Chapter 22. Worrying Business

Leading up from the stream was a thin trail, a deer track, perhaps. As there were no other footprints near the water, Ferdibrand decided that Farry had not followed the way of the stream, but more likely had heard the call of the path, leading on, over hill and around a bend, always promising new sights, beckoning a young traveller on. Farry would undoubtedly follow the path until he grew hungry or weary or both, and then he’d probably be too weary to make his way home. He’d be a tween before he learned the wisdom of turning back towards home when still feeling fresh.

Ferdi followed the path, hoping it would not branch, for he’d waste precious time if he guessed wrongly and had to backtrack. He was heartened to cross a damp spot where a spring trickled from the hillside, and stopped to look at the ground. He found once more the small footprint. Farry had passed this way! Ferdi swung into the saddle after letting Dapple drink from the spring and continued to follow the path. He’d have to hurry in order to be back in time for tea.

Around the side of the great grassy hill, through another valley, halfway up another hill and around it, so went the trail. On the far side of the last hill they rounded, the country flattened out slightly before the next large rise. A farmer had taken advantage of the lie of the land and had ploughed a field here, circling a copse of trees at the far end of the valley. Several of the trees looked climbable and Ferdi made a private wager with himself that Farry had been attracted to the spot. He stopped Dapple and got down to examine the field, seeing smudges in the freshly-ploughed furrows that might have been foot-marks. They were the right distance apart for a small lad.

Dapple jerked her head and made an uneasy noise and Ferdi rose from his contemplation of the ground. The breeze carried a faint baying of dogs. Looking down the valley, he saw small shapes dancing and leaping about the trees in the copse. He thought of the sheep-worriers near Sunnybanks, and how the attacks had moved closer to the Great Smials since Tolly’s wedding. Could the worriers have treed the small son of the Thain?

Ferdi got back on Dapple’s back and urged her towards the copse. She expressed her reluctance, but he insisted, and so she forged forward, though it was heavy going in that soft, ploughed ground. As they approached, the small forms grew bigger, and yet bigger, until Ferdi thought that perhaps several of the dogs in the pack rivalled the weight of a full-grown hobbit. Dapple’s coat was wet with nervousness and her ears were pinned back. Ferdi had the feeling that she wanted to bolt, though that would be the worst possible course of action. Should the dogs see her run from them their instinct would cause them to give chase, and with deadly certainty they’d catch her on this ground and pull her down.

Ferdi had seen ruffians run deer in much the same way, their wolf-like dogs coursing a deer to exhaustion. When their quarry slowed, the dogs would jump and fasten their teeth into the ill-fated creature, overpowering it to the ground. The Men following would whip the dogs off, butcher the carcase and throw the entrails to the dogs as a reward.

Ferdi drew his bow from the quiver on his back and strung it, then pulled out several arrows, fitting one to the bow and laying the others across the pommel of his saddle, in the groove made there for that purpose. Of course he could only shoot one at a time, but he wanted to make his shots in as quick a succession as possible. If these were the sheep worriers, he’d shoot as many as he could before the pack retreated. If they were not the sheep worriers, well, they had no business running loose in a pack. Dogs in packs were dangerous.

Halfway up the tree was a bright spot of yellow. Ferdi recalled that Faramir had been wearing a shirt of that shade in the stable. ‘Farry!’ he called.

Above the barking of the dogs he heard a faint plea for help.

Ferdi felt the mare quivering under him. He was close enough now for a fair shot, and so he stopped pushing her forward, whereupon she halted, shivering and sweating, tossing her head uneasily. Had the ground been solid beneath her feet she’d likely have been dancing in her eagerness to get away. Just as well, Ferdi would have a better shot with her standing like a stone.

He pulled back on the bowstring and sighted carefully, taking aim on one of the largest of the brutes, let fly and watched the impact with satisfaction. The dog was thrown off his feet with a high-pitched yelp. The cur attempted to rise, snapping at the protruding shaft. The other dogs interrupted their dance about the tree to sniff and growl at their stricken mate. He snarled and snapped at one that came too close, and then the pack was distracted as Ferdi’s second arrow found its mark in a medium-sized dog.

He took a third shot, and a fourth, expecting at any moment that the dogs would turn tail, great cowards that they were, and so he was surprised as another enormous brute leapt aside, roaring as an arrow grazed him, and ran at Dapple, leaping across the furrows like a creature of myth or Shadow, eerily silent, jaws gaping, followed by more than half, though some had turned tail and fled with the second or third strike.

This was too much for Dapple; she tried to whirl, to flee, only to lose her footing in the treacherous ground. As she desperately struggled to regain her balance the first beast struck her. She half-reared but another dog launched himself at her head. His weight and the soft, uneven furrows were enough to send her sprawling, Ferdi caught beneath her, his bow snapping as he was crushed into the soil.

Dapple rolled away, shrilling with fear and pain, somehow regaining her feet and staggering away as dogs clung to her or jumped at her, trying to bring her down, murder in their eyes, the excitement of the kill in their blood. Ferdi lay dazed where she left him, but as a grinning face appeared above him he instinctively threw up his arms to guard his throat.

The great dog snarled and lunged, sinking his wicked fangs into Ferdi’s arm. He felt the pain of the crushing jaws, even through the stiff leather brace he wore on his bow arm, legacy of a ruffian’s club in the Battle of Bywater, but the slashing teeth did not penetrate. The dog growled and worried at him, trying to win past the shielding arm to the throat where the life-blood pulsed.

Ferdi felt a tug at his right leg, followed by searing pain. Automatically he tried to kick, only to be hampered by a heavy weight. He felt his leg shaken, teeth sinking deeper; his coat was seized on the other side and he realised that the brutes intended to tear him to pieces, even as he heard Dapple’s despairing scream.

Another wild shriek followed almost immediately, more terrible than the first, and Ferdi gasped, for he knew it must be his mare’s death-cry. His own would follow quickly, he feared, though he fought to protect his throat from the brute that was as determined to win through. Ferdi felt blackness creeping over him and knew he had a matter of seconds left to him.

...but the brute was suddenly gone. Ferdi blinked, not sure of his senses. The wild scream came again, and the pull at his leg ceased. He fought for consciousness and then wished he hadn’t, for a great grey shape was rearing above him, wicked slashing hoofs ready to come down upon him, to smash him further into the soil. He gave an involuntary cry as the hoofs descended, but they missed him, coming down instead on the massive dog fastened to Ferdi’s coat and side. Ferdi felt the jaws close convulsively on his ribs and then loose their hold.

He took a shuddering breath and knew no more.