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

Merry's Errand

Chapter 1

The sharp crack of hatchet against wood roused Frodo, as Merry had feared it would. There was little he could do to muffle the sound; if they were to have a fire, they must have wood. Worn beyond words, the hobbits were making camp in a small dark hollow, some nameless place well off the road between Weathertop and Rivendell. Strider was off scouting the area; Merry knew he feared that pursuit was close on their heels. But they could go no farther tonight.

Miles had passed beneath their weary feet; hobbits, Ranger and pony, day after exhausting day, yet seemingly bringing them no closer to the safety and surety of Elrond Halfelven’s home. How much longer until they could rest without fear, until Frodo could pass the burden of the Ring on to more competent hands? Even Strider, mighty fighter and hunter of all evil things, was no match for the minions of Sauron that came hard behind them. What hope did four hobbits from the Shire and a single Ranger have against the devouring evil and spite of the Great Enemy?

And Frodo’s wound was slowing them, the constant pain of his unhealing shoulder the cause of desperate anxiety for his friends and kinsmen. The splinter left in the wound from the Black Rider’s evil knife had injured more than his cousin’s shoulder; it had wounded the heart of their small company.

The night was already bitterly cold. Sam was unpacking his cooking gear from the pony, hanging the kettle to boil over the small fire Strider had kindled before leaving them. No, Merry thought, Aragorn. He has told us his proper name is Aragorn, not what the ignorant Bree villagers call him. He is our guide and friend, and his name is Aragorn.

Aragorn had lifted Frodo off the pony, laying him half-upright against their piled packs, and he and Pippin had covered him with all of their blankets. Frodo kept sliding in and out of wakefulness, and Merry was glad he had at least some escape from the pain. Gathering up the remaining boughs, Merry moved over and knelt next to his cousin, continuing his work of splintering branches with his small hatchet. He deftly stripped the twigs from the kindling and piled them carefully aside.

"Hullo, Frodo," Merry said softly. "I'm going to build up the fire so you won't be cold. There isn't much wood about so I'll have to go foraging. We can at least have a decent fire tonight; Aragorn says we are down far enough in this hollow that it won’t be seen."

Pippin sat on Frodo’s other side, cutting up potatoes. At his movement, Pippin eyed him worriedly and asked, "How are you, Frodo? Look, Sam is making supper. We’ll have hot stew and sausages before you know it."

Frodo slid away again before he could remember how to answer. When next he became aware, he saw that Aragorn had returned. He had gathered Sam and Pippin to him on the far side of the fire. They were whispering urgently together and staring out into the dark. Pippin was shaking his head and seemed distraught. Frodo cast his eyes around the small camp, missing something familiar … important. The stew bubbled in its pot, and the sausages had been pulled from the flames and laid on hot coals. For a moment Frodo could not identify what was lacking, then did. Merry. Where was Merry?

* * *
Merry, at that moment, was wondering the same thing. Firewood was hard to come by and he had been forced to seek beyond sight of the hollow. The moon’s light was faint and weak, hidden behind a layer of cloud, and did not illuminate the ground enough for easy foraging. What he thought were sticks were more often merely shadows on the ground, drawing him farther and farther and farther from their campsite.

"Brandybucks," Merry told himself firmly, "do not get lost. I grew up next to the Old Forest. I know every tree and path in Buckland and a good part of the Shire. I am not lost!" Meriadoc turned himself in a complete circle. Despite his adamant denial, he was no longer certain which way he had come. He could see nothing of his companions’ fire, could hear no murmured voices, smell no smoke. He longed to cry out for aid, but memory of what they fled before was never far from his thoughts and he would not risk drawing their pursuers to them.

He cast his small armful of wood to the forest floor and sat down in the shadow of a great old tree, heedless of yet more damage to his breeches and fine yellow waistcoat. How long he sat, he did not know. His legs ached and he was desperately hungry. Supper would be ready now, and Frodo would be needing the additional wood for warmth. Aragorn had said his cousin must not get cold. Stupid! Merry thought to himself, how could I get lost now? What does Sam call himself? Ninnyhammer! Pippin will be right in whatever name he chooses to call me!

Merry drew his knees up to his chest and pulled his cloak about him. Now that he was not moving, the cold seemed to seep up from the forest floor into his bones. He hoped that Aragorn would soon grow tired of waiting and come seek him. When lost, he had been taught as a very young hobbit, plant yourself somewhere safe and wait for help to find you. The moon climbed farther up into the sky, casting his unhelpful, cloud-obscured light before him. Despite the cold, Merry was nodding towards sleep when a sharp snap startled him into full wakefulness. Heart pounding fit to burst his chest, he huddled deeper into his cloak and listened.

At first he heard nothing. Then faintly, he began to hear soft shuffling steps, such as Men make when trying for silence. Slurring cloth came to his ears, quiet inhaled breaths, branches turned carefully aside. Merry’s tree sheltered in the shadows of a small glade; looking about him, he could see no safer refuge. He pressed himself deeper between the tree roots and pulled his hood over his face, making certain his legs and feet were covered by the cloak so that their fairness would not betray him in the gloom.

The soft sounds were coming closer. What noise they make! thought Merry. The Big People cannot move as hobbits do. I can track them by sound, if not sight. Scarcely had he made sure of his place when several tall shapes entered the small clearing, moonlight glinting on drawn swords. Yes, Men. He counted six, four of them almost twice his own size.

The foremost of the men summoned them with a hiss, and they gathered round him. Tall, yes, and ill favored; their clothes ragged and faces and hair dirty and unkempt. They stood not a stone’s throw from where Merry crouched among the tree roots. When the leader began to speak, Merry could hear him clearly.

"All right, lads," the man said softly. "We may have lost them but they can’t be far. Ferny says they turned north off the Bree road, and after that, they just disappeared into the Wild. We were lucky to have come across their trail. If we separate and search, we should have them before dawn."

Merry’s slim hope that this ill-favored party had nothing to do with his friends and him vanished. Brigands, beyond a doubt. He wondered if Aragorn had feared pursuit by others than Black Riders. Flight from the terror behind, he suspected, had blinded them to danger from the sides.

One of the shadows pushed its way to the front. As the figure turned in the dim moonlight, Merry saw it was the squint-eyed Southerner whom Frodo had called more than half an orc. The one Aragorn said had left The Prancing Pony so quickly with Bill Ferny, after Frodo’s public misadventure with the Ring.Merry felt an irrational rage sweep through him, and had to force calm upon himself enough to listen. "The hurt one is the one I want. The one that can’t walk and rides the pony. The others you may kill or sport with as you please. To the one who brings me the injured hobbit … this." Squint-Eye (as Merry named him in his mind) held up a worn leather purse, and even from his hiding place, Merry could see the weight of it. The men shifted and licked theirlips.

The leader of the men nodded. "Unburden yourselves of all not needed for the hunt. We can rest and sup when our work is done. Go warily. The little folk may not be a threat, but that Ranger is. Kill him first."

Merry watched them drop their packs and pull from them a formidable array of weapons. Already armed with swords, each chose a knife, club or short spear. Then the men turned and melted back into the woods.

Merry struggled to remain calm. Haring off into the under-brush, in no certain direction, would not help his friends. Think! When he could no longer hear their soft passage, Merry gathered himself and ran out into the glade. He tugged their packs into a mound and using the flint and tinder in his pocket, set each bedroll afire. The flames spread quickly to the rest of the packs.

A far-off yell informed him that his work had been noticed. He snatched up several packets of food discovered during his efforts and ran back beyond the light of the flames. Crashing sounds erupted from several directions. The flames were licking higher and hotter, igniting the dry grasses around the pyre. A man leapt into the clearing, stared at the fire for a moment, then swore as he tried to snatch a pack back from the general destruction. Within moments all of the six had returned; stamping on the flames, shouting, calling to each other for water and swearing. Merry crouched in the darkness and enjoyed the sight immensely.

He should have slipped away then, in the general confusion. Instead, he stayed to watch. Too long—a heartbeat later, a hand of iron closed upon his shoulder and slammed him face-first against the tree. His own small cry was lost in the bray of triumph of his captor. He was dragged out into the circle of light and thrown to the ground. As he levered himself up on his arms, he saw that his captor was the leader of the brigands.

"What do we have here, then," the man snarled softly. "A spy, a sneaking little fire-lighter? You’ll be sorry you found us, you little rat. We’ll take our dinner out of your filthy little hide!"

Merry looked up through a forest of legs. The men encircled him, cutting off any possibility of escape.

"It seems part of your work is done for you," his captor hissed softly. The surrounding men chuckled evilly.

Merry was turned to face the dying flames of his fire and Squint-Eye peered into his face. "Not that one, blast it," he muttered. "But one of his companions, and worth something for that."

"At least we can have some fun to make up for the loss of our beds and dinner," said the leader. "After we’ve got the others, that is. I’m sure this little rat will save us some time and tell us where they are … if’n we ask him the right way." At the leader’s nod, Squint-Eye reached down and wrenched Merry’s sword from his sword belt. The creature strode to the dying flames and laid the blade down in the yellow heart of the fire. The evil chuckles from the watching men made Merry’s stomach lurch with fear but did nothing to lessen his resolve not to say anything that might betray his friends.

Merry writhed in the man’s grasp as he tightened his hold, crushing small shoulder bones together with enough force to pull the hobbit off his feet and dangle him for a moment in the air. He stifled a cry, not wanting to give them any satisfaction. "Don’t know where they are," he gasped. "I was gathering fire wood, and got lost." A moment later, he regretted that he had not just chosen a direction and sent them there; the chances of it being the right one were small.

"I’m sure we can get a better answer out of you than that," returned Squint-Eye. "Bring him closer to the fire!"

Merry was dragged to the smoldering remains of his handiwork. Briefly, he considered telling them of the food packets hidden in the tree roots, then discarded the idea. Simply returning their food would gain him no clemency. The leader forced him to his knees before the sullenly flickering flames. Another tall man knelt behind Merry and grabbed him by his curly hair, forcing his head back while gripping both small wrists tightly in his other hand. A third crouched beside him and unfastened his cloak, then jacket and waistcoat, tearing them off roughly. Last went his shirt. Stripped to the waist, Merry shivered with cold and fear.

"A little inducement to tell us where your friends are," the leader said casually. "Amazing how a hot brand held to the throat or belly can hurt, without damaging you too much to talk or walk. A burn is such a painful thing … it doesn’t stop hurting when the brand is removed, but continues on and grows worse." While speaking, the man had donned a pair of heavy gloves from his pocket and now picked up Merry’s sword from the hot coals on which it had rested. The small blade glowed a sullen red, shading to yellow then white at the tip. Merry could see the fine steel shimmer as the waves of heat rolled off it, could feel the heat like a hearth fire poker held too near his skin.

The leader held the glowing sword before the hobbit’s eyes, watching the reflection of the bright blade in the huge, dark pupils."A last chance, little rat," he said softly. "Where are your friends?" Merry shut his eyes and knelt silent before him.

Heat blossomed along his cheek, not touching yet but very close. It was withdrawn and cool air rushed to fill the space where it had been.The heat returned, inched farther up, and Merry was sure the blade would be laid against his closed eyes. Again the searing heat withdrew. They were taunting him, he realized. Enjoying his panicked breaths and the perspiration that rolled unbidden down his brow.

He prayed that he could hold to his resolve to make no sound. He did not know how far he was from camp, and did not want his kin to hear. He would tell these men nothing, but feared that cries might be forced from him nonetheless, in spite of all his will.

"Get on with it," snarled the half-orc. The men growled agreement, intent on their sport. Merry clamped his lips together and tried to block out all awareness.

So it was that he missed the blinding rush of speed that was Aragorn as the Ranger sprinted silently across the clearing and in one stroke just above Merry’s head, swept from their shoulders the heads of the brigand leader and one of his henchmen. Aragorn turned and thrust, and the man imprisoning Merry’s wrists cried out and fell. The two remaining brigands now had their own swords in their hands and fell howling upon the Ranger. Turning aside their blows, Aragorn retreated from the clearing, pushing the stunned Merry behind him. One man sought to close with Aragorn; the other wove about him, seeking an opening.

Stumbling, Merry got his feet under him and ran. Aragorn leaped to the side, parrying the brigand’s thrust, then turned his blade and slashed sideways. The man cried out, fell and was still. The last brigand shuddered to a stop, threw his sword to the ground and fell to his knees.

"Mercy, master," he cried. "We meant no harm to the little folk! It was the other, who promised gold!"

Aragorn stayed his sword, holding it before the eyes of the terrified mercenary. "Merry!" he shouted, "Merry! Are you well?"

"I am not hurt," Merry replied, crossing the glade to rejoin his rescuer. "Thanks to your timely arrival, they did no more than threaten."

"Well for you," Aragorn said to the remaining man, "that you did not harm my friend. Where is the other?"

"I do not know," the man gasped. "He was here when first you came upon us,but has he slipped away into the darkness. He offered us gold to capture your party. Not to harm them! Only to capture, and ask questions. We would not have truly hurt them. Mercy, master."

"Go," responded Aragorn. "If I find you on our trail again, I will surely kill you." The terrified brigand ducked his head and scuttled sideways like a crab. The sounds of his crashing retreat echoed long after he was gone. The clearing was silent except for the pings of cooling metal. Merry took a deep breath, trailed over to his discarded garments and began to dress.

"Come," Aragorn said to Merry as the hobbit fastened his cloak. "We must get back to camp. Did you lose the way?"

"Yes," Merry admitted. "Then I could not call for help, with danger so near. I overheard their plans so I set the fire, which drew them back. They found me and took me, and had you not come when you did, it would have been grievous for me." The last was delivered with a quaver he could not hide.

Aragorn knelt and looked into his eyes. "I watched from hiding for several moments, deciding how best to attack. I am proud of you. You did well, and bravely. Now come. I do not wish to leave the others alone overlong, with two of them still free."

"Half a moment," Merry said, remembering. Running back to the tree where he had hidden them, he dug between the roots and unearthed the packets of food. "Little recompense for this night’s pains," he said, "but certainly needed." Gingerly he retrieved his sword from where the brigand had dropped it and angled it carefully into his scabbard by the hilt. "Let me gather up the wood and I will come."

Merry again lost all sense of direction on the walk back through the shadowy forest. After hearing the tale in full, Aragorn bade him keep silent of the half-orc’s words; the others had cares enough. Frodo, Sam and Pippin greeted them with relief, which turned to astonishment when Merry produced food in the midst of the wilderness (further solidifying Pippin’s conviction that Merry’s cleverness knew no bounds). To his own disbelief, Merry learned that only an hour had passed since he first ventured out on his errand. An hour that, after the fact, he reckoned had scared about five years from his life.

* * *
Another hour and all were relaxed and filled with food. The extra food taken from the brigands provided the small company with an unexpected feast; fresh bread and ripe apples and sliced ham, a change more than welcome from dried and salted travel-food. It would not last so they ate it all, and there was enough even for famished hobbits. Merry’s tale, carefully edited, had been told. Pippin especially was enthusiastic in his admiration of his cousin’s bravery, even overlooking his getting lost in the first place. Frodo slept, weary but warm. The wood that Merry had nearly paid so dearly for was a crackling comfort, the flames dancing in the darkness.

Lying next to Frodo, Merry turned the night’s adventure over in his mind. He stretched and rolled his shoulders, aching from the man’s cruel strength.He still imagined he could feel the heat of his sword against his cheek. He could not spare much sorrow for the still bodies back in the glade, but he did regret their deaths. And where had that miserable squint-eyed half-orc got off to? They would have to be moving again before many hours passed. Best rest while he could. Sam was already snoring, and nothing could be seen of Pippin under his blanket but the tip of his nose. Before dropping off himself, the last thing Merry saw was Aragorn sitting cross-legged with his back to the fire, smoking his pipe, eyes gleaming as he watched the darkness.

Feeling safe, Merry slept.

* TBC *