Chapter 7. Thorn: Cold Light of Dawn

Rocco stopped so suddenly that Bucca walked into him in the darkness. Thorn stopped short in time, out of long instinct, perhaps, or the warning that whispered to him in times of deep silence. All three Hobbits dropped where they stood, breathing together in their huddle, their dark mass no more than any other rock on the snow-swept plain in the dim light before the dawning.

Bucca could just make out the Great Road ahead. No travellers this time of year? Despite the bitter temperatures a steady stream of Big Folk was moving along, some in horse-drawn conveyances, some on foot pulling two-wheeled carts, most walking, or stumbling, bearing burdens.

He felt Rocco stir beneath him and moved to help his father to his feet. The three Hobbits did not stand to their full diminutive height but remained crouching low, however, alarmed by this enormous invasion, this seemingly endless river of humanity crossing into the land granted to the Little Folk by the high king some centuries ago. King Argeleb had charged them to speed his messengers, for true, but this...

Bucca felt a tug at his sleeve and Rocco was leading again, this time parallel to the Road, towards the Great River. Soon what had seemed a snow mound resolved itself into the bulk of a sprawling house, not unlike his parents’ dwelling, round windows shuttered to keep in the light, thick bulging walls to hold in the warm in winter and keep it out in the hot months of summer.

Rocco tapped at the door—two taps, a pause, one tap, and no more (His own door? Bucca wondered) and waited. The door opened the barest crack to admit them to the dark interior, and only after the door closed was the cover taken from a lamp to light the room they’d entered.

Bucca gasped, for the room was well-filled with bodies, though of a size to comfortably hold a number of Little Folk in feasting or talk. Hobbits filled only a part of the space, however, settled on chairs and chests and even on the table or leaning against the walls. A goodly amount of space was taken up by two tall Men, who sat upon the floor near the hearth.

Thorn stepped forward quickly, going to one knee before the Men, pulling Bucca after him. ‘My lord and prince,’ the old healer said respectfully.

The younger of the two Men nodded. ‘Rise, Thorn,’ he said. ‘What news do you have?’

 ‘News, my lord?’ Thorn said, rising in obedience to the command, steadying himself with a hand on Bucca’s shoulder.

 ‘Have you seen my brother?’ the prince of Arthedain said. To healer’s ears the words were slow and slurred, hampered by exhaustion or injury. ‘He said he’d seek you for a guide.’

Guide? Bucca wanted to ask. He saw the same question in his father’s face, but old Thorn merely replied, ‘I have not seen the Lord Aranarth, my prince, nor had word of him, since he came in the falling time, when the leaves were golden, to seek archers for the high king’s service.’ He paused, and dared to ask a question. ‘You have need of a guide?’

The other Man answered, ‘The Road is too vulnerable to attack. I thought to take the king’s sons and their families through the shelter of the woods and into the wild hills beyond.’

Bucca’s mind was reeling; he’d hardly heard what the aide said, past the word “attack”. Part of him wanted to thrust himself out of this room, race back to his home where only mothers and children now waited, and bar the door.

His father was nodding. ‘Indeed,’ he said, and waited.

 ‘Fornost is fallen,’ the prince said. He would have fallen himself, were he not already sitting. As it was, he slumped against his aide.

Thorn sprang forward, bending over as the prince was eased to the floor, his head in the other Man’s lap. He pulled the muffling cloak away from the throat to settle his fingers there, and nodded reassurance. ‘A swoon,’ he said. ‘Water!’

A basin of water was brought, and he pushed aside the dark hair to bathe the young lord’s face with a dampened cloth while the aide watched. It was not long before the eyelids fluttered open once more, eyes dull with pain and weariness.

 ‘Berenarth? What orders?’ the aide hissed. ‘We cannot stay.’

 ‘Go out again?’ Thorn said, standing to his full height to look the Man in the eye. ‘He’s in no condition...’

 ‘We dare not stay,’ the aide said. ‘We will bring danger down on your heads, death...’

 ‘They are in deadly peril in any event, old friend,’ Berenarth said, his grey eyes gaining focus. ‘They must seek shelter of their own, lest they be slaughtered in their byres and barns while peacefully going about their business.’ He struggled upright, and the other Man helped him to regain his sitting position.

 ‘Slaughtered?’ Bucca said impulsively. Thorn took his arm in warning, but he shook his father’s grip away. ‘Slaughtered? What of the King? What of his army?’

Berenarth shook his head. ‘So far as I know, they fight still upon the North Downs,’ he said. ‘My father took the greater part of the army to draw the Witch-king away from Fornost, to gain the people time to escape. Even so, his forces came down upon the city in the midst of the evacuation, and the fight was bitter to save what we could of our families, of the people...’

 ‘My son,’ the words were wrung from Thorn, though he knew the protocol. Part of the agreement giving Hobbits the Shire had been to acknowledge the high king as lord. One spoke to the king or his sons when spoken to, or when given leave to speak. Thankfully the high king and his sons came seldom to this part of the realm, for the free-and-easy Hobbits had no such rules amongst themselves—though as a rule they were shy in the face of Big folk—and only the chieftains had the presence of mind to treat with their lord in the appropriate manner. ‘My people—the archers who fight for the king; do they return with you now?’

 ‘They fight on the North Downs,’ the aide said quietly, ‘with the King.’

Thorn bowed his head, but raised it again to say, ‘And when will they return? Will they follow you?’

 ‘The King will try to follow if he can,’ Berenarth said. ‘We are to seek the land of Lindon and the harbours there. If Gondor sails to our aid as promised, her ships might even now be tied up, her soldiers debarking. With our people safely in Lindon we can return with the forces of Gondor, to drive the Witch-king from our lands once more.’

Thorn and Bucca exchanged glances. The Shire, it seemed was caught between the two opposing forces. Berenarth’s warning of slaughter rang true.

Thorn stood forth, turning to address the hobbits who crowded the room. ‘Rouse the Shire!’ he said. ‘There is no time to lose! Tell them to take as much as they can, for what they leave they’ll not see again... but seek the safety of the woods and wild hills!’

 ‘Empty the storeholes if you can,’ Bucca added. ‘Somehow I think we’ll not be planting new crops this spring. Take as much food as can be managed, and find places to hide it in the wilds. We’ll be eating acorn-meal and wild mushrooms as it is, before this is over.’

Rocco stationed himself by the door, assigning each departing hobbit to a community or clan to be warned. They would spread the warning far and wide in the eastern part of the Shire, to the north and south of the Great Road. He paused and raised his voice to ask the Thorn, ‘And what of the folk who live By-the-water? And in Michel Delving, on the way to the Far Downs?’

 ‘They’re on the Road, or near,’ Thorn said. ‘They’ll have their warning soon enough. The Marish is most vulnerable now, broad and open and closest to the River.’ He looked to the prince. ‘We have kept our part of the bargain, my lord. We have kept the Bridge of Stonebows and all the roads in good repair.’

 ‘You have indeed,’ Berenarth said wryly. ‘One would hope for many such loyal subjects in a more peaceful time. Your well-kept roads will speed our retreat, but they will offer no hindrance to the enemy.’

 ‘We could throw down the Bridge,’ the aide said urgently, but the prince shook his head.

 ‘No time,’ he said. ‘The Bridge is well built and has stood as long as the towers of Annuminas, longer, indeed. We will speed the people on their way, as quickly as may be, and station a body of defenders on this side. At least we can hold off a superior force for some time; the Witch-king’s forces will have to cross by Bridge or barge, and the ice will make boats a tricky proposition.’ His hand tightened on his aide’s arm. ‘Go now, give the orders. I will be rested and ready to go on when you return.’

 ‘You wanted a guide, my lord?’ Thorn said.

 ‘Yes,’ Berenarth said, settling back and accepting the cup that one of the hobbits had poured for him. His hand dwarfed the tiny vessel, and he drank the contents in a single gulp, wiping his mouth and nodding thanks as the cup was filled again. ‘My family is hidden in the byre, amongst the hay, lest disaster come upon us suddenly. We need someone to guide us through the woods and wild hills, towards the Towers on the far hills facing the Sea.’

 ‘Bucca,’ Thorn said, turning to his son.

 ‘I can take them as far as the Towers,’ Bucca said. ‘That’s as far as Tokka and I went, in our wanderings.’ They’d never have gone that far; most Hobbits wouldn’t, had it not been for one twin’s curiosity when the other tween would have turned homewards. Which twin? Well, they’d been bold by turns. It was only when they’d caught sight of the great Sea shining beyond the Tower Hills that good sense had won out and they’d both agreed that it was time to turn their faces back towards home and hearth again.

 ‘My thanks,’ Berenarth said. ‘Perhaps we could stop at your farm, to see if my brother has come.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Bucca said, but he was thinking of Comfrey, and Lavender, and Primrose, and the children. Tokka’s sons, and his own...