each moment that he could buy was precious, Boromir edged out of the cell.  He kept his back to the wall as he edged along it, out of the cell area and into the front of the guardhouse.  The commander followed, the crossbow trembling in his hand.  “I gave your sword and shield to your companions,” the man said in that cool, disinterested voice.  “As well as the fabled Horn of Gondor.  I have seen it but from a distance until now.  Perhaps they will return it to your father with your body.”

The man steadied his hold on the crossbow and Boromir readied himself for a desperate, futile lunge.  He knew he could not possibly outspeed the bolt.  He would never know if the Quest succeeded or the final fates of his now dear companions.  If Minas Tirith weathered the storm. The dawn of a new age or the destruction of the very world, he would never know.

“Hold!”

The commander whirled as a bearded, cloaked fury flew in the door, a force unguessed smashing it back on its hinges so hard that the iron gave, sending the seasoned oak crashing to the floor.  The fury raised a glowing staff and leveled it at the armed man.

The commander reacted without thinking, long years of training under the stern discipline of the Steward dictating his actions without conscious thought.  He refocused on this new threat and his finger tightened on the trigger.  Then a hard body crashed into him, throwing off his killing aim.

The bolt went wild, missing the intruder’s throat by inches.  Instead it struck the oil lamp to Gandalf’s left, shattering it.  Glass sprayed the floor.  The burning wick fell, igniting the sheet of oil that streamed down the wall and puddled on the wooden floor.  It caught the oak door and within but seconds, floor and door and building were aflame.

“Gandalf!” shouted Boromir, rolling himself off the commander.  Crushed by the soldier’s weight, the man was gasping on the floor, half-conscious, the spent bow fallen from nerveless fingers.  Boromir reared back and for good measure, awarded him a hard blow to the chin.  The man’s head snapped back and he  went limp, oblivious.

Strong bony fingers dug into Boromir’s arm.  “We must get out!” the wizard bellowed in his ear.  The flames had already spread to the watch’s desk, to the stacks of papers piled upon it.  Fire crackled, roaring with a voice of its own, and thick smoke billowed in the upper air of the room.  Choking on the smoke, Boromir lurched to his feet, gaining his balance against the wizard’s shoulder.  Pain erupted suddenly on his arm and he used his other hand to hastily beat out a small flame feasting on his sleeve.  Anger and temptation warred within him but for a moment, then he knelt and lifted the unconscious commander and threw him over his shoulder.

Tongues of flame licked about him, snatching hungrily at his clothing, but it seemed to Boromir that they ignored the flowing robes of the wizard.  Gandalf walked unmolested through the flames and they parted to let him pass.  Boromir did not question but pressed himself against the wizard’s back, his burden heavy on his shoulder.  Coughing and stumbling, he followed the wizard from the inferno.

* TBC * 

Chapter Twenty

Gimli and Samwise were having no better success than the other searchers.  Sam had been a little uncomfortable at first being paired with Gimli; of all the Company, he had had perhaps the least to do with the taciturn Dwarf.  Gimli’s changeable temperament – from verbal sparring with the Elf to loud, gruff proclamations on the Company’s daily progress to grumbled, angry-sounding mutterings and his penchant for arguing just for arguments’ sake - had kept Sam wary and slightly intimidated.  He had stayed his distance from the Dwarf, a little afraid of him though Sam told himself he was just being cautious … just looking out for his master. And Gimli had not sought to be friends, content with conducting the business of their journey.

Each was therefore surprised to find a kindred spirit in the other.  They exchanged a regretful glance when passing an alehouse, sighing in shared sorrow.  Sam slowed to admire the pretty sight of a red lamp burning in a lace-curtained window and was surprised to feel Gimli firmly place a hand on his shoulder and hustle him past it with an embarrassed expression on what Sam could see of his bearded face.  Sam turned to ask the Dwarf what the matter was, but the smells of dinner wafting from a nearby inn distracted his attention.  Gimli heaved a sigh of relief and thanked his ancestors he had escaped having to explain certain conventions of other races to the hobbit.  

Neither hobbit nor Dwarf wasted words or action or effort, and found that they shared a dry and somewhat understated sense of humor.  Gimli had merely raised a bushy eyebrow and nodded his approval when Sam stopped and leaned against the edge of a building to support himself as he pulled off his boots, having the good sense to remove them and discard them in a rubbish heap before they could blister the sides and tops of his thick-soled feet.

As Sam straightened, he caught sight of a white-bordered short black cape, attached to the meaty shoulders of a large guardsman who was speaking with a townsman.  Sam nudged Gimli and pointed, and the Dwarf leaned past him to peer around the corner.  The man was gesturing animatedly, then spread his hand and lowered it to his mid-section.  To about hobbit-height.  Then the man turned and pointed in their direction.

It was too dark in their shadowed place for the guardsman to see them, but the torches lining the public thoroughfare illuminated the two men well.  The guardsman thanked the townsman with a nod, then placed his hand on his sword and with a grim expression, started in their direction.

Sam heard the Dwarf rumble something under his breath, then felt a heavily muscled hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.  Gimli jerked his head towards an alley and Sam nodded.  The two retreated, seeking to slide between the buildings and be lost.  Then the guardsman was rounding the corner and Sam and Gimli took off at a run.

“Halt!  Halt!” the guardsman shouted.  “By order of the Guard!  You there – stop!”

Townsfolk were materializing on the previously deserted street, sticking their heads out of their doorways to gawk at the two fleeing figures.  Gimli swerved down a side street and Sam plunged after him, any sound his hobbit-feet might have made lost in the clatter of Gimli’s hob-nailed boots.  The guardsman’s shouts were collecting a throng of curious people, who were catching up torches and joining in the chase with entirely too much enjoyment, in Sam’s opinion.

His contemplations of what his Gaffer would say about his son being chased by a mob of Men for the second time were brought up short when he slammed into Gimli’s solid back.  The Dwarf had screeched to a stop, sparks flying from his boots, and was standing with both muscled hands braced against a high wooden fence.  Their escape route had betrayed them into a dead end.

They could not possibly jump over the fence, and there was nothing nearby to use to climb over it.  Gimli growled and backed up, ramming the sturdy wood with his shoulder.  The fence shuddered but held.  Gimli bounced off and Sam winced, sucking on his lip in sympathy.  The Dwarf muttered under his breath then swung back to Sam.  “Samwise, I can toss you up to the top of the fence.  Will you permit me?”

Sam gaped at him, stunned by the thought of such strength.  He could steady himself on the posts, pull himself over and drop down the other side … escape.  But then he shook his sandy head.  “No, sir.  No way.  I’ll not be leaving you.  They’ll have to take us together.”

Gimli’s hand tightened on his arm, then relaxed.  “It goes ill to surrender to this motley pack.  But … Gandalf and Aragorn have forbidden us mayhem.”  He ran a gnarled hand down the wood.  “My axe would make kindling of this in moments - but our good wizard would no doubt construe that as mayhem, even if wood and not heads.  We are well and truly caught, Master Samwise,” he growled.

The guardsman pounded around the corner, followed closely (but not too closely) by several townsmen brandishing their torches.  Gimli and Sam turned to face them, hands held away from their weapons.  The guardsman, panting noisily, glowered at them and bent over with his hands on his knees.  “Right,” he wheezed.  “I … I ordered you to stop.  Not run – stop.  You, sir, and the halfling are coming with me.”

Gimli stepped forward and held out his hands, palms up, trying to look harmless.  Respect for authority was entrenched in dwarven society and it had gone against Gimli’s grain to disobey a lawfully given command.  Sam had no such conflict.  Hobbits were a law-abiding folk … as long as it was convenient.  Both sought to keep their expressions earnest and non-threatening.  Their lack of height as compared to Men aided them; they looked to be less of a danger.

“We will come peaceably,” said Gimli in as soothing a tone as the gravelly-voiced Dwarf could muster.  “This is a misunderstanding and will certainly be cleared up when we speak with your superiors.”  The guardsman looked at him doubtfully but seemed grateful for the lack of resistance.  The townsfolk were disappointed to see the chase end.  When no further excitement looked to be forthcoming, they began to drift away.

Gimli and Sam, with their escort, were but a block from the jail when all heard a roar as if from a great beast, and a blast of heat stirred the hair on their heads and blew it back from their faces.  Then fire fountained ahead of them, its source hidden by the intervening buildings.  The guardsman stumbled to a stop, his jaw dropping.  Sam and Gimli halted too, disbelieving eyes staring at the inferno then at each other.

“Oh, no,” groaned Sam.

The guardsman uttered a short, inarticulate cry and glanced at them wildly.  “You two stay here,” he shouted at them.  “Stay here!  I’ll be back for you in a moment!”  His two prisoners gaped at him wordlessly.  Then the man whirled and leaped forward and – fell to his knees, the haft of Gimli’s axe a blur as it rebounded from his skull.

“Sorry, lad,” grunted the Dwarf.  “Can’t have you getting in the way.”  The man groaned and pitched forward.  Gimli caught him easily and propped him up against a barrel on the wooden sidewalk.  Then he and Sam were running, running towards the crackle of flames and the glow that was climbing higher into the night.

The two came upon a scene defined by flame, yellow and orange and red, flickering light that painted the street in unreal shades of fire.  Boromir was kneeling, sliding an unconscious man from his shoulder and laying him flat in the street, well out of danger from the flames.  Gandalf stood over him, staff in hand, gesturing urgently.

The wizard caught sight of them and waved at them to stay back.  Another crowd was gathering, shouting at each other to form a bucket brigade.  ‘They ought ‘ta be getting good at that by now,’ Sam thought.

People were dashing aimlessly about in front of the burning jail and it was not difficult for Gandalf and Boromir to ease away from the supine figure and melt into all the confusion, seeking the sheltering darkness beyond.  Drawing their cloaks over themselves, Gimli and Samwise worked their way inconspicuously to their sides.

The wizard looked at them unsurprised, but Boromir seemed half in shock.  Gimli took in the burning jail and shouting, frantic townsfolk and remarked, ”I think we had best quit this place.  Did you start another fire, Gandalf?”

“I did not start another fire, Gimli!” retorted the wizard in angry exasperation.  “I did not start the first one!  I was a totally innocent bystander here.  Almost totally innocent.  It started when the commander sought to shoot me, and Boromir tackled him.”  Gandalf muttered something under his breath then said more loudly, “I thank you, Boromir, by the way.”  Boromir nodded numbly and Gandalf continued, “His bolt went wide and shattered the oil lamp.”

“Be that as it may,” returned the Dwarf, unperturbed, “I doubt that these good people would see you as the injured party.  Especially with the commander of their guard force stretched out on the ground.  And considering your history of burning down important bits of their town.”

“My history -” sputtered Gandalf irately, but Sam intervened.

“Sirs, sorry to interrupt, sirs, but don’t you think we should get out of here?”

Gandalf glared at the hobbit for a moment, then raised his face and closed his eyes, seeking Aragorn and Legolas.  Surprisingly, their life-flames were together, while somewhat behind them came two bowing, dancing sparks that could only be the youngest hobbits.  A third was with Merry and Pippin, a young bright-burning spark – a mortal child?  But there was no time to wonder over that now.

“That way,” said the wizard, pointing with his staff.  The four melted quietly into the flickering shadows and headed in the direction of the others.

* * * * *

Had Gandalf expanded his search over a wider area after locating the four familiar sparks and the one unknown one, he would have puzzled over the insensate spark of the sleeping child and the banked, waiting spark of the dark form that knelt above it. The wizard would have seen three other life-sparks hesitate at the gates of the public gardens.  Frodo’s spark he would have known immediately, even as the weakening flicker of its incandescent flame would have alarmed him.  And the hissing life-spark that came last would have filled his heart with terror.

Peter huffed as they came through the gates and Marly looked at him, concerned.  The man found a bench and eased himself and Frodo down upon it.  The hobbit had been silent for most of the walk, conversing only to speculate fretfully about the source of the fiery glow they could see painting the sky red, and to urge the man to greater speed.  Frodo’s breathing had become louder and now rasped with a gasping quality that worried the man.  Frodo did not open his eyes as Peter raised him into a sitting position in his lap.  The dark curls were limp with perspiration, and sweat glimmered on his face.

“Frodo?” Peter whispered fearfully.

The hobbit did not respond.  “Frodo?” the man asked again more loudly.

Frodo shuddered and forced his eyes open.  Peter was alarmed to see them glazed and brilliant with fever.  “We are here?” the hobbit whispered.

Marly wetted a cloth from her water skin and wiped his face with it.  “Aye, sir, we’re here.”

Frodo tried to straighten up and Peter shifted to accommodate him, moving a hand to support the small back.  The hobbit looked about him, eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkness.  Here, away from the streets, there were no torches or lamps for public illumination.  But the fire that the three could see over the rooflines of the narrow houses was growing, and they watched it in apprehension and fear. The flickering light outlined the half-seen forms of trees, their swaying branches seeming forbidding and menacing.  The cold wind plucked at their clothing with insistent, malicious tugs.

“Do you see anything?” Frodo asked softly.

Marly and Peter shook their heads.  “The note said that we were just to wait,” Marly murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.  “Would you like a drink, sir?”

Frodo accepted a mouthful of water, his eyes never leaving off his search of the darkness.  “When this is over…” he began, then coughed.  “When this is over, please tell my friends what happened.  They will search for me, I know they will.  Will you promise?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said softly.  “We promise.”

“Will you tell Brion that I am very sorry.  I never meant for this to happen.”

Marly gave a little cry of grief that she could not stifle.  Peter’s face was tight with anger and shame and terror for his son.  But his voice did not waver.  “Yes, Frodo.  We’ll tell him.”  They were silent then, waiting.

As they waited, Peter’s eyes roved nervously over the well-known grounds of the gardens, made unfamiliar and threatening by the night.  Not far away from where the three sat with pounding hearts, what they had taken to be the back of a large ornamental bush quivered slightly as the cloak-draped woman adjusted her seating.  A slim hand reached from concealment to part the thick growth before her.  Asleep at her feet lay the boy.  In the guise of a farewell drink, she had given Brion more of the sleeping powder, and the lad had yawned and apologized to her for the yawn and then slumped unconscious at her feet.

Alissa had carried him easily, slipping along the narrow streets with the surety born of long experience and training.  On the few occasions that she had encountered the residents of this little town, she had kept to the shadows until they moved on.  She could move as silently as the wind.  None of the people she passed were even aware of the lithe figure wrapped in a black cloak, a softly snoring burden over her shoulder.

She watched them now, the three on the bench, her eyes on the small form between the two larger ones.  About the same size as the boy was all she could tell in the darkness.  ‘Third time pays for all,’ Alissa repeated to herself, and spared a moment to wonder why she was being paid so much to deliver this halfling to her employer.

“Ring-bearer” she had overheard. One who bears a ring – very well.  What type of ring?  Her education as an assassin and thief enabled her to assess the value of any piece of jewelry, and tell real stones from paste at a glance.  Tales of another sort of ring surfaced in her mind, faint memories of half-attended stories … magical rings that could convey vast powers upon their wearers.  Dismissing such ridiculous fancies, Alissa rested, content for the moment to prepare herself.

The glow of the distant fire flickered on the faces of the three on the bench and the woman resisted the temptation to turn and look at the flames as it might affect her night-sight.  She had no interest in the blaze other than how it would assist her escape with the halfling.  She would not even have to disguise herself; no one would question a woman carrying what appeared to be a child when their attention was focused on saving their miserable cesspit of a town.  She inclined her head under the cloak and allowed a smile to cross her features – at last, it seemed, fortune’s long-averted face was turning her way.

Two others lingered outside the gates, hidden in the shadow of the high verge that surrounded the gardens.  Aragorn and Legolas had come moments after Peter and Marly and Frodo, delayed by the Elf’s quick climb up a drainpipe to view the burgeoning flames from a rooftop.  He had not been able to see the source and they could only hope desperately that the fire had nothing to do with the Fellowship.  They arrived at the gardens just in time to see Frodo and the man and the woman be seated, the human couple obviously distraught and frightened yet tender in their care of their injured friend.

Closing his eyes to listen intently, Legolas relayed the whispered conversation among the three to Aragorn, his mouth pressed against the Ranger’s ear.  Aragorn longed to rush in and recover Frodo, but that would endanger the child that had helped the Ring-bearer.  He and Legolas had agreed to wait until the kidnapper showed, then intervene.  They had little hope of spotting the kidnapper before the exchange, knowing that he would have certainly familiarized himself with the gardens first and they had no time to do so.  Nor could they guess what plan of escape the man might have - either confederates waiting (as they were) in the bushes or other safeguards to ensure his escape with his prize.

It had never been said between them, but Aragorn and Legolas both knew that ultimately they had not the option of allowing the kidnapper to seize the Ring-bearer.  If the child – and his parents – had to be sacrificed to that end, so it must be.  Frodo might hate them for it, but three lives … or many more … could not be placed before the fate of all of Middle-earth. 

       They never heard the silent hobbit-feet that trailed them, though Legolas raised his head briefly at the sound of a booted foot kicking a pebble.  Booted, not bare…  The Elf turned his head slightly but saw nothing.  He quickly returned his attention to the still tableau before him.

      Merry and Pippin, with Rich behind them, released inaudible sighs of relief when Legolas did not further investigate the boy’s slight misstep.  Rich grimaced an apology and Pippin patted his arm in reassurance.

Unseen by any of the others, last approached a cloaked figure, limping slightly.  The creature raised its head and its forked tongue tasted the night wind, catching the scents of scattered humans and halflings and one Elf.  The familiar scent of the halfling he had taken was sour with illness and the creature was pleased to know that the little one’s hurts had festered.  It hoped it suffered greatly.  It would hurt the halfling much, much more before finally being done with it.  Perhaps it would keep the other halflings to play with, for a while, if it saw that the little one cared for them. 

The man and the Elf it would kill first, for they were dangerous.  Those two crouched with their backs to it, unaware of its presence.  It would have to fly past the halflings and the human whelp to reach them.  The creature did not doubt its ability to engage the two warriors before they were aware of it.  Perhaps the halflings would follow once it had its prey; if they dared pursue, it could take them for its later amusement.   The man and the woman with the little one it would kill quickly, for they were of no consequence.  The woman that crouched in the darkness with the other human child it did not understand but she did not concern it, so long as she did nothing to hinder.  Soundlessly, the creature unsheathed its sword and prepared itself for the rush of speed and flame that would gain it the One Ring … and Power unimaginable.

* TBC * 

Chapter Twenty-One

“They roll up the streets here when the Sun goes down,” Samwise observed to Gimli.  “At least in the Shire, we have The Green Dragon an’ The Ivy Bush and…” the hobbit trailed off wistfully and the Dwarf nodded in sympathy. The one alehouse and the inn that they had passed before encountering the guardsman had been the only establishments of their kind the two had seen that night. Of course there had been the one that Gandalf had burned down as well…

“It is true, there are few greater pleasures than a mug of beer with friends at the end of the day.  Among my people -”

“Quiet back there,” snapped Gandalf.  “This is not a hobbit walking party.”  He and Boromir were in the lead, booted feet making a horrendous amount of noise on the cobblestones (in Sam’s opinion).  He had grown used to the clatter of Gimli’s hob-nailed boots, he realized.  He had almost forgotten what quiet sounded like.  He and his fellow hobbits thought the Big Folk noisy enough in the Wild, but here the noise they made was astonishing.  Sam wondered idly if anyone had informed the soldier of Gondor about the fate of his spare pair of boots yet, and decided to leave that to Master Pippin.  Or to Mr. Merry, being as it was his idea.

The wizard paused, hands tight on his staff, eyes closed.  Gimli and Sam exchanged a glance then looked at Boromir, who shrugged.  Gandalf stood stiffly, brow furrowed in concentration, muttering under his breath as he searched.  As they waited, their eyes turned to the flaming garrison behind them.  All they could see of it was a red rim over other buildings and a glow in the night sky.  Word was still spreading; people darted past them to see the excitement.  The curious and the idle, and those who ran to help.  Some had shouted questions at them in passing but did not stay to hear any answers.  The four had quickly put some distance between them and the fire, and hoped that none had seen them depart.  The guardsman Gimli had struck might or might not have regained consciousness by now, but the commander probably had.  Boromir had struck the man reluctantly, only to still him and to save his life.

Not daring to interrupt the wizard, they stood patiently and waited.  Gandalf’s countenance was at last keen and focused, and he lifted his bearded head and pointed down another of the narrow, confusing streets.  “That way.”  They had all moved forward when Gandalf stopped abruptly.  “What -”  He raised his staff slightly, sharp eyes abstracted.  “Frodo?”  He leaned forward, his long body tense.  “Oh, Frodo, my poor boy…” he whispered softly, his lined face drawn in grief. 

Sam’s head jerked up and he heard Gimli gasp.  Boromir glanced at them then opened his mouth.  But before he could speak, Gandalf was motioning them forward.  “Hurry,” he said.  “Frodo is ahead of us, and Aragorn and Legolas and Merry and Pippin.  And others.  And something … something wicked.”

Then there was no more time for questions as they followed the wizard down the dark alleyway.

Not far away at all, Legolas crouched behind the verdant hedge and fitted an arrow to his bow.  Aragorn had placed his hand upon his bow then changed his mind; mortal sight was not sufficient to guide his aim through the darkness and thick underbrush.  A stray bolt might strike the Ring-bearer, and he could not risk that.  One hand rested now on the hilt of his drawn sword, its point ready against the earth, the other on his sheathed knife.  Kneeling in the darkness next to the Elf, he waited.

Seated on the cold bench in the public gardens, Marly and Peter and Frodo were unaware of the man and the Elf on the other side of the hedge and the two parties that had followed them, one made up of friends, the other consisting of pure evil. The two halflings were taking great care to keep out of the sight and hopefully hearing of the Big Folk, guiding the young human boy, whose senses were not as keen as theirs.  The unnatural creature that trailed them observed this with amusement, its clawed hands tightening on its sword.

The man and the woman on the bench had eyes and ears that sought only for signs of the hidden presence of their son.  Frodo too waited, his battle to remain awake and alert an increasingly difficult one.  Fire burned along his leg and thrummed through his veins, making it difficult to focus on his surroundings.  Growing within him was a fear that he would somehow fail these good people who had tried to help him; that he would faint or cry out or do something that would spoil the exchange for Brion.  Nothing must interfere with getting the lad back safely.  Nothing.

The woman who knelt in the darkness to the side of the bench, sheltered by the thick bushes and the expert draping of her cloak, decided that she had waited long enough.  It was full dark now, the time that she had specified for the boy’s ransom.  She snaked a slender arm down and checked the pulse at Brion’s throat.  It beat strong and steady, and she was pleased that she had correctly estimated the amount of the drug to keep him quiet and asleep.  She could use that information for subduing the halfling as well.  Brion sighed and shifted in the curled-up ball he slept in, and she saw the halfling’s head swivel in her direction.

It was time.  Alissa rose gracefully, allowing the voluminous cloak to slip back to reveal the child.  The halfling made a soft sound in his throat and she saw the boy’s parents look down at him, then follow his gaze over to her.  The woman gasped audibly, and the man gulped.  She almost laughed at their expressions of fear and desperate hope.

Now that she had revealed herself to them, she twitched back the cloak a bit further to show them the long sword, its point at their sleeping son’s heart.  The woman made a choked sob and Alissa saw her arms tighten around the halfling.

The man gently eased Frodo to the bench between them and rose, taking a step forward.  “Hold,” she commanded him softly, absurdly pleased to be able to use her own voice without the need for disguise.   She flicked the sword along the boy’s chest for emphasis, and the man quivered to a halt.

“He only sleeps,” she murmured.  “He is unharmed.”  She allowed them a moment to understand that.  “Send me the halfling,” she ordered.  “Then we will withdraw and you may have the boy.”

“Frodo can’t walk.”  It was the woman who spoke, terror and despair in her voice.  “He’s been hurt.  He can’t walk.”

Alissa would have thought it an attempt to dissemble, had not she heard the same from her eavesdropping on the halfling’s friends at the jail.  And she could see that something was wrong with the little one – he seemed struggling to attend their words, and one small leg was heavily bandaged.  There was just enough starlight to shine on the dark, wet-looking stains that marred the white linen.

“I can walk,” the little one said in a soft, musical voice, overlaid with pain.  “If you will allow my friend to help me.”

“No!  I will not allow the man near.”  Alissa’s sword returned to just above the boy’s heart, and the hobbit swallowed.

“Then let Peter carry me to a place more convenient for you.  He will not come near.  Let him put me near the entrance; it will be easier for us to leave from there.  And no one will be between us to hinder our departure.”

The Southron woman considered this.  The halfling was intelligent.  She must remember that. “I agree.” To the man she said, “Carry the halfling to the hedge and set him down.  Then withdraw.  Do not think you can rush me – I still hold your son’s life even if I am not near him.”  To prove her point, Alissa unhooked one of the metal stars from her belt and held it up to their eyes.  Marly and Peter and Frodo stared at the starlight winking off the object, uncomprehending.

They did not know of throwing-stars?  Well, she would teach them.  With a grace born of long experience, she cocked her arm back and let the star fly.  It made the softest whirring sound before it thunked deeply into a tree trunk near the three, tough bark shredding like paper.  She heard the sharp intake of their breath and knew they understood.

Wordlessly, Peter turned back to the bench and sat, holding out his arms.  Frodo pulled himself into them and steadied himself with an arm looped around the man’s neck.  The man stood, cradling the hobbit tenderly.  Walking carefully because of the shadowed ground and to avoid jostling his small passenger, Peter moved to the very entrance.  He knelt slowly and placed Frodo on the ground, then carefully pulled his arms out from under the halfling.

When he would have risen to return to his wife, he found a small hand on his arm.  “Thank you,” said the hobbit, “for all you have done.  I am sorry to have brought grief to your family.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Peter nodded.   But Marly spoke from where she had remained seated on the bench.   “I’m sorry, Frodo.  I’m sorry.”

The hobbit nodded wearily.  “It was the only thing that could be done.”  As Peter rejoined his wife, Frodo turned his gaze to the slim woman that held the boy’s life.  “I can walk, if you will help me.  Let us go now.”

Did he but know it, the place where the man had put Frodo down was less than five meters from where Aragorn and Legolas crouched hidden by greenery and darkness.  Even the sharp-eared assassin had not heard their approach, nor did she discern their presence.  A throwing star ready in a raised hand, Alissa edged away from the sleeping boy and over to her prize.

Her prize, at last.  After two failed attempts.  Unprecedented failures.  Small, dark-haired … he looked very young.  She stared at what she could see of the enormous feet.  This was worth so much gold?  The halfling stared up at her, large eyes appearing black in the darkness.  Turning her body so that the boy was ever within her aim, Alissa leaned down and caught it – Frodo – caught Frodo by the arm.  She pulled him up and he balanced unsteadily in her grasp, favoring the damaged leg.  That would have to be attended to, and quickly, if he was to live long enough to be delivered to her employer.

“We are going now,” she informed the couple.  “You may go to your son when I have reached the end of the street.  Be assured that I can throw so far, and if you try to reach him before then, or decide to come after us or call out, I will kill the child.”

Half dragging the stumbling hobbit, Alissa continued backing out of the gardens.  Her finely-honed senses alerted her that something was amiss just as she cleared the hedge and she looked about suspiciously, dividing her attention between her target and her surroundings.

The man and his fat wife still sat woodenly on the bench and the brat snored peacefully where she had left him.  What then, had alarmed her?

Aragorn eased himself deeper into the shadows under a great tree and looked to Legolas.  They had not counted on the woman having a belt of the deadly throwing-stars.  When she began pulling Frodo towards the garden’s entrance, the Ranger and the Elf looked at each other in shock.  The boy and his parents were not safe yet.  Nor could they risk the Ring-bearer.  In the seconds they had before she reached the gates, the two rose on soundless feet and fell back into the deeper shadows.  None but a Ranger of the Wild and an Elf - or a hobbit - could have moved so quickly and so silently.  In wordless accord, they agreed to wait until she reached the turning at the end of the street, when the little family would be beyond the reach of the razored stars.

There was no light in the deep shadow to glint off the deadly leaf-shaped point of Legolas’ arrow, or the blade of the sword held in Aragorn’s grasp.  Keep going, Aragorn urged her mentally.   His initial shock at her sex had dissipated in admiration for her expert handling of the situation, but that admiration had withered in his anger at her actions.  He knew that some women of Harad were thieves and skilled assassins, but he had never seen one.  He longed to know what Legolas thought of this.

A little farther, Aragorn prayed as the woman hesitated, the throwing star cocked and ready.  Her dark head was turning from side to side, seeking the source of her alarm.  He knew that he and Legolas were well-hidden; she could not possibly see them.  His silent, controlled breathing did not falter as she shook her head and continued her retreat, but his heart leaped within him as she backed further into their trap.

As she pulled back, he had a better view of Frodo, and fear rose in him.  The hobbit seemed only vaguely aware of his surroundings.  He was holding tightly to his abductor’s arm, doing his best to keep his feet.  In no way was he hindering her.  Could he not distract her?

No, Aragorn realized.  Frodo would not risk the boy, or the boy’s parents.  The people who had helped him.  He would go with her, despite what he bore, to whatever fate awaited him if his actions would spare these folk. The gentle goodness and compassion in Frodo that made him able to endure the Ring also put the thing within the grasp of evil, yet Aragorn suddenly realized what he had always known deep down … that to expect Frodo not to follow his heart and to do differently than what it told him was right would compromise his ability to carry the Ring to its destruction.

The abductor had almost reached the turning of the street.  Once she had passed it she could no longer threaten the child and the man and the woman.  The boy still slept.  The parents sat rigidly, the man’s eyes on the retreating pair, the woman’s fixed upon her son.  Aragorn made the softest noise in his throat, it never passing his lips, but he knew Legolas heard.  The bow lifted slightly and centered on the Southron woman’s throat.

“Frodo!”

Aragorn rocked forward as Pippin’s shout registered in his mind.  No!  What were they doing here?  He fought against the urge to bound to his feet and break cover in an attempt to warn them off.  He stilled his leap just in time and instead took advantage of the distraction to widen his view through the leaves.  The two younger hobbits stood frozen at the corner, the boy Rich with them, staring in shock at their cousin being held up by the woman.

      The woman whipped around toward the three with frightening speed, dragging Frodo with her.  The hobbit cried out, agony raking through him as his leg was jarred by the motion.  She dropped him and Frodo collapsed to the cobbles, stifling a scream as he tried to cradle his leg with his arms.  Aragorn saw her dark head lash from side to side, assessing and dismissing the danger from the couple and their son, focusing on the three small ones who approached her now.  Pippin had leaped forward at Frodo’s cry of pain, Merry close on his heels running towards her.  Rich followed not far behind, his face contorted with terror.

      Before Aragorn could even move, could rise to his feet and shout, “NO!” she acted to defend herself and her prize.  The slender, muscled arm let fly and the deadly throwing star arced gracefully into the night, aimed straight for Pippin’s heart.  Starlight and faint flickers from the far-off fire caught on the razored edges, transforming the lethal object to almost a thing of beauty.  His blood pounding in his ears, Aragorn could but watch in horror.  The child was safe and they might yet save Frodo, but Pippin was going to die.

* TBC * 

Chapter Twenty-Two

Now finally did Aragorn’s body obey his will, and he was somehow on his feet and shouting to distract the assassin before she could aim another of the deadly stars.  But the first already arced into the moonless night, and the Ranger spared a fraction of a second to wonder if the razored edges bore poison.

Every warrior knows that moment in the heat of battle when all about him slows to an eternity, when each movement around him becomes a crawl.  Aragorn suffered that now.  The throwing-star was a twirling circle of glittering knives, the blades turning like a child’s pinwheel, each revolution clear and distinct to his eyes despite the speed at which it was moving.   Pippin was trying to focus on the shining thing coming towards him.  The young one’s face scrunched up as he tried to identify what it was, even as his feet carried him forward towards his collapsed cousin.

A few paces behind him, Merry had not seen the deadly missile; his gaze was all on Frodo.  Frodo had made no sound after that one agonized cry.  He had pulled up the injured leg to his body and was rocking frantically on the cobbles.  The boy ran clumsily behind them, larger than either of the hobbits, not understanding what was happening but determined not to be left behind.

With tortuous slowness, Aragorn’s mouth opened and a single word crawled from his throat to his lips.  “Pippin!” or “Down!” he never knew.

Slowly, far too slowly, one of Pippin’s hands moved before his breast to deter the object flying toward him.  The tweenager had no chance; the star would shear through the flesh and bone and find its target still.  Aragorn was unable to look away.  Then suddenly there was movement at the edge of his vision and before he could blink an elvish arrow was intercepting the star, deflecting it upward and away from its deadly path.  Star and arrow both whistled a hairs-breadth past Pippin’s cheek and were lost to sight in the night.

Merry saw something flash by his head, then it was whirling past him to clatter to the cobbles behind him but he had no attention to spare for it.  He plunged after Pippin, desperate and determined.

Now events speeded up again and Aragorn found he was running towards the woman, his sword in his hand.  Legolas was shouting at him not be caught in his line of fire but he could not heed the Elf’s words.  His need to reach Frodo and the adrenaline and anger pulsing through his veins at the near loss of Pippin made him careless to any danger to himself.

It seemed to Aragorn that the woman stood momentarily frozen.  He saw her head turn from his rush towards the nearer threat, the three approaching small ones.  Merry was drawing his small sword, his face grim.  She was caught between them.  And he was coming fast, his sword raised for a killing blow, an equally furious Elf at his heels.  In a calculated instant, the woman made her choice.

Gold offered for the halfling was not worth her life, Alissa decided.  Coins cannot be spent by a corpse.  She had no chance of escaping with Frodo now, running burdened from this swift man and swifter Elf.  Abandoning her intent with the ruthless practicality of her people, Alissa whirled silently and in a graceful leap a gazelle could barely have equaled, disappeared from the dark street.

Pippin reached Frodo first, falling to his knees beside his writhing cousin with an involuntary shout of pain that indicated he had forgotten the streets here were not paved with soft dirt or grass.  He slid his arms around his kinsman and hugged him, great gulping sobs of relief overflowing from him.  Merry reached Frodo next and caught them both in a tight embrace, his sword clattering unnoticed to the ground.  Frodo looked bewildered, even more so when Aragorn loomed over him a heartbeat later with Legolas at his side.

“What…” tried Frodo. “How… Merry?  Pip?  But -”  He stared up in absolute confusion over his cousins’ heads at the Big People.  Legolas greeted him with a single joyous smile, then the Elf’s star-filled eyes were scanning the shadows and buildings, an arrow nocked, his bow ready in his slender hands.

Easing Pippin aside, Aragorn forced himself not to demand of the youngster if he had been hurt or reprimand him for his impulsive action.  Instead, his hand lingered tightly on the young hobbit’s shoulder before sinking to his knees at Frodo’s side.   Aragorn sheathed his sword and steadied Frodo so that he could sit upright, his healer’s eyes already on the bandages.  This close, he smelled infection and saw that even through the joy that filled the Ring-bearer’s eyes, he was in great pain.  “Hello, Frodo,” he remarked casually, his voice filled with reassurance.  “If you are quite through gallivanting all over this town, your cousins and the rest of the Fellowship would appreciate you staying in one place for a few moments.”

Frodo laughed weakly.  His right hand was held between both of Merry’s and Pippin crouched at his back, cradling his head and stroking his hair.  He could not move even if he wanted to.  “Hullo,” he replied.  “I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to go on without me.”

Aragorn laughed, a world of relief in the sound, then gently pried Frodo’s cousins off him and slid his arms carefully under the hobbit’s knees and shoulders.  Lifting him, he saw his image mirrored in a roughly-dressed man who stood before him, a still figure cradled in his arms.  A choked cry from behind him made him turn his head as the human boy, Rich, rushed past them and into the woman’s enfolding arms.  Then he was turning and tugging on his brother’s arm.  Brion snorted and grumbled in his sleep.  “Is he all right?” sobbed the boy.  “Is he all right?”

“He’s all right,” assured the man, his eyes never leaving the Ranger’s.  “Yours?”

“He will be,” said Aragorn with a grin at the hobbit.  Frodo’s eyes were on the sleeping boy and tears glinted in their corners, but he was smiling.

“Please,” said the man.  “Come back with us to our home.  We can tend to Frodo there.”

Aragorn hesitated for a moment, torn between carrying word to Gandalf and giving the hobbit the immediate medical attention he needed.  One glance down into Frodo’s white face decided him.  “Thank you,” he said softly.  “I am a healer.  I would be grateful for the use of your supplies.”

Merry hesitated as their small party followed Peter back up the darkened street.  Light from one of the thoroughfare torches glinted off something and he swung a little away from the others to investigate.  Where … ah, here.  One of Legolas’ arrows, and something he could not identify.  Merry picked up the spent bolt to return it to the Elf and turned the odd piece of metal over in his fingers.  He almost did not feel the slice it cut along his finger, so sharp it was.  Merry sucked in his breath and lifted the bleeding finger automatically to his mouth. 

He prided himself upon his ability to throw a knife – this was another kind of throwing knife.  Many blades instead of one, designed to strike and burrow its way into flesh until spent or stopped by something harder than bone.  This was what had flown past him, had been aimed for Pippin’s heart.  Merry swayed, suddenly lightheaded, and broke into a cold sweat.  He took a great breath of air to calm himself, closed his eyes for a moment.  Opening them, he folded the deadly thing carefully into his handkerchief and stored it in a pocket of his cloak, and hurried after the others.

Introductions were made as they walked.  The townsman and his wife stared in undisguised awe at the Elf and in some trepidation at the Ranger, despite Rich’s assurances that Aragorn “was not as dangerous as he looks.”  Merry ducked his head at that, mirth sparkling in his eyes.

Among so many boots and padding feet and soft-voiced but urgent questions and answers, even the keen-eared Legolas did not hear the stealthy menace that shadowed them.  The creature had remained hidden while the female gave up her prize, remembering that the Elf’s bow had already hurt it.  Though fond of giving pain to weaker creatures, it did not relish it for itself.  And even it could see that the little one needed aid that it could not give.  It would see the hobbit treated, then take the greatest satisfaction in recovering it and keep it alive as long as possible for its own amusement.  But before experiencing that pleasure, it would enjoy killing the little one’s guardians and burning the humans’ home down about their heads.

* * * * *

Gandalf and Boromir emerged first from the alleyway and stared at the empty gates of the public gardens.  Gimli waited patiently for the two to move, but Sam edged around the soldier and darted into the gardens, unheeding of Gandalf’s growled, “Samwise!  Get back here!”

Sam obeyed, but only after assuring himself that his master was nowhere to be found.  “They’re not here,” he panted.  “Where’ve they all gone?”

Gandalf muttered to himself about hobbits and men and elves who simply would not stay put, then grasped his staff with both hands and closed his eyes.  The three fell silent around him and watched in wonder and excitement, sensing that they were close as the wizard’s head turned towards the street recently taken by their errant members.  And something else.

Gandalf had thought long and hard on what that life-spark was that trailed after Frodo and the others.  It did not burn brightly like the lives around it, but smoldered in a way that the Istari had never before seen.  It burned like a banked fire, consuming without sharing of its heat, dark and smoking with old hates.  It too was near.  Warily, the wizard kept watch upon it and urged his small party to greater speed.

It was not far to the little home that Peter provided for his family, and the small house seemed very small indeed when filled with so many people.  Marly looked somewhat intimidated but quickly busied herself in directing Rich to light candles and provide their guests water as she began to prepare what food there was in the larder.  Pippin and Merry waited with Aragorn and Frodo as Peter gently carried his son to his room and laid him in his own small bed.  Brion grunted and rubbed his nose, then curled up on his side, deeply asleep.  Aragorn watched the father stand by the boy’s bed for a moment and run his hand gently through the boy’s dark hair.  He did not miss the tears in Peter’s eyes when he returned. 

“You can put Master Frodo in Rich’s room.  It’s a bit bigger.  I’ll ask Rich ’ta heat water, and help you as much as I can.”  Peter sighed.  “I’ve some training … just enough to know when an injury is beyond my poor skills.”

Aragorn nodded, grateful for the help.  It would be needed, he thought, looking down into the Ring-bearer’s pale, rigid face.  The Ranger had walked as smoothly as he could, but each step had aggravated the injury and more of the dark yellow, foul-smelling liquid now stained the bandages.  Frodo made a soft sound as he was laid down, and Merry caught up his hand and patted it. 

Rich brought Aragorn a chair and another for his father, then as there was no more room, stood in the doorway waiting to fetch whatever was needed.  Peter asked him for the water and the boy nodded and left, eager to assist.  Pippin’s face began to go green as Aragorn unwound the bandages.  Merry leaned over and put a hand on the tweenager’s shoulder.  “Why don’t you help Marly, Pip?  I’ll stay with Frodo.” 

Pippin shook his head determinedly.  “Frodo needs me, Merry.”

Merry’s gentle suggestion had drawn Aragorn’s attention to the youngling’s queasiness.  “I am sure that Marly would appreciate your help, Pippin.  Legolas is no good in a kitchen.  He would probably set the house afire.”

Pippin giggled despite himself.  “I suppose I should save him, then.  And the house.  And the rest of the town … what’s left of it, anyway.”  Rich smiled at him from his post in the doorway, and the tweenager went to Marly, reassured that his cousin was in the best of hands.

Aragorn’s face did not change as he laid the last of the linen aside; he was too experienced a healer for that.  But Merry gasped audibly and Peter shut his eyes.  “I did what I could for him,” the man whispered.  “But I didn’t have the proper medicines…”

Frodo was by now only half-aware, and Aragorn was grateful for that.  Gently he lifted the infected limb and examined it, noting how his light touch brought more of the oozing matter to the surface.  Rich brought in a steaming pot of water and set it carefully at Aragorn’s feet.

“Rich,” said the Ranger, his voice low and even to avoid disturbing his patient, “Did I not hear you purchasing a packet of powdered myrrh at the apothecary’s?   I would greatly like to use it.”

The boy gasped in sudden recollection and fumbled in his pocket.  He handed Aragorn the twisted piece of paper and the Ranger carefully unwound it, spreading the precious powder and examining it.  “Good,” he murmured softly.  “Yes, very good.  Now the hot water.”   Rich lifted the pot and Aragorn carefully poured in half of the powder, swishing it with the wooden cook-spoon Marly had left in the pot.  “Now we let that infuse,” he said, aware that Peter was watching closely, “and prepare the leg.” 

“Prepare the leg?” repeated Merry.  Displaced by the two Men, he had wiggled himself up onto the bed behind Frodo, bracing his back against the wall and supporting Frodo’s upper body against his chest.  Thus settled comfortably, he captured both of Frodo’s arms, crossing them across his cousin’s chest and holding the cold hands tightly in his own. 

Aragorn nodded abstractedly.  He made a quick, preemptory motion and Peter leaned over and placed one large hand on the hobbit’s ankle and the other on Frodo’s hip.  Effectively immobilized, Frodo shut his eyes and turned his face into Merry’s chest.

“I am going to press the infection out of your leg now, Frodo,” Aragorn said softly.  “It will hurt, but it looks like there has been some damage to the surface nerves around the infection, so the pain will not be too great.  Once the pus is cleaned out, we can apply the medicine and it will begin to heal.”

Frodo bucked upwards involuntarily when Aragorn began apply pressure but Merry held him down firmly, his face as white as his cousin’s though he did not flinch.  “Ah, I’m sorry, Frodo,” Aragorn soothed.  “It will be over shortly.  You are doing very well.”  Frodo nodded tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming too fast.  Merry transferred both icy hands to one of his own and used the other to stroke the hair away from his cousin’s forehead and kiss it, murmuring softly in his ear too low for the others to hear.

Forcing himself to remember that this was necessary, Aragorn distanced his mind from the pain he was causing and methodically pushed all of the stinking matter he could from the ragged wound.  When at last no more bubbled forth, all of them released a sigh of relief.  “Now then,” said the Ranger briskly, “this will not hurt so much.”  A sweet, spicy scent filled the tiny room as he lifted the pot, no longer steaming but still warm.  He bathed the entire leg, then concentrated on pouring small amounts directly into the wound.

Frodo jerked violently, but more in surprise than pain.  Gasping slightly, he dared to open his eyes and Merry loosed his death-grip upon his cousin’s hands.  Seeing this, Aragorn smiled.  “Better, yes?”

“Better,” confirmed Frodo shakily.  He relaxed slowly as the Ranger continued the treatment, until his eyes were slowly closing and he slept, pushed beyond the last of his strength.

Peter sighed as the hobbit at last drifted off.  “We didn’t want ‘ta do it, you know,” he whispered, wiping away a tear on his rough sleeve.  “Frodo insisted that we give him to that – that woman.  We didn’t want to, but Brion … my son…”

“I understand,” Aragorn replied, equally softly.  “We all do.  You had to make the exchange.”  Merry looked over Frodo’s slumbering form into the townsman’s eyes and nodded.

Aragorn gathered up the stinking, soiled bandages and gave them to Rich to be disposed off.  The boy wrinkled his nose but took them without complaint, long accustomed to helping his father.  Then Aragorn bent over the sleeping hobbit’s leg and taking most of the remaining powder, sprinkled it directly into the wound.  Frodo grimaced in his sleep but settled back as Merry stroked his hair and crooned something softly.

The Ranger positioned a single clean bandage over the wound and secured it.  As silently as possible, he handed Peter the emptied pot and twisted back up the small amount of myrrh for later use.  That done, he motioned them all out of the room.  At Aragorn’s firm gesture, Merry reluctantly laid Frodo’s hands at his sides and eased himself out from behind his cousin, lowering his head gently to the pillow.  The Ranger paused in the doorway for a moment, his gaze returning to the deeply slumbering hobbit.  Light from the adjoining room glinted briefly on something at the little one’s throat and Aragorn felt an irrational surge of rage at whatever fates that chosen this valiant heart for such a task.  “Sleep, Ring-bearer,” he whispered.  “You are safe now.”

It was a quarter-hour later when the poorly-glazed window of the tiny room was swung open, pushed from the outside.  Quick as a striking snake, a dark form crawled over the sill and steadied itself on the bedpost.  A forked tongue tested the air, tasting the scents of powdered myrrh and pain, of many and varied lives in the adjoining room.  It had waited until it heard no further movement in the small room, until the door stopped opening every few moments to check on the sleeping one.  Keen ears caught the muffled words of soft voices through the closed door but none approached.  Then it snarled and turned towards the bed, a gag in its clawed hands.

* TBC * 

Chapter Twenty-Three

“There!” declared Gandalf, pointing at a humble house from which light shone cheerfully from all but two of its windows.  The house stood leaning on its neighbors, each steadying the other like a row of drunken soldiers.  Gimli’s braided mustaches twitched in distaste at the shoddy building practices of Men.  Sam stared at the house with equal disfavor.  There was nothing planted out front at all, (not that there was any room to speak of) but the night wind brought to him the faint scent of flowers and growing life and Sam supposed it must have a garden of some sort in the back.

At Gandalf’s gesture, Boromir moved forward and knocked on the door.  A moment later, it creaked open a little way and a teenaged boy peered out.  He stared at the soldier open-mouthed, as if Boromir had coalesced on his porch from starlight and dust.

His wide-eyed gaze traveled over the other three strangers, and then surprisingly settled on Sam.  “Oh!  A hobbit!” the boy said, a grin breaking over his face.

Sam found the wizard’s long fingers on his shoulder, propelling him forward none-too-gently.  “Hullo,” he said tentatively, looking up at the child.

A Man appeared behind the lad and stared at them with much the same expression.  “You must be the rest of Frodo’s friends,” Peter rallied after a moment.  “Won’t you sirs come in?  And welcome.”  The door swung wide.

Gardener, wizard and warriors trooped through the door with many bows and polite words of greeting.  Peter held the door for them then peered out into the night.  “Any more of you out there?”

Gandalf hastened to reassure the man that this was indeed the entire party.  The wizard turned to find a grinning Ranger behind him.  Aragorn had positioned himself behind Rich as the boy answered the knock at the door, sliding himself behind it, his sword drawn.   Legolas had sunk to a crouch in the shadowy entryway, his long knives ready in his hands.  Peter looked nervous at the precautions, his frightened eyes flicking to his family.  That such measures had proved unnecessary was a relief to all.

The reunion between the two parties was brief but heartfelt.  After embracing the old wizard, Aragorn had drawn the newcomers to the door of the little bedroom and lifted a candle high to show them the sleeper.  The dim light had fallen on Frodo’s face, drawn and pale, but at peace and safe at last.

Gandalf had closed his eyes for a moment, tears gathering in his eyes.  Sam had wept silently and unashamedly, burying his face in his hands.   Gimli and Boromir were silent but long-set tensions left their shoulders and Boromir sighed audibly in relief.  Then Aragorn closed the door and herded them all back into the main room.  The little family stood back for a moment; overwhelmed by the number and strangeness of their visitors.  Then Marly shook her head.  “I never thought I’d see the day, “she murmured.  “Rich, set another kettle on the fire for tea.  Peter, find me what’s left in the pantry.  Both of you, wash up first.  Then bring our guests basins and towels.”  Giving orders with a briskness that a major-general would have envied, the woman soon had her guests divested of their cloaks and seated with a mug of hot, sweetened tea in each pair of hands.

Aragorn and Legolas spoke first, telling of Frodo’s recovery. “That was a woman?” asked Boromir, scandalized and intrigued at once.  “There was no hint of it when she made the attempt upon young Pippin.  What a magnificent creature she must be!”

Then Boromir related what had happened after the others left the garrison, until Gandalf’s timely rescue of him.  Mindful of the innocent ears that listened, he did not elaborate upon the guard commander’s reason for such hatred of him, but he saw the wizard nod and knew that what he left unsaid would be recounted later.  When the soldier concluded his tale with the burning of the guardhouse, Rich went to the door and looked out at the orange glow in the sky.  The boy would have sought a better vantage point from the end of the street but Legolas placed a slender hand on his shoulder, cautioning him to stay in the safety of the doorway and moved lightly past him.  Hand on his knife and watching the shadows, the Elf drifted to where he had the best view.   Returning, he reported that the fire was moving closer.  Peter and Marly looked worried at that.  The Fellowship understood; fire could spread quickly among old, dry wooden buildings.  This they had seen for themselves, and the townsfolk and travelers exchanged worried glances.  

Every few minutes, one or another of them would get up and ease open the bedroom door to check on Frodo.  Aragorn had forbidden them to wake him, so his anxious friends had to reassure themselves that he was truly there from the doorway.  Merry and Pippin had stood watching their cousin sleep for a long time, until Gandalf shooed them back into the main room.  Sam had to check that his master’s covers were pulled up and that there was water by the bed, and straighten out Frodo’s pack, until the wizard finally caught him by the ear and gently but firmly marched him to the door.  Then instead of returning to the others, Gandalf found himself standing and watching Frodo sleep until Aragorn reminded him to sit down and rest as well.

Returning to the small room, the wizard dispossessed three hobbits of a thread-bare settee (by virtue of age, he declared) and allowed Marly and Rich to serve him tea and biscuits while Peter recounted what had occurred since they had found Frodo bleeding and unconscious on their porch.

Aragorn listened to the other tales quietly after his and Legolas’ was told, his blue-grey eyes intent, hands busy examining the damage to Pippin’s feet.  The string used to tie on the boots had chaffed the hobbits over their toes and ankles, and large, water-filled blisters had formed on the sides and top of their feet.  The thick, curly hair on their foot-tops had protected them somewhat, but mud had dried in the hair and Aragorn was forced to pull to loosen the balls of mud.  Seeing tears start in the young one’s eyes, the Ranger stopped and patted the foot comfortingly, then asked Marly for a basin large enough for hobbit-feet.   Pippin gritted his teeth, an involuntary whimper rising in his throat as the Ranger carefully washed the rest of the mud off the sore, blistered feet and dried them, then ever-so-gently smoothed on the ointment he had purchased. 

“How did you get this cut on your cheek, Pippin?” Aragorn asked, tracing a finger below a one-inch slice that the tweenager had not even felt.  Pippin raised a hand and examined the cut in surprise, then shrugged.  As Aragorn washed it, Merry closed his eyes and tried to quiet his pounding heart.  So close, so close.  Had Legolas’ arrow not deflected the whirling knife-thing, Pippin would certainly have died.  Had the arrow not been deflected just so by the weapon, the bolt itself might have killed his cousin.  Fodder for yet more nightmares...  The skill to aim an arrow to deflect a swift and spinning blade from its intended target and yet only barely graze unprotected flesh was beyond Merry’s comprehension.  He could not grasp such proficiency with a bow.  And the courage that it must have taken Legolas to instantaneously risk the shot, knowing that he could have killed Pippin, whom he loved.  Knowing that Pippin would die did he not try.  Opening his eyes, Merry found the Elf’s gentle eyes upon him.  The hobbit looked into that clear gaze and put his thanks in his eyes, hurriedly scrubbing away the tears that ran down his cheek before Pippin saw.  Legolas nodded soberly in reply, understanding on his fair face and in his starry eyes.  

The cleansing done, Aragorn picked Pippin up and carried him over to a soft pile of cushions before the hearth fire, setting him down with an admonition to stay there and rest.  The tweenager curled into a ball before the warmth, more than happy to do so.

Merry was treated next, bearing the attention in stoic silence.  Seeing the traces of blood on his hand, Aragorn had the hobbit spread his fingers and examined the sharp slice he found across one.  “Merry,” the Ranger said sternly, and waited for an explanation.

Merry grimaced.  He glanced at his exhausted cousin and replied in a low voice,  “I picked up the metal knife-thing the woman threw.  It cut me.”

Aragorn stiffened and looked more closely at the cut.  “Those throwing-stars are deadly, Meriadoc.  And sometimes poisoned. “  He took a deep breath, relieved.  “You were lucky that this one apparently was not.”  He washed the small, deep cut and bound it, folding the hand up against Merry’s breast to prevent it bleeding anew.  “I would think you had learned your lesson about picking up odd things you come across.”  Merry flushed and ducked his head at the mild reprimand.  Even as he had bent to retrieve the unknown thing, the terrible memory of doing the same to gather up the palantír shards on the road to Hollin had risen in his mind.  But the recollection still had not been sufficient to deter his curiosity.*

Aragorn sat him down next to the tweenager and Pippin immediately laid his head in Merry’s lap, asleep in seconds.  Merry kept one ear tilted back to hear the tale-telling, but most of his attention seemed to be on stroking his cousin’s hair and staring into the small fire, thinking.

“Come on, Sam,” Aragorn said.  “Your turn.  Let me see how you fared.”

“No need, sir,” said Sam hastily, tucking one grimy foot behind the other.  “I’m fine, I am.”

“None of that,” Aragorn replied.  “Your feet need to be washed and treated.  Now, Sam.”

“Yes, sir,” sighed the hobbit.  He steadied himself with a hand on the Ranger’s shoulder while Aragorn dipped a hairy foot into the basin.  Aragorn turned the just-washed foot carefully and looked into the hobbit’s eyes.  “I told you hobbits wearing boots was unnatural,” Sam said with a diffident grin.  “Some of us had the good hobbit-sense to take ‘em off right off.”  Merry glared at him but as Sam was right, Merry gave up on making a convincing effort of it and gave him a lopsided smile instead.

A startled gasp from the doorway of the smallest bedroom informed them that Brion had woken up at last.  The boy rubbed his eyes, staring in disbelief at the odd assemblage of people in his house.  A strange sight they presented to his eyes, indeed.  People overflowed his tiny, familiar home making it seem a magical place; hobbits curled before the fire, a dwarf perched on a stool, an Elf was seated gracefully on the floor, his legs too long for the short chairs.  Among such company, two men and a shabby old wizard hardly merited a glance.

Marly was across the room with a speed that denied her girth and caught her young son in her arms, kissing him soundly.  Brion squirmed, more interested in their guests than being kissed by his mother.  Peter laughed and pried his son free, hugging him briefly himself, then lowered him to the floor and watched proudly as the little boy bowed to each member of the Company and introduced himself.

“Frodo will be all right, then?” Brion asked, having been given just enough of the story to reassure him.  “Alissa was very nice to me – she said she didn’t mean to hurt me, it was an accident when she tried to catch me from falling.  She gave me a box of painted soldiers!  They’re in my cloak.  Rich, come look!”   Lured away by the excitement of seeing such an extravagant gift, the brothers disappeared into Brion’s tiny room to examine the treasure.

“What you have done,” Gandalf said softly when the boys were gone, “cannot be repaid.  Frodo is dear to us for many reasons, not the least for one we cannot discuss.  I hope that someday we can return and tell you how you helped preserve the hope of all Middle-earth.”

Marly exchanged a look with her husband and smiled.  “He needed help,” she replied simply.

“And you gave it, when many would not,” said Aragorn softly, unsmiling.  “And you suffered for it.  Things might have gone very differently.  That you were willing to help, and still willing after things turned ill … will be remembered and rewarded someday, if it is within my power.  This I do swear.”

Gandalf looked at his old friend, and saw beneath the weariness and still-present smudges and smoke damage the shining glimmer of all his hopes.  That image faded back into a worn and weather-beaten Ranger when Aragorn stood.

“We thank you for your offer of hosting us for what remains of the night, but I feel that we should be moving.  Our fortunes in this town have gone ill, and we should leave.”

“Hasn’t been so good for the town, neither,” Sam whispered to Merry.  Merry nodded, his face abstracted.  Sam noticed that Merry had picked apart the seams of one of the tattered cushions.  That particular cushion now seemed very heavy - the fabric strained against a great weight as Merry struggled to draw the threads shut.  The cushion clinked.

A tired grin passed over Sam’s face.  “Mr. Merry -”

“Don’t say anything, Sam,” Merry whispered in return.  “They wouldn’t take it, you know they wouldn’t.  Maybe Peter can go to Minas Tirith someday, use it to finish his training as a healer.  They won’t find it till we’re gone.”

Sam slid two fingers into the space Merry had picked open and extracted one of the gold coins.  “These are all real, aren’t they?”

Merry tried to look stung.  “Yes, they are.  Almost the last of them.  I’ve kept just a little for us in case we need supplies later on.”

To Merry’s surprise, Sam slipped the gold coin into his pocket.  “To repay the folk who own the root cellar,” the gardener explained, flushing slightly.  “For all we ate, and using the cellar ‘ta hide in.  I’ll put it where they’ll find it when we leave.  Wouldn’t be right, otherwise.”

Merry rolled his shoulders and rubbed the small of his back, aching and tired.  “Ah, Sam, this being honest is a heavy burden to bear.”  The hobbits looked up as Gandalf stood.  Merry leaned over Pippin and pulled his nose gently.  “Wake up, Pip,” he murmured.  “Come on, my dear.  We’ve got to be going again.”

Pippin murmured a sleepy protest and swatted at his nose.  “Let him sleep until we go,” Sam said softly.  “Maybe one of the Big Folk will carry the poor lad.”

The hobbits returned their attention to the conversation behind them.  Marly was protesting, assuring Gandalf that they were welcome to spend the night, if only on the floor.  The wizard was shaking his bearded head gently, thanking her, but saying they had caused enough grief to this family.  When she would have protested more, Peter wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered in her ear, his face regretful but accepting.

Brion and Rich reappeared to say their farewells, sorrowful that these fascinating folk would not be staying.  As the Company donned their cloaks and swung up their packs, Aragorn sank down on one knee before the children, staring into their eyes.  “Thank you for befriending Frodo,” he said to them gently.  “Perhaps someday you will receive a summons from a distant city called Minas Tirith, asking if you would like to become royal pages and serve the King.  Should that day ever come, I pray you will accept.”  The Ranger smiled, his eyes soft and distant.  “Perhaps I shall see you there.”

The boys did not understand but they looked at this tall man’s solemn face and knew that what he said was important.  They nodded.  Peter did understand and he smiled wistfully.  “The return of the King,” he murmured.  “May we live to see it come to pass.”

“Boromir, will you carry Pippin?” Merry asked.  “He is so tired.”

“Of course,” the soldier said.  “Up you go, little one.”  Pippin turned his face into the man’s scratchy surcoat with a muttered complaint but did not wake.  Legolas smiled at the young hobbit and carefully tucked Pippin’s cloak about him.

Their leave-takings done, Gimli and Legolas were already stepping onto the porch as Gandalf reluctantly approached the door to Frodo’s room.  The wizard wished that it was possible to stay the night and let Frodo and the other hobbits rest.  The decision to enter this town had been a mistake; it was not possible to deny that.  At least none of the townsfolk had witnessed him using the small amount of power necessary to keep track of the Company and hunt for Frodo.  Perhaps talk of the unfortunate rash of fires would cause people to forget about the strangers who had passed through their town so briefly.  He sighed regretfully.  No … it was more likely they would be blamed for the fires even more as the story grew in the telling.  From here on, the Company would enter no more towns.  If supplies must be had, he would send in Aragorn and Boromir to purchase what they needed…

The fact that none of the townsfolk had yet identified him as a wizard reminded Gandalf of the warped life-spark he had sensed while searching for the Ringbearer.   His mind returned to that smoldering spark now, puzzling over the hints of its forbearers he had glimpsed in it; orc and human, snake and beast, and what else he knew not.  It was a thing that never should have been brought into being, should never have lived, and Gandalf shuddered, wondering where it was now -

The creature whirled at the unexpected movement of the door swinging wide.  The wizard stared into the dark room and saw only the white of Frodo’s borrowed nightshirt reflecting the light from the main room against a devouring blackness.  Gandalf had less than a heartbeat to register the sight of Frodo’s wide terrified eyes, a gag in his mouth, before the thing was gone with the hobbit through the open window and into the night, leaving behind it shadows and darkness and the stink of absolute evil.

* TBC * 

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gandalf roared, such rage and disbelief in his cry that it sent Gimli and Legolas stumbling down the steps of the porch and into the street, staring about them frantically.  They skidded to a halt near a small shop in time to see a dark figure fleeing away from the house at astonishing speed, something white-garbed and struggling in its clutches.  At the wizard’s desperate cry, the figure turned perhaps twenty-five meters down the dark, narrow street and met Gandalf’s glare, smiling through its fangs.  Its contemptuous gaze traveled over the Elf and the Dwarf as they turned their eyes towards it.  Then almost negligently, it raised a clawed hand and traced a rune in the air and the tiny shop by which the Elf and the Dwarf had halted burst into red flame.

Legolas snatched Gimli around his broad chest and pulled him back as fire leaped at them.  Off-balance, the two crashed backwards to the cobbles, the impact wringing an agonized gasp from the Elf as Gimli’s considerable weight crushed him to the unyielding stones.

The fire lashed out at them again but they were out of its grasp.  Instead it washed over the walls of the shop, running up the wooden slats to feast on the cloth awning.  The fire divided like a stream of water over a rock, flowing along the dry, dusty cloth.  Eddies of flame swirled along the dry wood, licking at the rough boards, seeking to feed on the building and from there, glut itself on the many small homes of the people surrounding the shop.

“Frodo!” Gandalf bellowed from the window, his staff clenched in one hand.  He saw the Dwarf and the Elf in a tangled heap on the ground, staring at the devouring flames, too shocked to move.  “It has Frodo!” he shouted at them, gesturing with his staff.  “Go after it!”

Gimli rolled off Legolas and struggled to his feet, leaving the Elf wheezing on the ground.  The Dwarf made a sound between a cough and a growl and ran to the far side of the street, unlimbering one of his throwing axes.  In a heartbeat, he positioned himself and threw it straight at the creature.  Gimli’s cast was true but some unnamed sense alerted his target; it twisted lithely at the last possible moment and the razor-bladed throwing axe thudded into the wooden fence behind the creature’s head.  The axe hung there, quivering.

The creature turned down a side street, seeming not at all inconvenienced by its thrashing burden.  Gimli swore, then pounded heavily after it, his great battle-axe clenched in his fist and his boots striking sparks from the cobbles.

Now Aragorn was at the window, crowding against Gandalf.  Boromir was with him, their disbelieving gazes having passed over the empty bed in horror.  Rather than take the time to go out the front door, the Ranger swung his long legs over the windowsill, never noticing that the creature’s violent exit had shattered the glass.  A long, triangular shard gifted him a gash along his calf, the searing pain experienced and forgotten in an instant.  He started to push himself over and out when the wizard’s hand clamped on his arm.  “Be wary,” Gandalf breathed, his gaze wild.  “It is an evil thing, and very swift.  There is something about it that I do not understand.”

Aragorn nodded and drew his long sword.  Boromir had not waited his turn at the window, dashing instead out the front door, swinging his great shield before him.   Aragorn paused a moment in the street to offer an arm up to the still gasping Elf and pull him to his feet.  Then the three were running after Gimli, who was out of sight but not hearing, his infuriated bellows drifting back to them.

Fighting to impose order upon his thoughts, Gandalf kicked out the  glass shard and started over the sill himself, to feel a small hand tangling in his robes.  “What was that thing?” Merry shrilled.  The hobbit’s other arm was clasped around his younger cousin.  Boromir had thrust Pippin into Merry’s arms as he followed Aragorn, and the youngster stood swaying on his feet, shocked into wakefulness.  He did not understand what was happening and clung to Merry in terror.  The light of the growing fire came through the smashed window, illuminating the three small white faces to the wizard.  Behind them stood the little family, the boys held tightly in their parents’ arms.

“I do not know,” Gandalf answered truthfully.  “Something vile.  It has stalked Frodo before, though what it knows about –“ he broke off, sternly controlling his tongue.

“It’s got Mr. Frodo?” shrieked Sam, panic in his voice.  Unable to pull himself up to the high sill, he whirled and would have run out the door, Frodo’s cousins at his heels, had not Gandalf’s staff barred their way.  

“No!” roared the wizard, when they would have ducked under the barrier.  “Stay here, all of you!  Do you hear me?  You are needed here, if all is not to burn!”  They followed his pointing finger out the shattered window, to see that the fire had already spread to the shop next to the closed store.

“A tailor’s shop,” groaned the wizard.  “What ill luck.  Bolts and bolts of cloth and cotton batting…  Peter, have you a fire bell nearby?  Peter!”

The man jerked violently.  “Aye, we do.  Rich, go ring it.  Go, boy!”

Rich tore himself from his mother’s arms and ran through the main room, out the door and to the side.  A few moments later, they heard the tinny tones of the hand bell ring out loudly.

“Quick now,” snapped the wizard.  “Marly, Peter, we need buckets, basins, cooking pots … whatever you have.  Now!”

The family’s remaining store of water filled these in moments, and the hobbits were set to throwing their contents on the flames.  Already the wooden storefronts were afire, the flames snapping and crackling like a living creature.  People were pouring from the surrounding homes, many in their nightshirts, and horrified shouts were being replaced by men calling orders and forming a water-chain.  These were their homes and livelihoods; there were no bystanders here. 

Women gathered at the well, working the buckets without undue waste of motion.  Children emptied rain barrels and storage containers, adding the water to any available receptacles and passing them to the men.  Marly and Peter and even Rich joined in spading dirt and throwing it upon the flames.  The hobbits’ efforts were quickly replaced by larger folk, and Gandalf herded them back into the house with orders to stay there, hoping in all the confusion that none had noticed that these were not children.

“Merry,” called the wizard, and found the attentive hobbit instantly by his side.  “Take care of Brion.  I want you and Pippin and Sam to straighten out this room.  Keep out of sight of the townsfolk.  If fortune is with us, none of them identified you.  I am going after Frodo.  Do not worry – and do not follow!  Do not disobey me in this,young hobbits.  We will bring him back."

With that the wizard was gone.  Trembling, Merry looked to the others and saw fear and misery in their faces.  "Let's get to it, then, Merry said decisively, struggling to hide his own terror.  The shattered panes of glass and silvered shards littered the floor and the coverlet.  "We'll make the place ready for when they all get back with Frodo.  Come on, Pippin-lad, find a dustbin.  Brion, show Sam where the broom is, would you?  All of you, stay back from the window until I get this picked up."

Merry knelt and began to carefully gather up the shards of glass, laying every splinter and shattered piece in a neat pile.  His forced calmness had its desired effect on the others.  With a shake, Pippin set out to obey, as did Sam and Brion.  Merry watched them respond to his instructions from the corner of his eye, his back to them, so that none of them saw his own tears as they began to drip down his face and fall in invisible droplets on the broken glass.

* * * * *

Once outside of the little home, Gandalf paused as the flames spread to the second shop’s wooden roof.   Peter and Marly did not see him go; they and all of their neighbors were involved in fighting the flames.  The wizard grimaced; so many innocents had suffered from this unlucky detour.  He would see that some of the reparations that Legolas’ father was to send in payment for the inn would go to the owners of those shops.  It was all that he could do.

Not so far from where the wizard regretted his decisions, the three hunters drew even with Gimli.  The Dwarf was almost dancing from foot to foot in agitation, his bearded head turning as he glared up each of the four crossways that intersected the narrow street.  He had followed as swiftly as he was able but had lost sight of the fleeing form and had not seen which road the creature took.  Rather than choose wrongly and doom them all, he had given up the chase to wait for the others. “Shall we separate,” he rumbled, “and each of us take a way?”

Instead of replying, Aragorn knelt and ran his hands over the cobbles.  But it was too dark to see any track the creature might have left.  Aragorn groaned then pushed himself to his feet.  “Legolas?” he murmured, peering into the darkness.

The Elf closed his eyes and tilted his head.  The moments that passed seemed a lifetime to the three who waited.  Then Legolas’ clear eyes snapped open and he pointed to the left passageway.  In one graceful leap he was pulling ahead of them.  Aragorn clasped Boromir’s shoulder then he and the soldier were off again.  Gimli drew in a great breath of air, his thick chest expanding like a bellows, and followed at a run.

Legolas swung his bow from his back and managed the almost impossiblefeat of stringing it as he ran.  The effort slowed him, and he spared a thought for his elvish dignity as he hopped on one foot for several feet, trying to force his knee between the notch and the curve to string it.  But he accomplished it and had an arrow fitted to his string in another breath.   He raced around another of the curving streets and with another burst of speed, caught sight of the dark figure.  The Elf drew back the bow, and his world narrowed to the small place at the base of the creature’s skull, where the arrow would pose no threat to Frodo.  With a whispered prayer to Elbereth, Legolas skidded to a standstill and let fly.

The string twanged and the arrow sang high and true, a thing of grace arcing into the night.  Legolas felt no satisfaction; like Gandalf, he could recognize that what fled before him was an unnatural thing, conceived and nurtured in wickedness, but he would not rejoice at its death.   Then the arrow began its downward, killing rush – and burst into flame.

The Elf almost dropped his bow in shock.  Another arrow he fitted to his string, and this one crisped to cinders before it had flown halfway to its target.  The third erupted into flame even as he notched it and he flung his bow to the earth and stamped out the burning arrow on it before it could eat its way to the string.  

Legolas crouched over smoking arrow-shaft, struggling to understand what could do this.  His quarry had stopped, facing him, and he would swear it was laughing.  So, being aware of his pursuit, it could flame his arrows into ash before they could strike?  He had seen it move its clawed hand, but had not connected the movement with the result until his third arrow flashed into charred wood.  The creature’s other arm was tight around the struggling hobbit, crushing Frodo to its chest.  As Legolas watched, Frodo twisted in the thing’s arms and drew back his good leg, landing a solid kick in the creature’s ribs.

The creature staggered to the side, its fanged mouth turning from a mocking sneer to a snarl.  Frodo pressed his advantage, kicking at exactly the same spot with all of his strength.  The thing almost went down and Legolas realized it was hurt there.  Had his arrow flown true then, that night as he glimpsed a dark figure on the inn’s roof, when Frodo first was taken? 

His ears picked up heavy breaths coming up behind him, and he called out, warning those who followed of the dangerous impasse.  The creature snarled again when the two Men appeared, distracting it from punishing the hobbit for his resistance.  Frodo saw them, too, and treated his captor to a powerful kick directly in the stomach.

The creature doubled over and stumbled forward.  Frodo tore himself free and tried to flee, but his injured leg gave under him and he went down with a cry.  Aragorn would have rushed it, sword raised, but Legolas stopped him.  “Do not!” cried the Elf.  “There is some abominable power at work here – the creature can summon flame.  I saw it draw a rune in the air, and my arrows took fire.  It is a maker of flame.”

Boromir shook his head, not understanding and not willing to stand idle while his enemy stood defiant before him.  “Gondor!” he shouted, leaping past the others.  Legolas cried out and Aragorn sought to halt him, twining his free hand in the soldier’s surcoat.  All three of them were blown back as a sheet of fire slashed at them, called into being and guided by the creature’s clawed hand.  Had Boromir not been holding his great battle-shield before him, they would all of them have been engulfed in flame and agony.

They fell back, staring in horror.  Seeing their expressions, the creature laughed.  “Behold the great warriors,” it hissed at them, enjoying their dismay and revulsion.  “Three mighty warriors against my poor self.  Four, that is,” as the clatter of hob-nailed boots announced Gimli’s arrival.  “Ah, five,” it amended a moment later, as Gandalf joined them, gulping great mouthfuls of air, his lined face grim.  The creature’s laugh twisted into a snarl.  “How shall I defend my treasure?” it taunted softly, the hissing tone derisive.

“Give us the halfling,” called Gandalf after sparing a moment to catch his breath.  “Give him to us, and we will let you go free.”

The creature issued its hissing laugh again, finding the sight of the five somewhat bedraggled folk highly amusing.  But Legolas could see that it favored its side where Frodo had kicked it.  His eyes traveled to the Ringbearer, still on the ground, but silent now and watchful.  Seeing the Elf’s gaze upon him, Frodo tried to creep a little away from his captor, but tongues of flame rose before him and he stopped, trembling.

The creature lowered its hand, the claws clenching.  “No, little one,” it said almost affectionately.  “I am not done with you yet.  You owe me for the pains you have cost me.  That which you bear will be adequate recompense.”  Frodo gasped and his hand went to his throat, his fingers twisting around the silver chain.  “Give it to me,” the creature hissed, “and I will leave you to your friends.”

“No,” said Frodo quite clearly.  “I will not.”

“Give it to me,” the creature repeated, “or I will burn you alive, and these your friends with you.”  The hobbit’s white face went even whiter.  “Then,” it continued, “I will return to that miserable little hovel and burn the other halflings and those human folk and their whelps.  You will be the cause of all their deaths.”

“You might not find that so easy,” spoke Gandalf.  He had been examining the creature with a wizard’s eyes and thought he knew what it was now, if not why it was.  “I, too, am a wielder of flame.  Give us our friend and go, or it will be you that burns.”

The creature made a sound caught between a hissing laugh and a snarl.  The fanged mouth opened and the sensitive tongue flicked out, tasting the truth of the wizard’s words.  It had never met another beside itself that could command fire.  “For what the halfling bears,” it muttered, “I would challenge a thousand warriors to possess.”  Then it raised its clawed hand and fire fountained from its fingers, a wall of searing red flame that stretched from the earth high into the air, and threw it at them.

* TBC *

Chapter Twenty-Five

Red heat enveloped them, blocking out all sight and sound.  The wall of flame hovered above them and then fell, roaring, toward the five stupefied watchers.  Gandalf had but a heartbeat to shout out a single word and raise his staff, and white fire met red, pouring from his staff as if shot from a bow.   Aragorn and Boromir covered their eyes, and Legolas turned his face to shield it.  Gimli cried out and fell to his knees, so unbearable was the sudden brightness to his cavern-bred eyes.

The fires, white and red, writhed around each other as if wrestlers, each seeking a hold to break the other.  Gandalf’s face glimmered with perspiration in the devouring light, his staff held high across his body.  The creature stood transfixed, its clawed hand raised, pouring its malice into the flame.  Its face was twisted, fanged mouth drawn back over needle teeth.  The flames surged back and forth as the combatants sought a weakness in the other.  Slowly the white flame began to overcome the red, to shove it back and suffocate it.  Shock and disbelief blazed in the creature’s eyes as it gave ground.  In growing desperation, it turned from the wizard and thrust a stream of fire towards the rickety wooden buildings.  Gandalf grunted as he diverted some of his flame to intercept the stream of fire, and the creature’s slittled eyes widened to see both rivers of flame turned back on itself.  

Legolas dropped back slightly behind the stunned Ranger and the Man, using their bodies to cover his movements.  He knelt, hoping not to be visible to the creature.  Slowly, surreptitiously, he eased another arrow to his bow and aimed between the Men’s bodies.  Gandalf was holding the flame off them from about knee-height up…  The Elf had no hope that his arrow would survive a flight through the inferno, but if he could but shoot the evil thing in the lower leg…

Something interfered, intruding on his line of sight.  It was Frodo.  Unable to walk or even crawl on his hands and knees, he was inching forward on his belly toward the creature and not away.  A sudden flaring of the battling flames flashed on something in the hobbit’s hand.

Glass, thought Legolas.  A shard of glass from the broken window, as long as a dagger for a hobbit.  Even as he recognized what the little one carried, Frodo rolled, coming up on his side.  He drove the improvised dagger deep into the creature’s leg and cut downward, and its shrill scream sliced the night air. 

The wall of red flame disappeared.  Thrown off-balance, Gandalf staggered back and would have fallen had not Aragorn caught him.  Legolas leaped to his feet and aimed, but the creature was on the ground now, shrieking and thrashing as dark blood poured from the long gash.  Frodo was too close to it; he could not risk hitting the Ring-bearer.

Boromir was already moving forward, Gimli right behind him, death on their faces.  The Dwarf’s eyes were still tearing from the onslaught of light, but his hands on his great axe were steady.  The creature tore itself from its agony long enough to recognize its danger.  Ignoring the blood and pain, it rose on one leg and gestured again.  But its concentration had been broken, and the pain of its wounding prevented it from using the rune-magic.  They had it at last.

It turned, but not to flee.  Its clawed hands fastened on the prone hobbit, pulling Frodo upright against its body.  Frodo tried to stab it again, but it was forewarned this time and twisted the hobbit’s small wrist.  The shard of glass fell from the hobbit’s grasp and shattered, each splinter glinting red from the deep cut it had inflicted on Frodo’s unprotected hand.

“Sssstop!” it hissed at them, the sibilance of the word accented by its rage.  Boromir and Gimli froze, their eyes on the long knife pressed to Frodo’s throat.  His enormous eyes were wide and frightened, but he did not cower or cringe.  Held immobile against the cold body of the creature, his gaze was already darting from side to side, seeking a way to break the thing’s hold upon him yet again.

Panting, the two sides could but stand and stare at each other.  Then the creature’s arm tightened around the hobbit’s chest.  “One ssstep forward, and he dies,” the creature snarled.  “You - Elf!  Drop the bow, or he dies now!” 

Legolas’ hand tightened on the bowstring but he dared not pit his speed against the unnatural swiftness of the creature.  Carefully he laid the bow on the ground, then rose and backed away from it.

The creature steadied itself on its still-bleeding leg.  “We are going now,” it hissed.  It dragged Frodo even more securely against it and took a step back.  Another.  Another.   Held impotent by the knife at the hobbit’s throat, they could only watch and silently curse the evil thing.

Aragorn readied himself for a desperate effort, even as he felt Gandalf gather himself.  The Ranger’s hand tightened on his knife.  Throwing a knife such a distance in the dark might well kill the Ring-bearer instead, but they could not stand and watch Frodo being taken from them again, step by dragging step.

The creature had reached a turning of the narrow road.   It stopped there and smiled at them, gloating.  “I win,” it hissed softly.

Then it stiffened suddenly and stood very straight.  Frodo tore his eyes away from those of his friends and looked up at it.  The knife moved a little away from his throat.  Frodo took his chance; he threw himself down and rolled away from the creature, ignoring the agony that laced through his leg and entire body.

The creature’s slitted eyes followed him.  It took one step in pursuit, then it crumpled forward and fell on its face, something silver glittering deep in its back.  There was a last hiss, a tremor through its body and then the thing was dead.  Darkness shifted at thevery end of the turning, and a lovely, olive-skinned face emerged from the black cloak that had hidden it.  Alissa looked at the body on the ground, at the confused hobbit.  Then she raised lovely eyes to the stunned Company and smiled.  At Boromir.

“We are even, warrior of Gondor.  A rescue for a rescue, however unwanted at the time.”  Her eyes flicked over him appreciatively, and the soldier flushed.  “I forgive you for meddling in my plans and losing me a significant amount of gold.” 

Her gaze traveled over the other members of the Company and her eyes narrowed.  “Business is business, after all.”  She nodded to Aragorn and Legolas, and after a moment, both bowed.  “You will not see me again.  I will move on to other prizes and other rewards.  But I will watch for you, son of Denethor, when you return to your home.”  She smiled again at the flustered soldier and very deliberately ran her tongue over her white teeth.  Boromir’s flush turned bright red, and she laughed.  “Yes,” she mused, “rewards…  I will be waiting for you.”  And then she was gone, the dark cloak merging with the night.

Aragorn strode over to the hobbit and lifted him, cradling the injured leg carefully and turning up the sliced hand.  “It is a good thing I have more powdered myrrh,” he remarked.  “Are you all right, Frodo?”

“I…” Frodo stammered, “Yes, I…”

Aragorn hugged him gently, then turned and strode back to the others.  Gandalf put his hand on the hobbit’s brow, then nodded.   “Let us get back to our companions,” the wizard said gently, laying his hand on Frodo’s cheek for a moment. “It is time and past time that we were gone from this place.”

* * * * *

“She is very beautiful, Boromir.”

“I do not wish to discuss this, Aragorn.”

 “Breathtaking as the glow of the moon through milk quartz, those Harad women.  I have heard -"

“Gimli, I do not wish to discuss this with you, either.”

“Would you take offense if I compared her to an exotic bloom –“

“I would, Legolas.”

Frodo smiled and snuggled himself deeper into the Ranger’s warm arms, and let the world drift away from him.

* * * * *      

Gandalf held out his staff, halting the others, wary of the sight of so many people still milling about before the two burned shops.  Wisps of grey smoke still curled from them.  As they hesitated in the shadows, Aragorn felt a tug and looked down.  Brion’s brown eyes, huge in the darkness, stared up at him.  “Is Frodo all right?” he asked anxiously.

“He is all right, Brion,” the Ranger assured the boy.  “Just exhausted.  Where are the hobbits, and what has happened here?”

“They put the fires out,” the child whispered.  “People from the fire at the jail came over to help.  Then the town magistrate showed up, and the guard commander and his troops.  Everyone started shouting.  Da, too.  He’s talking with them, over by the well.  Mama’s with Merry and Pippin and Sam – they’re in the house.  Mama told me and Rich to watch for you.”

Aragorn squeezed the boy’ shoulder with his free hand, and some of the fear went out of Brion’s face.  “Can you get us into the house unseen?” the man asked softly.

Brion looked at them, worried.  “We can try to go ‘round back and cut through the garden,” he replied with equal softness.  “This way -"

They had not made it more than five steps when Gandalf found his way blocked.  The guard commander stood before him, a large and colorful bruise blooming on his chin.  The man’s hate-filled eyes traveled over the small company and fastened on Boromir.  The soldier tensed, but the guardsman just gave him a cold, enigmatic look and turned back to address Gandalf.

“Is it too much to hope for that this was not your doing?”

“We did not start the fire,” the wizard replied, not actually denying the charge.

Puffing breaths preceded the round little magistrate, who regarded them with active dislike.  The man wiped his red face with a handkerchief then tucked it into a breast pocket.  “Your bill just went up, sirs.”

“And we will pay it,” said Legolas, stepping forward.  The little man stared at the Elf but did not dare to challenge the prince of the Greenwood.  Feeling the townsfolks’ eyes upon him, the little man made a great show of snorting and huffed, “We’ll be expecting that gold from your royal father, sir.  These … accidents … are costly and this is not a wealthy town.”

Legolas bowed coldly, wearing what Aragorn privately referred to as his “Court face.”  The Elf gazed down the length of his refined nose at the little man, and against his will, the town magistrate found himself sketching a bow.   Flushing, the man stepped back, muttering to himself about posting a gatekeeper from now on.

“If there is nothing else,” Gandalf said, “we wish to tend our friend, who has been hurt, and retire for the night.  There is nothing else, I trust?”

Frodo had awakened and his eyes turned from one speaker to another, but he was silent.  He had not heard Boromir’s explanation of the commander’s intentions, but he felt the tension between the two Men.   Gimli’s hands were tight on his great axe and Legolas stood at his ease, but his hands rested on his knives.  Apparently they were not out of danger yet.

The guard commander exchanged a glance with the subdued magistrate.  “You will not be coming this way again?”

“I promise it,” said Gandalf and Aragorn together.

The commander stepped back.  “You have one hour to vacate our town.”

Gandalf bristled but Aragorn laid a hand on his arm.  “Can you blame them?” the Ranger asked.

Brion made a soft sound and they looked over to see Peter looking at them anxiously, Rich standing behind his father.  “Please,” the man said quietly.  “Come inside.  The little folk are besides themselves.”

Gandalf glared at the officials but let it go.  He followed Peter and the boys into the little house, the others coming after.  Marly met them at the door, throwing her arms around her husband and hugging him in unabashed relief.  Aragorn found himself mobbed by small bodies, practically swarming up him to see Frodo.  The Ranger set him gently down in a chair and left him to the care and questions of his kin and friends while he set the kettle on to boil and prepared the powdered myrrh to tend the hobbit’s leg and hand, and his own cut from the broken window.

“What a debacle,” muttered the wizard, sinking back down on the worn divan.  In a fit of ill-humor, he kicked one of the cushions before the hearth fire, and it clinked.  He looked at it suspiciously.  Before Gandalf could investigate, Merry distracted him.  “Sam and Pippin and I have the packs all ready to go, Gandalf,” said the hobbit helpfully.  “We can be off as soon as Aragorn and Frodo are ready.”

Peter looked up from where he had been helping Aragorn.  Frodo was quiet between them, so very weary that even the pain of having his leg treated was dulled for him.  “I’ll be sorry to see you leave, sirs.  Been more excitement around here lately than I can remember in me whole life.”

“I think others will be happy to see us go,” remarked Gandalf dryly.  “But we thank you for your courtesy.  In these evil times, it is reassuring to remember that there are good people in the world.”

At last the farewells were said.  Riding comfortably in Aragorn’s arms, Frodo waved over the Ranger’s shoulder at the small family, and all four of them waved back enthusiastically.  There were tears in the boys’ eyes, and in the eyes of the hobbits and in those of more than one of the Big Folk.

They did not lack for company on the way out.  The guard commander had waited to ensure that his ultimatum was met, and he and his troops escorted the Fellowship to the east gates.  Sam volunteered to collect Bill from the corral, and if he took longer than was seemingly necessary, none but Merry noted it.  “All done, then?” Merry asked, rubbing the pony’s soft nose as he helped Sam transfer much of their gear to Bill.

Sam grinned tiredly.   “Aye, it’s done.  I couldn’t hold my head up, else.”  He added two jars of peaches and several handfuls of walnuts to Bill’s packs.  “Figure these are paid for, too.”  Bill whickered and bumped his head into Sam’s chest, almost as if he also was glad to be leaving. 

Many of the townsfolk came too, astonished anew at the strange company that had guested so briefly among them.  If some of the men growled at the hobbits (especially Merry) as they passed, others waved to them and wished them well.  More than one of the village matrons pressed fruit and sweet breads upon Pippin, who accepted with big eyes and the charm that came so readily to him.  Merry hugged him and laughed, too relieved to be leaving to reprimand the tweenager for his innocent flirting.

So the Fellowship passed through the gates and returned to the road, leaving the town behind.   They trudged in silence for some time before Gandalf allowed them a brief halt to eat and rest.  As Sam set up his cooking pots and Merry and Pippin foraged for firewood, Merry sighed.  “Is there any of the molasses candy left, Pip?”

“No,” responded Pippin sadly.  “I’ve … um … apples and plums and pears … here’s some frosted buns – oh, ginger biscuits!  No candy, though.  I wish we could go back, just for a minute, and buy more.  We could pay with some of the money you bilked them out of.”

“You what, Meriadoc?” Both cousins jumped at Frodo’s voice, coming from where the Ranger had lain him against the packs.  They had not realized he was awake.  Frodo’s usually fair face was beginning to flush.  Sam stared intently at the ground, hoping to be forgotten.  Pippin tried to edge unobtrusively away, abandoning Merry to his fate.

“He set up a shell-game con,” interjected Aragorn helpfully when none of the hobbits responded.  Merry glared at him furiously but the Ranger deliberately did not meet his eyes, his lips twitching.  “Managed to come away with quite a lot of the townfolks’ money before they found out he was cheating.”

“Cheating?  Cheating!”  Frodo made a choked sound, too irate to get out coherent words.  “Cheating!  Wait until I tell your father, young hobbit!  You won’t be able to sit down for the rest of your life -”

“You do,” said Merry quite calmly in the face of Frodo’s towering rage, “and I’ll tell him which elder cousin taught me the game.”  Frodo’s mouth dropped open but no words came out.  “And then,” continued Merry mercilessly, “I’ll tell Da who taught me how to cheat at it.”

Frodo made a choked sound and his hands rose and clenched, as if he would like to fasten them around a certain younger cousin’s throat.  Aragorn watched, fascinated.  This was as close as he had ever seen the usually gentle Ring-bearer come to physically attacking one of his cousins, despite numerous provocations.  The Ranger was momentarily glad, for Merry’s sake, that Frodo could not stand up on his own.  He readied himself to intervene, though, if necessary.

“I – You…” managed Frodo.  “Oh, stars!”  With that he turned his back on Merry and put his head in hands, muttering imprecations to himself.

Seeing the drama pass, Pippin edged back into his usual position at Merry’s side, hoping his cousin hadn’t noticed the temporary desertion.  “It’s a good thing that Frodo was so upset that he didn’t think this through, Merry,” he whispered.

Merry’s eyes were still on his elder cousin’s bowed back.  “What do you mean, Pip?”

Pip grinned and looped his arm through his cousin’s.  “Just remembering what you told me when you taught me the game.”  Merry looked at him quizzically. 

“Frodo taught you, and you taught me.  But your Da taught Frodo.”

Merry was silent for a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed.  “That’s right, isn’t it?  Let’s hope our beloved elder cousin doesn’t remember that little fact.”

A hot meal did much to improve the Company’s spirits.  Frodo fell asleep before finishing his stew, his dark head drooping over his bowl.  Sam gently removed it without ever waking him, nor did Frodo wake when Aragorn knelt and gathered him up into his arms.  Silent except for the Big People’s footfalls and the pony’s hooves, the Fellowship resumed its journey.  Far above them, the bright stars painted the night in silver and shadows. 

Merry and Pippin paused as the rest of the Company passed a wooden pole sunk into the ground, the faint light making it difficult to see the name painted on the signpost nailed to it.  “Don’t fall behind, lads,” warned Gandalf’s quiet voice.  Pippin tugged on the wizard’s robes as he passed, and Gandalf halted obligingly and looked at them.  Pippin pointed up at the signpost and grinned.  The wizard read the wooden arrow that pointed back towards the little town.  Then he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.   He ruffled the two curly heads and pushed Merry and Pippin gently before him, urging the young hobbits to catch up with the others.  Gandalf glanced back at the sign, repeating the name to himself.  Yes, he thought … most appropriate.

Ashville.

The End*

* If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy a silly little epilogue to “Some Nameless Place” entitled “Leavetaking.”  “Leavetaking” grew from a comment to Shirebound about trying to get the Fellowship to follow my instructions in this story being like “herding cats.”  What goes on in the mind of a LotRs writer is a terrifying thing…