Story Notes and Background

(TL;DR: This story is told in a series of drabbles because... well, it seemed like a logical idea at the time. A longer version may come about at a later date, but it may not, which is the reason behind offering this background information.)

Ideas about Bandobras have swirled around at the back of my brain for some years now. But telling his story in full means going back further in Shire history to set the stage, as it were. Some of the following information comes from hints dropped by the original author, JRRT, and some represents extrapolation from his hints or sheer imagination (while trying to stay within the constraints of LOTR canon) on my part.

At the time Bucca became the first Thain, the Shire had been devastated by the Witch King's forces which had overrun the lands of the North-country after Fornost fell, burning and slaughtering as they went. Those Shire-folk who survived were the ones who went into hiding – in the End of the Woods (later known as the Woody End), in natural caves (like those in the Hills of Scary, where rebels like Fatty Bolger and his band would find places to hide from Lotho's ruffians at a much later date), as well as caverns found or delved in the chalk cliffs that much later became the store-holes of Michel Delving), and anywhere else that offered hidden, defensible refuge. By the time of the Witch King's defeat, the Shire's rich fields lay empty and fallow, and hobbit habitations across the land, from individual farmsteads to whole communities, had been almost completely wiped out. 

Thus, in Bucca's time began the recovery of the Shire as the surviving Shire-folk rolled up their sleeves and set about reclaiming the land. Hobbits began to spread out from their fastnesses into the lands around them. First homesteads, then hamlets sprung up and grew into villages and even, eventually, towns. 

The wild Green Hill country did not lend itself as well to farming as did the flatter portions of the Shire. The general spread of hobbity repossession tended to follow watercourses, plains, gently rolling landscapes and natural valleys. Due to its topography, the Green Hill country was settled much more slowly than other parts of the Shire, and not by ordinary hobbits but mostly by members of the indomitable Took clan. Of note, after the last Oldbuck Thain descended from Bucca abdicated the position and removed to the independent territory that would become Buckland, the Shire-folk selected the Tooks to fulfil this vital role, in part due to their tenacious nature and ability to rise up to meet adversity head-on if necessary. 

According to my idea of Shire history, Thain Isumbras III was travelling deep in the Green Hills, well beyond any established settlements, when he saw a glimmer of gold in a stream. Upon closer investigation, he found the gleam came from sunlight glinting off gold nuggets lying at the bottom of the stream bed, in the shallows of the flowing waters. After tracing the stream to where it issued from the Great Hill that he’d camped upon the night before, he resolved to claim the land thereabout and its surroundings. Without breathing a word of his discovery to anyone, he upended his family and moved to the spot to dig for gold. (Once the gold played out, the network of rough mining tunnels formed the foundation of the Great Smials which, with some careful delving, clever design, and modification with an eye for comfort, became the ancient ancestral home of the Took clan.) This origin story of the Great Smials and the Treasure Hoard of the Tooks is hinted at in several of my stories set in the Shire in the early years of the Fourth Age. 

Bandobras was a younger son (perhaps the youngest) of Isumbras. Put to work digging with the rest of his brothers and uncles, he was trapped in a cave-in when some poorly cured shoring timbers cracked and gave way. His narrow escape and horror of dark, closed-in places as a result of the ordeal that followed led him to leave home and seek employment; he was recruited in the village of By-The-Water’s newly built Green Dragon Inn by a charismatic hobbit (identified in the first chapters of this tale as “the Master”) who intended to found a new community in the midst of the fertile farmland in the otherwise sparsely settled North Farthing. 

By the time of this story, Long Cleeve has been in existence for five years. The community has benefited from the richness of the land and abundant natural resources in the surrounding area, helping the settlers to prosper and, consequently, attracting a growing population from other parts of the Shire. As a skilled archer, Bandobras has proven his value in helping protect the North-landers from natural enemies. However, in the past month, unnatural enemies – goblins – have begun encroaching, beginning with isolated attacks that have grown in frequency and strength. At the start of this story, the Master and his counsellors have sent out a group of scouts, Bandobras among them, to find out more about the attackers and their ultimate intentions. 

The Ranger who appears in the story is Arassuil, who was the Chieftain of the Dúnedain from 2719 to 2784. According to Tolkien Gateway, which draws its information directly from JRRT's writings, during his time, the Orcs of the Misty Mountains grew bolder and "dared to invade Eriador. The Rangers fought many battles trying to hold them back, but one party of Orcs managed to reach the Shire, where they were fought off by a party of brave Hobbits under Bandobras 'Bullroarer' Took in 2747 at the Battle of Greenfields."  

Accordingly, in this story, as mentioned earlier, I have Bandobras working for the head of a relatively large hobbit settlement in the North Farthing, scouting the areas where Orcs have been reported so that the North Country hobbits can figure out just how much trouble they're in and form some kind of plan, while Arassuil is doing much the same from the Rangers' side. 

***  

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. 

*** 

2. 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 care for my friend until I can return?’ 

*** 

3. 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 Long Cleeve, 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 Long Cleeve,’ 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. 

*** 

4. “Troubles Shared...”

‘...and so the Master sent out scouts,’ Bandobras explained as they walked. On the morrow, talking aloud to the Man’s horse would carry much more risk. ‘To find out whence they come, what their numbers might be, whether there are more besides those we’ve seen and driven away.’ 

He eyed Friend and shook his head. ‘But you’ve rather interrupted my endeavours,’ he chided. ‘How can I go softly with a great, bloody, platter-footed beast at my heels? 

‘And so I’m little wiser than I was when I set out,’ he added in a rueful tone. ‘Whatever will the Master say?’ 

***  

That night in their hiding place, the Master's scout slept fitfully, resting propped against the horse’s side. Whenever he woke and looked over, he could see that Friend was wakeful as well, head high, ears swivelling to catch any sound, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Somehow the beast’s alertness gave him comfort. 

He stroked the warm, soft shoulder, and the great head came around and nuzzled him gently. 

‘I could get used to you,’ he said. ‘You’re not half as much trouble as I thought you’d be.’ 

The breezy exhalation of Friend’s silent snort washed over him like a benediction. 

***  

‘One more day,’ Bandobras murmured companionably. His casual tone was belied by his elevated level of alertness. His bow was strung and in his hands, an arrow nocked and ready to loose whilst his eyes continually scanned their surroundings as they walked. 

Friend seemed to share his unease, walking at heel like an oversized dog, his head extended over the hobbit’s shoulder. 

Both stopped and listened intently for a moment. ‘Oddly enough,’ Bandobras whispered as they resumed walking, ‘the closer to home, the greater the danger. Our troubles started with farmers attacked in the fields. They think us easy prey.’ 

***  

Easy prey. Mid-afternoon, blood-chilling shrieks sounded on all sides. Surrounded! Bandobras froze, but Friend did not: the horse nudged the hobbit, folded his front legs and dropped his nose to the earth. 

Taking this broad hint, Bandobras scrambled up onto the horse’s back, twining his fingers in the small patch of long mane left within a rider’s grasp though the rest was shorn close to the sleek neck. Friend regained his feet, looked around as if to ascertain the hobbit was secure, lifted his head to neigh defiance, then flashed from stand-still to gallop in the space of a heartbeat. 

*** 

5. “...Are Divided”

‘My poor Took, I fear you are done.’

Bandobras came to himself slowly, fighting his way free of the mists of nightmare, mingled images of charging the line of horrid, weapons-brandishing creatures. He’d had no time to loose one or more arrows, even had he had the inclination to abandon his death-grip on Friend’s mane and risk falling in the midst of the howling goblins, obviously maddened with excitement and bloodlust. His shafts remained in his quiver; somehow, he hadn’t dropped his bow, even unconscious. He became aware of his aching fingers, still clutching weapon and mane in their grip.

*** 

He realised he was lying face-down on Friend’s neck. He remembered nothing after they’d charged the encircling goblins. Blows had rained upon them as they passed through the line. Pain bloomed in his head, shoulder and thigh. No doubt Friend had his own share of bruises. 

Driven by concern for the horse, he straightened, sparking exclamations all around him. A hand closed around his foot, and he looked down to see the Master’s upturned face, where relief was replacing sorrow.

‘I’m not done yet,’ Bandobras answered. ‘Not quite done yet, anyhow.’

‘You might have fooled me,’ the Master said wryly.

*** 

‘We’ve been trying to work out how to get you down from there.’ Rorric Goodfellow, Founder of Long Cleeve, stared up at his Chief Scout. The hobbit-bearing horse had come galloping right up to the makeshift barricade and stopped, so smoothly that his unconscious rider had remained on his back. Then it had stood, head high, surveying its surroundings yet seemingly oblivious to the coaxings of the ever-growing throng crowding around them.

‘Friend, I’d like to get down,’ Bandobras said. He untangled his fingers from the mane and stroked the soft neck.

Friend bowed his head and then knelt down.

*** 

With Bandobras within reach, it was quick work to ease him from the horse’s back, whereupon Friend stood up again and surveyed the surrounding hobbits, quite as if he was supervising their treatment of his rider.

‘No, don’t try and move him,’ Healer Nettle said sharply, bending over Bandobras, who had shook off the helping hands and then crumpled to the ground. ‘A stretcher, Master, that’s the thing. Bear him to the infirmary...’

‘But what about my horse?’ the scout roused enough to enquire.

‘Your horse!’ Rorric said in surprise, then, ‘Don’t you worry, lad. I’ll care for him myself.’

***   

6. Laying Plans

‘That’s the last one,’ Rorric said unnecessarily, considering that Bandobras was his Chief Scout and so would have known that he’d heard the reports of every scout working under him. 

Save one, Archie Hart’s-tongue. Rorric hadn’t the heart to mark the hobbit missing. Not yet, anyhow. Hadn’t Bandobras himself been overdue until yesterday? 

It seemed the scout had followed his thoughts. ‘I wonder what Archie discovered.’ And then Bandobras shuddered and closed his eyes. Nevertheless, he held up a staying hand when old Nettle would have intervened, protesting, ‘I’m well.’ He added, ‘On second thought, I don’t want to know.’ 

***  

Later, in the quiet imposed by the healers for someone with a head injury, Bandobras lay with his arm over his eyes, appearing asleep to the healer assigned to watch over him. 

He was actually thinking deeply, puzzling together the pieces from the other scouts’ reports, along with his own experiences and Archie’s disappearance. 

Despite his muddled thoughts, a picture was slowly forming – a dreadful foretelling of destruction, doom and death – to all who lived in and around the growing but still too-small community of Long Cleeve. 

They had to be warned! He must speak with Master Goodfellow without delay! 

***  

‘But Nettle said—’ Ruby Goodfellow might have been a head shorter than her father’s Chief Scout, but what she lacked in stature she more than made up for in stubbornness. 

‘Nettle’s opinion doesn’t matter here...’ 

Ruby threw back her head and laughed. The last of her hairpins scattered at the sudden motion, allowing her scarlet curls to spring forth, crowning her in brilliant flame. Sobering, she said, ‘I’m sure Nettle will be gratified to hear your thoughts on the matter...’ 

In desperation, Bandobras broke in. ‘Be serious!’ 

She stared him down. ‘I’m invariably serious. As for you – be still!’ 

***  

‘What seems to be the trouble here?’  

Ruby relaxed at Nettle’s quiet inquiry as the head healer entered the room. ‘Our patient,’ she said, ‘is being remarkably Tookish about staying in bed.’ 

‘Not surprising, seeing as how he’s a Took,’ came Nettle’s dry response. He took up the injured hobbit’s hand and found the pulse point, directing a stern look at Bandobras. ‘Be still.’  

‘That’s what I was just telling him,’ Ruby said. 

‘But I—’ Bandobras wilted before the stares of the two healers. If he pushed too hard, he knew, they’d keep him in the bed days longer. 

***  

Once Nettle had completed his examination, Bandobras ventured to talk. ‘Permission to speak?’ 

‘It’s not your tongue that was injured,’ Nettle responded. 

‘More’s the pity,’ Ruby said. 

‘If you won’t let me get up, at least take my message to your father...’ 

‘I’m not your errand-lass.’ 

‘Please.’ Bandobras closed his eyes as the ache in his head returned with a vengeance. 

He relaxed a little on hearing Nettle’s quiet, ‘You had better go and fetch the Master, lass, if only to encourage this’un to stay abed and rest.’ 

Ignoring the pain, Bandobras sat halfway up. ‘Tell him to hurry. Please.’ 

***  

Rorric arrived astonishingly quickly, considering that the hobbit never seemed hurried, no matter the circumstances. 

Rapidly, Bandobras filled him in, the words spilling forth, driven by urgency. Part-way through, Nettle helped the scout sit up and propped pillows behind him, then tendered a glass of water as his mouth ran dry. Bandobras nodded thanks even as he continued speaking. 

‘You’re certain,’ Rorric said quietly when the stream of information abated. 

‘I would stake my life on it,’ Bandobras returned. 

‘Sounds as if all our lives are at stake,’ Rorric said. ‘Very well.’ To the healers, he said, ‘Help him up.’ 

*** 

7. Going for Help

Rorric craned his neck and shaded his eyes to look up at Bandobras on his tall perch. ‘I’m not so sure about this,’ he said. ‘I’ve any number of objections...’

‘And there’s no time to argue,’ the scout replied. ‘So let me dismiss all at one throw.’

‘Very apt,’ Rorric said. ‘Seeing as how you’re gambling with your life... You can barely keep your seat...’

‘Friend won’t let me fall,’ Bandobras said, patting the soft neck. The horse tossed its head and snorted.

‘How do you know they won’t accost you as you ride Southwards? We know now they can attack in daylight if it’s overcast. How do you know you’ll get through?’

‘I don’t. All I know is, Friend outran them once before. Perhaps more than once,’ Bandobras said, thinking of the wounds he’d seen earlier on the horse and his rider.

‘And how do you know you’ll be able to gather any at all to help us, much less an army of Shire-folk?’ was Rorric’s next question, as if they had any choice in the matter.

‘Because if I don’t try, and help doesn’t come...’

Rorric loosed his hold on the reins and stepped back. ‘Go,’ he said. 

*** 

Riding through the surrounding crowd of well-wishers, Bandobras lifted his hand in farewell. In the next moment, sunlight pierced through the clouds, sparking a wave of dizziness that made him grab at Friend’s mane and close his eyes. ‘Shine bright, my Lady Sun,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t mind me.’ Sunlight would discourage the foul creatures who threatened the North-lands, spoil their aim, make their legs less steady.

A familiar voice rose above the others: ‘Come back safe!’

He opened his eyes, fighting the double vision lingering from his head injury, and recognised Ruby by her fiery hair. ‘I will!’

‘You’d better!’

*** 

If luck was with him, he wouldn’t encounter goblins on his way. Friend would have to make all possible speed as it was, to reach Michel Delving before the Lithedays celebration ended. Goblins would slow them down and indicate the menace was already spreading southward.

If luck was with him, the Thain would be at Michel Delving to see the races – how his father loved the races!

Even better if a host of Tooks were with him, drawn by the rich prizes at the Free Faire’s archery tournament, along with any number of skilled hobbit-archers from all over the Shire.

*** 

‘Two days to Michel Delving,’ he told the horse. ‘Two days’ steady travel. You look as if you’re bred for speed and stamina. Trained for it. Conditioned...’ he slapped the glossy neck. ‘You rested and ate well, they told me, the entire time they were keeping me prisoner in the bed. I think we can do this if we walk and trot by turns, gallop when we can, rest when we come to water, long enough for you to have a good drink, at least... But must we stop at night?’

Friend snorted and tossed his head.

‘If you insist.’

*** 

Cushioned in the lush grass of their stopping place, Bandobras gazed in wonder at the night sky, more stars than a hobbit could count in a lifetime, even if one had the leisure to count them. Urgency burned within, but common sense insisted on rest for Friend, if not himself, and time for the horse to graze. Happily, his double vision was clearing. With no lanterns or torches or bonfires to distract the eye, the stars seemed impossibly bright.

The homely sound of tearing and chomping was reassuring. Friend evidently feared no danger. 

Despite his determination, his eyes drifted closed. 

*** 

Halfway between middle night and dawn, they were moving again, both refreshed by the rest they’d taken. Miles... leagues... flowed smoothly beneath Friend’s steady strides. Every time Bandobras heard the splash of water, he sat up from lying upon the horse’s neck and spoke a quiet word, and Friend would slow, stop and drop his head to drink.

Though the hobbit’s water bottle was empty now, he didn’t want to take the time to get down and then up again. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said to Friend and himself. ‘At the rate we’re going, we’ll arrive in time for tea.’

*** 

He’d missed the dawning and half the day, it seemed. Mouth dry, head pounding, Bandobras wearily hauled himself erect. He sat up straighter on recognising the passing countryside. He’d come this way before, travelling from By-the-Water to Michel Delving! They were passing neat farmsteads now, clopping along a well-kept road.

He’d fallen asleep, or lost consciousness, somewhere along the way. Somehow, the horse had continued on the course he’d set them on.

‘Faithful should be your name,’ he muttered, ‘or Pathfinder.’

Friend snorted, but his pace never faltered.

‘Of course I know how you are called,’ Bandobras reassured. ‘Friend, indeed.’

*** 

8. Arrival in Michel Delving

At first Bandobras was surprised at the emptiness of the East Road, and he pondered the matter as Friend’s long strides steadily ate the miles away. Where were all the Hobbits? Had the goblins been here already?

Common sense reasserted itself. The farmsteads would be smoking ruins, had the goblins struck here before turning their attentions to the North-lands. 

Remembering back to his own visits to the Lithedays Faire in his youth, he realised that most (if not all) Shire-folk living within half a day of Michel Delving wouldn’t be on the Road at this time of day but at the Faire. The lack of traffic was heartening; it reassured him that he’d not misreckoned the date on the calendar, what with his muddled head and the distractions of the ongoing emergency they’d left behind in his adopted homeland.

He leaned forward and patted his steed’s sweat-soaked neck. ‘We’re almost there, my fine fellow! You’re a wonder, indeed!’

The horse responded to his rider’s anticipation by increasing speed. When Bandobras tried to pull him down to a walk from his brisk trot, Friend tossed his head and danced a bit, even broke into a slow gallop until the hobbit desisted.

*** 

Michel Delving was now visible in the distance. Bandobras could swear he heard swirls of music mingled with cheers, the sounds of celebrating crowds. The breeze carried smells he remembered from the Faire: a wide variety of foods and festive fare cooking or baking or broiling over open fires.

A rider on a pony approached; Bandobras hailed him in passing, ‘What is the day?’

...but the rider merely goggled at him, steered his pony so wide they went off the road, then applied his crop sharply to the pony’s hindquarters to speed them on their way.

Friend snorted. Bandobras agreed.

*** 

Bandobras steered for the Fairgrounds south of the town proper. His father would hardly spend good coin for a comfortable bed in an Inn; no, the visiting Tooks would be tenting or even sleeping rough on or near the pasture-land set aside for the ponies racing in the All-Shire Race on the final day. The archery butts were west of the Fairgrounds, while voting for the Mayor would be happening between the Fairground and southern edge of town.

‘Like a needle in a haystack,’ he told Friend. ‘Da could be in any of those places – or the middle of town!’

*** 

For once, Bandobras’ unusual height was an asset. From his perch on tall Friend’s back, he could easily see over the crowds. He now understood that pony rider’s reaction; everywhere they went, faces turned to them and a multitude of fingers pointed. Even so, he wasn’t sure how he’d find his father in the throng of Shire-folk who’d descended upon Michel Delving.

A shout rose above the crowd noise. ‘Dobby! What’re you doing on that Oliphaunt! T’morrow’s race is for ponies, or hadn’t you heard?’ 

Too young to be able to say Bandobras when his younger brother was born, Ferumbras had dubbed the new arrival “Dobby”, and the name had stuck.

Friend halted and jigged in place as Bandobras waved at Ferumbras. ‘Ferry!’

Ferumbras pushed his way through the crowd, staring upwards, and at last seized and grasped Bandobras’ dangling foot in a tight hold that communicated his joy at seeing his younger brother after five years’ separation since Bandobras had followed Rorric northward. ‘It has been an awfully long time, “little” brother,’ he cried, ‘but I know where we can find some mugs of beer with our names on them! Why don’t you get down off your high horse?’

*** 

9. Heart-felt Reunion

‘...but you ought to see the view from here!’ Bandobras called, making his voice sound much more jovial than he felt. He had neither the time nor the inclination to present his arguments in front of the staring crowd surrounding them. 

At the thoughtful look his older brother directed at him, the scout groaned inwardly. Ferumbras knew him all too well.  

Nevertheless, he poked Friend gently and asked the horse to “down”. To the delight and astonishment of the onlookers, Friend folded his forelegs and bowed his head to the ground. 

Bandobras held out his hand. ‘Come up!’ 

Ferumbras goggled. 

***  

Somehow Bandobras convinced his incredulous brother to join him on Friend’s back, whereupon the horse scrambled to all four feet once more. 

With no time for pleasantries, he urged, ‘We need to find the Thain!’ 

‘You wish to show off your new pet?’ Ferumbras said whimsically. 

‘Ferry! I’m serious!’ 

Ferumbras nearly upset as he turned to meet Bandobras’ gaze, but Friend scooped his back somehow to “catch” the hobbit and secure his seat. 

Gasping at his near-fall, the older brother turned his head more cautiously to say, ‘How can I be serious, riding upon an Oliphaunt!’ 

‘Ferry!’ 

‘O very well!’ 

***  

Ferumbras thought their father would be at the butts, for the archery finals were scheduled to follow nuncheon. 

‘Better and better!’ Bandobras said fervently, though he did not take the time to explain, merely guided their mount in the new direction and urged the beast to “walk on”. 

At first Friend had to lower his head and nudge curious hobbits out of his way as he walked, but soon the hobbity impediments caught the beast’s purpose and parted before him, then fell in with the other onlookers and trotted alongside and behind the horse and his riders, a curious parade. 

***  

Standing on the archery grounds as the Mayor prepared to announce the final rounds that would assess and reward the best archers in the Shire, at least for this year, Thain Isumbras first heard the cheers and then saw the commotion approaching the butts, raising a cloud of dust. ‘Here now!’ he barked at the Master of the Tournament and the Mayor. ‘This is hardly the time or place for a processional! Opening or closing the Faire with a grand spectacle is one thing, but...’ 

‘It is not my doing,’ demurred the Master, and the Mayor hurried to follow suit. 

One might imagine the Thain’s chagrin at seeing two of his sons heading the parade, perched upon an impossibly tall horse and thus threatening to disrupt the proceedings! And worse, a goodly number of the finalists were Tookish archers! 

‘Da!’ came a shout from one of the miscreants.  

Isumbras started, then shielded his eyes to squint at the taller of the riders. ‘Bandobras?’ he gasped. Why, they’d had no word from the lad since spring planting had begun, and being busy with spring planting had left the Tooks little time to fret about the absence of news, good or otherwise. The Thain cleared his throat and bellowed, ‘What’re you doing here?’ 

‘Looking for you!’ Ferumbras shouted. 

‘Looks like you’ve found ‘im!’ shouted a wit in the crowd. General hilarity ensued. 

The horse quickly brought its riders to the astounded Thain, Master and Mayor and bowed down, allowing them to slide safely to the ground. Ferumbras stood beaming as the Thain heartily embraced his younger son, speaking words of welcome. 

‘Da!’ Bandobras cried, tears of joy streaming down. ‘O but it’s good to see you again!’ 

‘And you,’ Isumbras murmured into his son’s shoulder, thumping his back with a glad fist. 

*** 

10. The Argument

The thunk of an arrow slamming solidly into the target, followed by the Oooo of the onlookers, punctuated the Thain’s quiet conversation with his sons. Isumbras jerked, clearly distracted – for by rights, he ought to be standing at the front of the crowd, cheering on his Tookish archers! – but he wrenched his attention back to the topic at hand.

‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Our estimates keep increasing as ever more of the creatures make their presence known,’ Bandobras answered. ‘But it’s all too clear they’ll soon have the numbers to attack and overwhelm Long Cleeve itself – sooner rather than later.’

*** 

The Thain had a practical solution. At least, in his eyes, it was eminently practical. Best of all, his wife would no longer be mourning the absence of her youngest!

‘Remove everyone from Long Cleeve to the Tookland?’ Bandobras echoed, looking at his father as if the old Took had lost his wits.

‘There’s plenty of empty land yet in the Green Hill country,’ Isumbras repeated, reaching up to gently clout Bandobras on his head. ‘Don’t go lookin’ at your da that way! It’s best for everyone! Tookland needs farmers and shepherds. And if troubles should come, we’ve Tookish archers!’ 

*** 

‘But the goblins will come here,’ Bandobras argued. ‘Even if we were able to bring everyone safely from the North-lands, the monsters wouldn’t be satisfied with their conquest.’ He looked around the small circle that was gathering, as Tookish archers who’d finished shooting the current round came to see what was keeping the Thain from spectating.

He took a shuddering breath. ‘You have to see that we’re their prey.’

‘I don’t see,’ Isumbras said. ‘They seem to want to drive hobbits from the North-lands... perhaps they see hobbits as the invaders... What makes you think it wasn’t their land to start?’

‘You don’t see,’ Bandobras affirmed. ‘When we first came to the North-lands, we scouted far and wide, from the forest to the marshes, before establishing the site for Long Cleeve, and only afterwards did the farmers choose their land and begin ploughing and building smials and putting up fences and all the rest. There were no goblins then – no goblins in the North-lands for more than four years! They’re coming from somewhere else... beyond...’

‘Beyond where?’

‘East, somewhere, we think. And they’re not after land!’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘They want hobbits.’ Bandobras breathed deeply and repeated, ‘We’re their food.’

*** 

11. The Wager

Thain Isumbras could not be persuaded that the best recourse was to fight the goblins and not abandon the North-lands, ceding the territory to the invaders. 

Friend snorted. Bandobras had a sudden, desperate inspiration. He cast his hook and line. ‘I’ll lay a wager with you, Da! If I win, you’ll send a muster of archers to the North!’

He held his breath and saw his father nibble at the bait: Isumbras stood a little straighter, and his eyes lit with keen anticipation. How the Thain loved a good wager! ‘Ye’ll have to make it worth my while,’ he said.

*** 

The son of the Thain took a deep breath. ‘If you win, I’ll come home again... to stay.’ Was he sealing his fate? 

The grin widened on the Thain’s face. ‘To stay?’ he echoed. All the arguments in the world hadn’t been enough to stop his son from leaving. And now, the lad would return of his own free will?

Better yet, he’d be in his wife’s good books, he would! She’d mourned their younger son almost as deeply as if the lad had died.

‘Done!’ Isumbras said, ‘depending on just what we’re wagering on.’

‘The Pony Race,’ Bandobras replied.

*** 

He watched his father lunge for the hook with grim satisfaction. A little pull to set the hook, and...

‘I ride to win, against the best the Shire has to offer.’

His father guffawed and slapped his knee, and soon all the onlookers were laughing, as well.

‘What’re you planning on riding? That clumsy Oliphaunt behind you?’ The Thain eyed Friend. ‘I’m surprised he doesn’t fall all over himself with those over-long legs! How long did it take you to ride down from the North-lands?’

Bandobras allowed his chagrin to show. ‘Long enough,’ he said. ‘But he’s all I’ve got.’

*** 

12. Preparing for the Race

Ferumbras walked with Bandobras, leading Friend away from the butts and towards the grazing meadows. ‘Are you sure about this, little brother?’

‘As sure as the Sun rises.’

The older brother glanced back. ‘He’s limping,’ he said. The horse was favouring a foreleg, dipping his head each time it bore his weight.

‘What!’ Bandobras stopped and turned to fondle the lowered head. ‘What is the matter, Friend?’

‘As if he’ll tell you...’ Ferumbras said, cocking his head. For the first time, he looked really closely at Bandobras, seeing the fading bruises, the pain lines around his brother’s eyes. 

‘He will.’

*** 

Bandobras touched Friend’s hoof, and the horse obligingly lifted his foot so that the hobbit crouching at his side could cup it in his hand.

‘Stone in the frog,’ Bandobras muttered, pulling out his pocket-knife. He pried the offending pebble loose and tossed it away, folded the knife, released his hold on the hoof, and started to stand.

But he nearly fell over. 

Ferumbras caught him. ‘Have you lost your wits? You’re in no shape to ride!’

Bandobras eyed his brother dizzily. ‘I rode all the way here from the North-lands, didn’t I?’

‘Be serious!’

‘I’m completely serious.’

At this close proximity, Ferumbras noticed another detail. ‘Your head! You’re bleeding!’ he said in consternation. ‘I should tell Da...’

‘No, you won’t!’ Bandobras retorted. He raised his hand to feel gingerly along his curly crown. ‘Good thing Rorric isn’t here – or his daughter!’

At any other time, Ferumbras would have delved deeply into the subject of someone’s daughter, but not now. ‘A healer...’ he insisted.

‘Leave off!’ Bandobras snapped. ‘We’re perfectly well, Friend and I!’

‘How can you expect me to believe that?’ Ferumbras demanded.

‘Because the alternative is death to Northlanders, after which that death will sweep across the Shire!’

*** 

Keeping to himself his alarm for Bandobras, Ferumbras fixed his attention on the horse once more. ‘He’s still not putting his weight on that foot.’

Half-sobbing, Bandobras snarled a word the Thain would have rebuked him for.

Ferumbras stopped him from bending again. ‘Will he let me?’ he said.

‘Friend, obey,’ Bandobras whispered.

Ferumbras lifted an eyebrow but reached down to tap the tender hoof. To his surprise, the horse lifted it. He felt the frog gently. ‘Bruised, I think,’ he said. ‘I’ll bind an arnica poultice on when we reach the pasture.’

Bandobras grasped at his arm. ‘Thank you!’

*** 

Ferumbras was as good as his word. After he’d settled Bandobras on his own bedroll, he prepared a poultice and returned to Friend, who’d stayed close without any need for hobbles or rope. The horse also accepted his ministrations as meekly as a lamb.

When he joined Bandobras again, the younger brother seemed asleep, but as Ferumbras gently touched the wounded head, he opened his eyes and spoke. ‘Why are you helping us?’

Ferumbras pulled a lop-sided grin. ‘If you lose your bet and come back home to live, I’ll never get any seedcake anymore, for you’ll eat it all!’

*** 

13. Wits and Wagers

For the rest of the evening and into the night, Ferumbras guarded his younger brother from all intruders, well-meaning or otherwise.

‘O’ course I have a vested interest!’ he said as he turned a hopeful cousin away. ‘I have a wager on! Don’t you?’

‘Not yet,’ the cousin confessed. ‘I wanted to talk to him – get it from the horse’s mouth, as it were, see their chances before I lay my wager.’

Ferumbras looked about and lowered his voice. ‘The Thain’s wagering against his own son,’ he said. ‘Take that for what it’s worth!’

The cousin nodded and left, satisfied.

*** 

Bandobras woke refreshed and feeling much better. He sat up and looked at Ferumbras. ‘You look like something the cat dragged in!’ he said. ‘Didn’t you sleep?’

Older brother refrained from telling the younger that Bandobras was tucked up in Ferumbras’s own blanket roll. Instead, he answered, ‘The Free Faire only comes ‘round once a year! And elections every seven years! Tomorrow’s a travel day, and then it’s back to the salt mines...’

‘Da’s mining for salt these days?’ Bandobras said in amazement.

‘Only in a manner of speaking,’ Ferumbras said.

Bandobras shook his head. At least it didn’t hurt.

*** 

As they walked together to the racecourse, Friend following at heel rather like an outsized but well-trained hound, Ferumbras scrutinised the horse’s gait. ‘Walking four-square, I’m happy to say.’

‘Thank you again,’ Bandobras said fervently.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Ferumbras drawled. ‘Just win my wager for me, and we’ll call it even.’

‘What wager?’ Bandobras demanded. ‘Is that what you were doing all night – laying bets?’

With one finger aside his nose, Ferumbras said, ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘What are you betting on?’ Bandobras said in consternation.

In a lofty big-brotherly manner, Ferumbras answered, ‘I’ll tell you after the race.’

*** 

14. The Race

Word had obviously spread about the Thain’s wager with Bandobras, for spectators crowded the stands and standing-room, and the chalk hill above the racecourse was thickly covered with the overflow crowds.

Curiously, Tookish archers filled the seats at the front, almost as if they’d gone directly from the archery competition to the racecourse, claimed their places, and waited through the night and the morning hours to watch the race. And perhaps they had.

For those who’d witnessed the Thain’s discussion with his sons had informed those who hadn’t.

The archers were invested in the race, for more than one reason.

*** 

Bandobras was directed to take an outside placement on the starting line. At the sight of the horse, a buzz of speculation arose, along with brisk wagering. Then the cheers began, swelling as the ponies were led to the starting line. Some fought, rearing and plunging. None wanted to line up next to Friend for some reason.

At last, the Master of the Races gestured to Bandobras to pull Friend away from the line. ‘Start four lengths behind the rest,’ he said, scuffing a line in the dirt with his heel just for the horse. ‘Right here.’

The betting intensified.

*** 

At last, all the racers were lined up in relatively orderly fashion. The Master raised the heavy flag, swirled it above his head, and slashed it downward.

They were off!

The racers broke as racers always do, some fast, some slower, some rearing before plunging forwards, others starting with a bounding leap.

Friend simply went from standstill to a full gallop, quickly catching up and passing the laggers, then running in the space between the leaders and the rest of the pack for three-quarters of the race.

Seeing Bandobras lean forward and call to the horse, the crowd went wild.

*** 

The leaders swept ‘round the grand curve and pounded down the stretch.

No one could quite credit what happened next. Some claimed the horse sprouted wings and flew. Others spoke of Outlandish magic, lending the beast unearthly speed.

In what seemed no time at all, Friend had nosed his way between the leaders and then left them behind, with each stride increasing the distance between himself and the field until he flashed past the finish line.

Stunned silence greeted his victory. The race officials almost forgot to mark the second- and third-place finishers.

And then the Tooks began to cheer...!

*** 

Bandobras steered Friend, breathing easily as if the race had not yet started, to the centre of the racecourse to accept the wreath of roses due the winner. Of course, it was too small to fit over the horse’s head, so Bandobras took it away from the bemused Master of the Races and put it over his own head, wearing it like a large, flowery necklace, prompting laughter from the crowd.

Then Thain and Mayor stepped forward to congratulate them, and then a host of Tooks spilled across the racecourse and into the centre field, mobbing Bandobras, pounding his back.

Bandobras felt as if he were drowning in congratulations. But then Ferumbras stepped in, placed a protective arm around his younger brother’s shoulders, turned Bandobras towards Friend, and told the horse, ‘Down!’

He helped the rose-bedecked rider into the saddle, scrambled up behind him, and said to the horse, ‘Up!’

Friend regained his feet and stood serenely, an island of calm in the sea of Shire-folk.

‘Better?’ Ferumbras murmured in his brother’s ear.

‘Much!’

Ferumbras locked eyes with the Thain. ‘We’ll meet you in camp!’ he called.

Isumbras nodded and raised his fist heavenward. The Tookish archers thundered with cheers.

*** 

In the quiet of the camp, Friend knelt without prompting, allowing Ferumbras to help his brother down. 

He guided Bandobras to his bedroll and commanded him to stay there. Soon he returned with a cool cloth for the younger brother’s aching head.

‘Thanks,’ Bandobras said, closing his eyes in relief. Then he opened one eye. ‘What was your wager?’

‘Simple enough,’ Ferumbras answered. ‘Leaving the Northlanders to their fate stuck in my craw. So... since you won, I will ride with the Muster.’

‘And if I’d lost?’ Bandobras wanted to know.

‘Then I’d have to ride northwards alone,’ Ferumbras replied.

*** 

15. The Muster

The Thain had no need to send messengers throughout the land. Many outstanding archers were already on the spot with their weapons. Most of them had ridden ponies to the Faire, and those ponies were travel-beasts rather than racers, and fresh from the rest they’d enjoyed over the days of the archery tournament.

It also seemed that word had spread of the Northlanders’ desperate plea for aid, for while the Free Faire’s final-morning activities were taking place, hobbits in Michel Delving, both residents and visitors, were packing bags of food and supplies as if the race were a foregone conclusion. 

*** 

Thus, seemingly-endless rivers of Shire-folk streamed from various points towards the Tooks’ camp, where the Tookish fairgoers were rolling their bedrolls and packing up their supplies.

Besides individuals carrying bags of provisions and necessities came those who had rather more in their store-holes. ‘I’ve food!’ the innkeeper shouted, hauling a cart behind him, heaped high with bulging bags. Several vendors who’d come to sell to archers at the tournament had closed their booths and were giving away their wares rather than packing them to take home again. And the curator of Michel Delving’s Mathom-house distributed several waggonloads of lovingly-preserved weapons.

*** 

At last, Ferumbras woke Bandobras, who’d slept through all the commotion and preparations. ‘Dobby,’ he said. ‘I’ll be wanting my bedroll now.’

Bandobras threw off the covers. ‘You’re leaving already?’ he said, blinking away sleep.

‘We’re ready to leave,’ Ferumbras said. ‘Friend is tacked up and waiting for you.’

He helped Bandobras to his feet, whereupon a great cheer went up.

Astonished, the scout stared at rank upon rank of archers, many bearing other weapons as well, one body mounted and another a-foot.

‘What’re ye waiting for?’ Isumbras thundered. ‘Time’s a-wasting! Ye can still make five-and-twenty miles before the Sunrise!’

*** 

Chapter 16. The Journey

Sunset

The mounted archers were to ride to the relief of the Northlanders, whilst the Thain would direct the dispersal of foot troops across the northern and eastern bounds of the Shire proper, anticipating the possibility that the goblins might turn their attention in this direction.

At sunset, the relief force rode out of Michel Delving to the deafening cheers of onlookers who lined both sides of the Road. Ferumbras and Bandobras shared Friend’s saddle, ‘for between us we make one Man, p’rhaps just a bit more,’ as the older brother observed. He could also watch over Bandobras better that way.

*** 

Dawn

When he judged they’d gone five-and-twenty miles, with occasional pauses to water the ponies, Bandobras called a longer halt at the next stream they crossed. Ponies were hobbled, bedrolls were laid out, sentries and their replacements were assigned so that all could rest.

‘I’ll take first watch,’ Ferumbras said, stroking Friend’s lowered muzzle.

Bandobras didn’t argue except to say, ‘Be sure to waken me so you can sleep!’

‘O I’ll sleep,’ Ferumbras assured him. I’ll borrow someone else’s bedroll... He reached up to slap Friend’s side. ‘Graze yourself full, my friend.’

‘Bossy as ever,’ Bandobras mumbled, then slipped into dream.

*** 

Mid-day

By the time the Sun reached her zenith, the relief force was moving again, Friend at their head. Bandobras varied the pace between walking, trotting and cantering for the effect of maintaining a moving rest for the ponies. They paused only for water: each rank lined up along the stream in turn; the ponies drank and then cantered to catch up with their trotting comrades ahead. As a result, the long file never stopped but resembled a travelling snake, compressing and elongating, moving ever forward.

Unceasing travel coupled with extended daylight meant they covered nearly fifty more miles by sunset.

*** 

Dawn

They rested through the night, rising again at dawn. Bandobras worriedly eyed the thickening clouds. ‘We should be there by nuncheon,’ he said, ‘but we may find goblins there ahead of us! They can function under heavy clouds almost as well as in the darkness.’

‘Let us hope they have not come there ahead of us already and left none alive,’ Ferumbras muttered, then shook his head and apologised.

‘D’ye think I’ve not been fighting down the same fear since the moment I left Long Cleeve?’ Bandobras whispered. He patted Friend’s neck. ‘Set a good pace.’

Friend whinnied in assent.

*** 

Chapter 17. Crisis at Long Cleeve

For some miles before reaching Long Cleeve, Bandobras worriedly eyed the rising smoke ahead of them: too much for cooking fires, especially in mid-summer. And fires wouldn’t be needed for warmth...

As the town came into view, he heard Ferumbras suck in his breath. ‘Are we too late, Dobby?’

At the same time, the scout’s eyes were sweeping the rooftops. At last, Bandobras took a deep breath and answered, ‘Just the thatch... The thatch roofs burned, and some of the buildings with them... The Common House is gone, and the Infirmary... but the slate-roof buildings are still standing, it seems.’

*** 

Even as Bandobras explained that the goblins typically left total destruction behind, as they had in the farmsteads they’d attacked, heads popped up behind the makeshift barricade, which was looking more substantial than it had been when he left. It also seemed to be under repair, with severe damage showing in places along the defensive wall.

A shout split the air, thin and shrill, and then a horn blew – answered by the horn of one of the archers in the front rank behind Friend. Then more heads appeared as waving hands and a cacophony of cheers erupted behind the wall. 

*** 

‘Archie?! Arch!’ Bandobras shouted, almost falling from the saddle in his excitement. A heavily bandaged hobbit limped out from an opening made when part of the wall swung out on waggon wheels.

‘Dobby! What did ye – did ye think to bring the whole Shire back wit’ ye?’

‘Only half!’ Ferumbras contributed. ‘We left the other half to guard the Shire! Friend, down,’ he told the horse.

They slid off, and then Bandobras was embracing the injured hobbit, gently thumping his back. ‘We thought you were dead!’

‘So did I,’ Archie Hart’s-tongue replied. ‘But I’m here now... and so are you!’

*** 

But the news was not all good. Even as Ferumbras ordered the archers to dismount but stand by their beasts, Archie was spouting a dismaying tale.

‘...attacked in force, but we managed – somehow – to beat them off, again and again, fierce and ferocious, but we matched them in determination... and courage...’ his voice broke. ‘You’d’ve been so proud...’

Before Bandobras, shaken by this evidence of unbearable losses, could begin to ask the many questions bubbling up, Archie grasped the Chief Scout’s sleeve. ‘You’ve got to go!’ he said. ‘Now! There’s no time to waste! It may not be too late...’

*** 

‘This morning we had word of a larger body of goblins approaching the town from the direction of Greenfields,’ Archie said. ‘Enough to finish us! The barricade’s still broken in places...! So Rorric, he called for volunteers, and they marched to intercept the goblins, to try and hold them off, slow them down, to give us more time to shore up the fortifications.’

It was all too obvious that the Master and his delaying force were not expected to survive the encounter.

As Bandobras pressed Archie’s hand in farewell and grim pledge, Ferumbras shouted, ‘Mount up! We ride to battle!’

*** 

Chapter 18. The Battle of Greenfields

Friend maintained a slow gallop, his hoofbeats merging with those of the massed ponies behind him in a rolling thunder that rivalled the distant grumbles sounding from the sullen skies overhead.

Or was it the murmur of battle?

Both, Bandobras decided, seeing a bright flash above and ahead, a deadly spear hurtling to earth with a sharp crack, as if the very sky above the Shire resented the goblin invasion. 

Ahead was the region dubbed ‘Greenfields’ in the preliminary surveys, lush grazing land where future inhabitants would someday produce rich milk, well-marbled meat, and healthy wool both soft and dense. 

While Long Cleeve had been settled with an eye to fertile land for the plough and some pastureland for grazing and haying, the expanse of green fields had been deemed by the settlers to be better suited to herds than ploughs.

Someday took on a different meaning now, for the emerald grass had been trampled, churned into a muddy stew splashed with crimson or ebony splotches, depending on whether the spilled blood came from hobbits or goblins. An overwhelming force of goblins was attacking two defensive rings of hobbits, likely separated by the savagery of the assaults they’d survived – barely.

*** 

Ferumbras had thought to leave two or three ranks of archers to defend Long Cleeve. Bandobras had countered him. ‘If we’re not strong enough to defeat them before they reach the town, will twenty or thirty archers make enough difference? If they tip the balance at Greenfields, the goblins won’t get through. But if we split our forces, and don’t have enough to meet them, they’ll overrun us there... and here.’

Bandobras fought despair as he saw another wave break over the stalwart but outnumbered hobbits. Ferumbras signalled, the horn sounded; the ranks spread, becoming one line, and increased speed.

*** 

Bandobras, riding in front of Ferumbras as his defender and shield, began to fire a rapid succession of arrows. Soon, a thick and deadly hail fell on and around the attacking goblins, impacting with lethal force on those attacking from the Long Cleeve side, while the shafts of the archers who targeted taller combatants flew over the heads of the defending hobbits and skewered goblin skulls on the far side as if the shooters were engaged in the melon-splitting event at the Tournament. Meanwhile, the beleaguered hobbits crouched down, striking upwards or holding shields to cover themselves and their fellows.

Despite their peril, the goblins broke through on the far side of the larger ring and plunged into the centre. One, taller than the rest, reached down and lifted a struggling body, holding the twisting hobbit easily before him like a shield.

Bandobras fired his last arrows into the goblins to either side of the chieftain and pulled the heavy club from the Mathom-house from its sheath. ‘Go, Friend, go!’ he screamed, staring at the fiery curls held fast in the goblin chieftain’s pitiless grasp. Guided by the shift of his rider’s weight, Friend charged at the Master’s captor. 

A grin twisted the foul creature’s face, and it stared directly into the Chief Scout’s eyes as it lifted its razor-edged weapon and swung it slowly to one side, preparatory to beheading the fighter he’d identified as the leader of the defenders in front of his hobbits to demoralise them and scatter them in confusion. As he began his murderous stroke, Friend leaped forward, trampling goblins underfoot, closing the gap with incredible speed, even as Bandobras swung his club in a desperate play to intercept the whistling blade.

Miraculously, club met blade as it passed before the goblin chieftain’s face...

*** 

With shattering force, the antique yet solid, skilfully crafted club impacted the goblin chieftain’s broad, jagged, bone-cleaving, lethal blade with such force that one sharp edge caught the lower side of the club and was itself caught, thus turning the club into a club-and-sword of sorts.

The force of impact drove the exposed edge of the sword ahead of the club itself, slicing neatly through the goblin chief’s neck, whilst the heavy club finished the creature’s destruction, sending the grisly head flying high into the air, trailing droplets of black blood behind it.

Friend halted, rearing.

Unbelievably, the battle stopped.

The chieftain’s body stood a few seconds more, and then it toppled, taking the red-headed hobbit down with it. All of the other living combatants stared, as if enspelled by some enchanter’s power, following the flight of the awful sphere as it soared in a high arc and then down to the ground, where it hit, bounced horribly two or three times, and then rolled into a large hole in the ground, the opening to some creature’s den, more likely than not.

A great yell went up from the goblins, and suddenly they were dropping their weapons, stumbling away, fleeing...!

*** 

Those archers who still had arrows pursued the shrieking retreating goblins with deadly intent until their quivers were empty. Then turning their ponies around, they rode back to the delaying force and their fellow archers, who’d jumped down from their ponies and were employing the tools provided by the curator of Michel Delving’s Mathom-house where they would do the most good – slaying any goblins that were not yet dead.

Rivers of black blood ran from the two small hills where the defenders had made their stand.

Ferumbras held tightly to Bandobras (who would have flung himself down), shouting, ‘Friend! Down!’ 

*** 

As soon as the horse knelt, he loosed his grasp. Bandobras slid from the saddle and fell to his knees before Rorric and the goblin chief. ‘Master!’ he gasped.

‘Will someone free me from this blasted snare!’ Rorric snapped, twisting and trying to pull himself free from the goblin’s death-grasp.

Bandobras laid his sword-club down and took out his pocket-knife. ‘Hold still,’ he said. Carefully, he cut the Master loose. ‘Are you hurt, Sir?’ 

‘I’m better than I ought to be, thanks to you!’ Rorric answered, regaining his feet. He clapped his Chief Scout on the shoulder. ‘Just in time!’

And then an indomitable force hit Bandobras, knocking him to the ground. His first wild thought was that a goblin had survived and had identified him as the one who’d struck down their chieftain.

This notion was quickly confounded as his head was seized in a firm grasp and lips fastened on his mouth, kissing him fiercely. He had a confused impression of red hair... but it was not the Master...

When she let him go again, he gasped, ‘Ruby!’

‘We thought you’d never come!’ she sobbed wildly, tears running down her face. ‘We thought you’d never come in time!’

*** 

Chapter 19. Epilogue

~ T.A. 2748 ~

Two riders galloped up a small hill and halted their beasts at the top.

‘We win again!’ Ruby said, patting her pony and then looking up at Bandobras. Her eyes narrowed as she added, ‘Are you cheating?’

The Master’s Chief Scout placed his hand over his heart. ‘Letting you win?’ he asked. ‘Not I,’ he added, then stroked the horse’s neck. ‘I cannot speak for my Friend here, however.’

His eyes drank in the sight of cool sunlight and green grass, waving in a gentle breeze. At night, the sky would fill with myriad stars. And no threat from goblins.

*** 

Smiling, Bandobras turned his head, but Ruby’s face had lost all colour, and she swayed in the saddle. ‘Friend, down,’ he said urgently, and before the horse had fully knelt, he’d slipped from the saddle to stand by her side. ‘My love?’

‘It was here,’ she whispered, and had her lips been carved from wood they might have been less stiff. ‘We were here...’

Bandobras looked about them with new eyes, and saw the other small hill not far away, and the marker Rorric had set between the hills, where the folk of Long Cleeve had made their desperate stand.

*** 

He surrounded her with his arms and bowed his head against her side, and she bent in the saddle and reached out to embrace him, and they held each other in mingled mourning and wonder.

At last, Ruby spoke. ‘I thought we were lost. We knew you couldn’t ride all that way, and gather hobbits from all around the Shire, and ride back again in time.’ She felt him shudder and nod. ‘But...’ she murmured into his hair. ‘You came!’

When he lifted his face to hers, she traced his tears with a gentle finger. ‘So many lost,’ he whispered.

‘So many saved,’ she murmured, and kissed him, a gentle, healing kiss this time, atop the hill where he’d saved her father and others with a desperate swing of a borrowed, unfamiliar club. ‘You saved so many.’

He tried to smile. ‘Well I had a little help,’ he said.

Ruby straightened and keenly surveyed the landscape. ‘The grass is so green, and there’s no sign...’

‘Nothing to show that a battle was ever fought here,’ Bandobras acknowledged. ‘Except, perhaps, that ridiculous lay that Archie likes to sing...’

‘You are a hero, you know.’

‘No more of one than anyone else.’

*** 

Hand in hand the pair of them walked, the Master’s daughter and his Chief Scout, with horse and pony ambling behind. At last, with the two small hills behind them, Bandobras stopped and said, ‘Well, I think I can report to the Council that the Greenfields are fair and green, and they might consider beginning another town here...’

‘With a sturdy wall of stone, and a watch-tower or two,’ Ruby said.

‘If only to keep out the wolves when the winter winds blow cold,’ Bandobras said.

‘If only to keep out the wolves,’ she echoed, but both remembered other foes.

*** 

Suddenly Friend threw up his head and whinnied, high and wild, and the horse, who’d followed Bandobras like a devoted hound since the previous summer, went from slow walk to galloping in the wink of an eye.

Bandobras lifted his hands to his mouth to call after the horse. ‘Friend!’

But Ruby pointed. ‘Look!’

A lone figure was striding over the rolling grassland. From a distance, it might have been one of their fellows from Long Cleeve, but when the horse reached the stranger, they realised how much taller he was than themselves.

Then he vaulted lightly into Friend’s saddle.

*** 

‘It’s Wanderer!’ Bandobras gasped.

‘The goblin-hunter you told us about?’ Ruby said, though it was more statement than question. ‘O Dobby...’

Horse and Rider cantered towards them; on reaching them, Friend stopped. The Man dismounted and knelt before them, to see eye to eye.

‘My thanks, Bandobras, for keeping my companion for me. I’m sorry I was kept away for so long. He looks fit and well!’

‘Fat and sassy,’ Ruby said boldly. ‘Dobby’s spoilt him silly. I don’t suppose you’d want him anymore...’

The Man threw back his head and laughed, and soon the hobbits were laughing with him.

*** 

‘Wanderer, I should like you to meet my wife,’ Bandobras said with his arm around Ruby.

The Man bowed, strangely graceful for someone kneeling. ‘At your service,’ he said.

‘And at yours,’ Ruby replied. ‘And I should say...!’

‘Indeed,’ Bandobras agreed.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Wanderer said.

‘No need for that!’ Bandobras said, whilst Ruby laughed aloud. ‘You see, your Friend saved us...! Saved our town, and all who now live there!’

‘Saved...?’ the Man said, bemused, and then he straightened and said, ‘I sense there is a tale here to be told.’

‘We are picnicking,’ Ruby said. ‘Join us!’

*** 

They sat together beneath the smiling Sun; the Hobbits shared the food stowed away in the saddlebags of pony and horse but invited the Man to come to Long Cleeve for a proper feast.

But he demurred. ‘Another time, perhaps,’ he said. ‘I barely managed to steal enough time away to come and relieve you of Friend’s care...’

‘Relieve us!’ Ruby said. ‘Why, he’s part of the family now! More of a brother than a friend!’

‘Then I shall definitely have to bring him back to visit his relations,’ Wanderer smiled.

‘We shall hold you to that,’ Ruby said sternly.

*** 

When the Sun had slipped halfway to the horizon, Wanderer bowed and begged to take his leave. ‘Friend and I have far to go to reach our destination.’

‘But what about the goblins?’ Bandobras said. ‘Wouldn’t you better spend the night at Long Cleeve and set out in the morning?’ 

‘Fear no more goblins, at least for now,’ Wanderer replied, suddenly grim. ‘Though we fought many battles, trying to hold them back, and one party managed to reach the Shire, we cut down all those who escaped your archers last summer. Since that time, ever fewer have tested our defences.’

*** 

The three rose from their picnic and walked together to where the pony grazed and Friend waited.

The horse lowered his head and whuffled at the hobbit. Bandobras burst into tears and threw his arms around the noble head. ‘I’ll always remember you, my Friend! Be well! Take good care of yourself and your Rider!’ 

Ruby, too, was weeping. She stroked Friend’s nose and said, ‘Thank you for everything. For bringing my love safely there and back again, for saving my father and my friends...’

‘You’ll give him a big head,’ Wanderer warned, and the hobbits laughed through their tears.

*** 

Wanderer mounted, raising his hand in farewell. Friend snorted as if to say the same. Then, as if of one accord, they turned towards the East.

But Friend seemed to hesitate, for his great head came around, and he looked back at the hobbits. He nickered softly.

‘Go with my blessing, Friend,’ Bandobras said. ‘You’ll always have a place with us if you ever need one.’ He met Wanderer’s eye and added, ‘We’ll even welcome your Rider!’ 

‘My thanks for that – I think,’ Wanderer said, and laughed.

Bandobras and Ruby watched them ride away until they were out of sight.

*** 

‘Dobby?’ Ruby said as they rode the pony back to Long Cleeve. Their shadows grew long behind them as the Sun painted her loveliest colours on the sky to cheer them.

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Who is he? That Man? And why did he come?’

‘For Friend!’

‘No. I mean, before?’

‘He’s a goblin-hunter, dearest. He said they fought many battles... and more...’

‘More?’

‘I think,’ Bandobras said, feeling his way, ‘I think that he and his kin are somehow sent to guard us from goblins and other dangers.’

‘Guard us!’

‘I cannot explain. But my heart says they are... Hope.’

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

^{THE END}

^{~ * ~ * ~ * ~}

 Author’s note: “cool sunlight and green grass” reflects Pippin’s thoughts before the Black Gate as he anticipated his death in battle in “The Black Gate Opens” in The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.