1. Hail Fellow, Well Met

Slumped in exhaustion from long effort, tears running down his cheeks, Bandobras missed the first tentative nibble along his shoulder. The sharp following nudge that sent him sprawling would have been difficult to ignore. 

Though hobbits often give the impression of being slow, sleepy folk, he turned and lunged, quick as a striking fish to the lure, grasping the bridle that encompassed the long nose now lowered in curiosity. The head jerked up belatedly, and the hobbit held grimly to his purpose as he felt his toes leave the ground.

‘Hi, now!’ he scolded, albeit softly. ‘Hardly a good beginning!’

***

He looked up to the tall, dark figure slumped in the saddle. ‘Got him now, Captain!’ he called. ‘Give us a merry chase, he did, but we’ll soon have you put to rights.’ Captain was merely a term of courtesy as he didn’t recognize the fellow. But he thought he knew a warrior when he saw one, even here in the North Country, from the evident wounds on Man and steed. The horse had eluded his attempts at capture up until this moment, but weakness or perhaps wisdom had brought the beast within reach at last. 

Now for the rider.

***

‘How are we to get you down?’ he wondered aloud, and the next moment had to scramble to safety as the horse folded its legs and sank to the ground. Wisdom or weakness indeed, he muttered. 

Might as well take advantage of the situation—he moved to the saddle, positioned his shoulder to catch the Man’s weight, seized the nearest arm and tugged. In a slow collapse that reminded the hobbit of a falling tree, the rider’s weight settled onto his shoulders. ‘Now I’ve got you where I want you,’ he grunted. ‘And what am I to do with you?’

***

A crackling fire, that’s what was wanted, in the sheltered hollow where he’d secreted them, having dragged the Man, the horse stumbling after. A pot of water put on to boil, for brewing tea and cleansing wounds. Mushrooms and bacon roasting on a stick, his reward for tending both Man and beast and giving comfort where he could. And a pipe to practice his smoke-rings whilst watching the twilight settle around them. 

But the night sounds unsettled him. To supplement his arrows and bow, he pulled the Man’s sword from its sheath—and stared in wonder at the broken blade.

*** 

At Your Service

Man and beast together had depleted the small store of healing salve in his pack, even with reserving it for the worst of their wounds. He’d sought out fresh healing herbs in the nearby thickets to crush and steep in hot water before sponging the shallower wounds, his ears tuned for trouble all the while. When he’d returned to their hiding place, horse and rider hadn’t moved.

Now Bandobras dropped the freshly bloodied pocket-handkerchief back into his cookpot. ‘There,’ he said to the horse, lying on its belly, shivering, forelegs folded underneath, rather uncannily cat-like. ‘That’s the worst of them.’ 

*** 

He jerked awake, not sure what had changed. Use your eyes, you fool of a Took! rang in his memories. Cautious, he opened his eyelids to mere slits. He’d escaped the goblins once before by feigning unconsciousness and then jumping up, darting into the underbrush, and exercising the hobbity art of disappearing swiftly and silently to its utmost. All he saw were stars shining overhead, and two large lumps that resolved into the horse and his rider, apparently asleep. He’d put out his fire as darkness fell, had huddled in his cloak, bow held ready – and fallen asleep! Fool, indeed.

*** 

Grey morning light. Bandobras lifted his head from his breast, though he hadn’t slept again. The Took hadn’t heard them move in the night, so intently had he been listening to the nightly noises, but the horse had rolled to its side and now lay stretched out, rider kneeling beside him. The Man’s steady gaze met his. Too late to disappear. Though he’d seen Men in the North Country before, he’d typically watched them from cover. They were different from goblins, he deemed, but also nearly twice his height – and he was remarkably tall for a hobbit, even a Fallohide.

*** 

He’d lit the fire again at dawn; flames wouldn’t betray them now, and his chosen fuel would give off little smoke. Bandobras raised his steaming mug of tea to the stranger, saying, ‘Wanderer. Can’t say I’ve ever heard that name before, or even that sort of name.’ 

The Man smiled, lifting his own mug, larger than the hobbit’s. ‘At your service,’ he said with a dip of his chin.

‘And at yours,’ Bandobras returned.

‘Indeed,’ the Man said. He drank, set his cup aside, and carefully rotated his injured shoulder. ‘Nearly as good as new.’ Grey eyes darkened as he surveyed his prostrate horse. ‘If I might ask...’ he added.

What he wanted was for Bandobras to heat more water, as it turned out. As the Took watched, he extracted leaves from a pouch at his neck, crumpled them and cast them into the steaming pot, from which a refreshing fragrance arose. ‘What...?’ the hobbit said, leaning forward.

‘Athelas,’ Wanderer replied, leaving Bandobras no wiser. But bathing the horse’s wounds seemed to ease the beast. ‘He’ll grow stronger,’ the Man said, sitting back on his heels. ‘But I cannot wait. Can you keep him for me until I can return?’

*** 

By Any Other Name

‘I forgot to ask him your name!’ Bandobras said, clapping his hand to his head in consternation. The horse’s large dark eye regarded him thoughtfully. 

The Man had sniffed the air – seeking what? Bandobras had wondered – stood up, and bowed gracefully. ‘I cannot tarry,’ he’d said before bending to murmur in his steed’s furry ear. Rising, he’d said, ‘He’ll obey you now.’  

The next thing the hobbit knew, before he could ask even the first of the many questions bubbling to the surface of his mind, Wanderer was gone, having disappeared with almost a hobbit’s skill into the surrounding country.  

***  

‘Limper,’ he tried, looking over his shoulder at the lame horse that slowly followed him.  

The ears did not even twitch. 

‘Gimper,’ Bandobras said next, but the horse only snorted and shook its neat mane, trimmed close, the hobbit suddenly suspected, to keep from catching in branches whilst galloping through woods, pursued by – or perhaps pursuing – ravening goblins.  

Big Men were not Shire-folk but merely visitors from elsewhere. In his scouting for the Master of Greenfields, Bandobras had worked out that the bands of raiding goblins came from somewhere East – was the beast’s departed Rider a goblin hunter of sorts? 

*** 

Oddly enough, when dealing with an incursion of goblins, safety meant travelling by day and hiding by night. A day’s limping journey from where he’d acquired this outsized pony, Bandobras and his companion went to ground as the Sun painted her evening colours on the sky. A tug at the reins and tentative “down” sufficed; the horse folded its legs and lowered itself to the ground. After piling leaves over its back and hindquarters, he settled to a cold meal, not wanting to risk a fire in the rapidly deepening twilight. ‘Dog?’ he said. 

The horse paid him no heed. 

***  

‘Two more days to Greenfields,’ he told the beast next morning as they walked, ‘though without your help, I’d ha’ made it in one.’ He studied its gait and nodded. ‘You’re better today,’ he said. ‘What shall we call you, then? Walker? Strider?’ 

The horse whuffled at him, then lowered its head to snatch some grass. ‘Very hobbity of you to be always eating,’ he said, ‘Like a tween: we ought to call you Bottomless Pit.’ Then he shuddered, thinking of his father’s mines, and his narrow escape that had driven him to seek the open skies of the North-lands. 

***  

‘Slow Coach?’ Bandobras tried, but the horse snorted softly, tossed its head, then lowered its face to hobbit level and shoved at him with its nose. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I can’t say I would care for that, either.’ All the while they kept walking towards settled hobbit territory, foot by foot closer to safety. Relative safety, anyhow. The goblins were growing bolder. 

Another gentle push made him chuckle and fend away the long face. ‘Easy, friend,’ he said.  

The horse nickered softly. Bandobras halted, turned around, and stared eye to eye. ‘Friend?’ he whispered, incredulous. 

The horse nodded. 

Bandobras grinned. 

***