Chapter 3

“What is it, then?” rumbled Gimli, turning around and rocking back on his thick boots to see more of the landscape behind them.  Frodo bounced up on his toes but was unable to see any more than the Dwarf.  The pallid light of the moon and stars did not illuminate the distance.  Aragorn dropped and pressed his ear to the ground and the Company stilled to allow him to listen.

For a long time he was silent, head and hands pressed flat to the weed-strewn earth.  Pippin stood it as long as he could, then crouched by the Ranger and peered into Aragorn’s intent face.  “Can you actually hear hooves?” the tweenager asked.

Aragorn smiled at him, the strain easing from his blue-grey eyes.  “Not hear so much as feel, Pippin.”  With that he took the young one’s hand and spread it flat against the blasted soil.  A thrill shot through Pippin as he did indeed feel muted movement, far away.  Sliding his furry feet out from him, he imitated the Ranger’s posture, fascination on his small face.  Merry nudged Frodo and they and the others grinned to see the tall form and the small stretched out in identical postures on the cold earth.

Aragorn rose, the smile still on his stern face.  “We may continue on for some hours yet,” he informed them, “but must seek shelter in the morning.  There is nothing to fear.  We are about to be treated to a wondrous rare sight, my friends.”

Refusing to answer any more questions (and ignoring Pippin’s insistent tugs of his long coat), the Ranger spoke with Gandalf and the Company resumed its march.  They walked through the quiet night with only short breaks.  An hour after sunrise, Aragorn herded them into a tumbled ruin of once-great buildings, now deserted and desolate.  Gandalf looked worried but Aragorn drew him aside and the two conversed privately, disregarding the hobbits, which were near bursting with curiosity.

“We will stop for the day here,” Gandalf announced.  “This is a good place … these tumbled stones will shield us from prying eyes and shelter us from the wind.  Samwise, would you start a meal?  We will take what rest we can while we can.”

Sam started a small fire between two sides of what might have been a small storehouse an age ago, now two walls and a triangle of crumbling roof, and put on water for tea and a hot breakfast.  Hummm, he thought to himself, porridge would fill the stomach and warm wind-chilled limbs…  With a quick glance to where his master stood on a large block of masonry with his cousins, Samwise unwrapped dried apple rings and raisins to add to the porridge and to tempt Frodo’s appetite.

Merry sat down on the block and began to swing his short legs, impatient with waiting.  No less curious than Frodo and Pippin, he was more pragmatic in hiding it.  His hand sought his pocket and began to play absently with the strange glass-like shards he had found and forgotten. 

“Ouch!”

Frodo and Pip turned towards him just as he was pulling his bleeding hand out of his pocket.  Merry shook droplets of blood off his fingers ruefully as Frodo caught his hand, spreading the fingers to examine the sharp, thin slice across the inside of his fingers, just below the first knuckle. 

“How did you manage this, Merry?” Frodo asked.

Merry grimaced - the cut stung abominably.  Tipping his hand to see better in the winter sun, he replied, “I found some odd things in the ruins and was fingering them.  Must have cut myself on the sharp edge.”  The pain increased as Frodo folded his hand shut, putting pressure on the small wound.  “Funny … I cut my hand when I picked them up, too.”

“You should be more careful,” scolded Frodo with the automatic overbearing of an elder cousin.  “Let’s see these odd things, then.”  Frodo grinned at him.  “What hasss it got in its pockets, Precious?  What, we wondersss?”

Pippin laughed in delight.  “That’s from one of Bilbo’s old tales, isn’t it, Frodo?  From the riddle-game he played with that nasty creature in the cave?”

“Well done, Pip!  All right, Merry, let’s see these mysterious things.”

“Ouch!” 

This time Pippin reached in Merry’s pocket and withdrew his cousin’s clenched hand, bleeding afresh from a new cut.  “Stars, Merry, you’re bleeding a lot.  We’d better show this to Strider.”

“Pip, it’s just a little cut.”

“Two little cuts, Cousin.  Both of which are still bleeding.  C’mon, you.”  Frodo grinned at their retreating backs, sorry that Merry had cut himself but glad, for once, that it wasn’t him being dragged off to the Ranger to be patched up.  Humming to himself, he went to assist Sam in breakfast preparations.

Forgotten, the glass-like shards in Merry’s pocket quivered, moving slightly of their own accord.  The patches of moving blackness congregated along the two lines of blood on the razor-sharp edges, and the blood thinned then disappeared.  They had been two when the young hobbit had picked them up.  Now they were four.

* * * * *

Since Sam and Frodo had made breakfast, Merry and Pippin cleaned it up.  Merry had to scour the pots one-handed, for his right hand was wrapped in a thick bandage.   Frodo and Sam rolled out their bedrolls for them and then waited for them to join the rest of Company.  The vibration of the earth was very noticeable now; even the air seemed to rumble with the approach of what must be thousands of hooves.  Aragorn made certain that they were all safely behind large blocks of stone then turned to face them, his eyes sparkling with rare happiness.

“They are coming,” was all he said, and refused to say any more until the source of the rumbling came into view.  Thousands they were … tens of thousands.  The Fellowship watched in wonder as the great bulls came first, spearheading the migration.  Cows and calves came next, kept to the center by the young bulls on the outskirts, tossing their great horned heads and rolling their eyes.  Their reddish-brown coats shone in the sun, a white stripe at their breasts and running the length of their flanks, and their great flat hooves churned the soil as they passed.

“Every year they pass this way,” Aragorn said, joy in his eyes as his watched the magnificent animals.  A great bull lowered his antlers and shook them as he passed, and the Ranger softened his voice.  “Snow-deer, they are called.  Caribou, by some.  They pass from the northern tundra-lands to the southern grass fields in the winter and return in the summer.  They are excellent meat and I will shoot a young one for our dinner.  But they are beautiful, in and of themselves.  It brings me pleasure beyond measure to see that, in the travails of the world in these evil times, that they still grace the world, trodding the path laid out for them by the Valar.”

The hobbits sought their bedrolls long before the last of the great deer had passed, and it testified much to their weariness that they slept in spite of the shaking earth and sun in their eyes.   But Merry lay sleepless for a long time, for the cuts stung and burned seemingly all out of proportion to their size.

* * * * *

The meat was excellent.  When the hobbits awoke late in the day, Boromir and Aragorn had quartered and spitted a young snow-deer, roasting it slowly above a low fire.  Sam dug deep in his pack and unearthed his treasured sacks of spices, flavoring the meat with rosemary and thyme.  Legolas asked for the young bull’s antlers.  Running his long hands over the horns, the  Elf imagined carving knife-hilts and other uses for them when time did not press upon them so urgently.  Gandalf would not allow them to smoke the remainder, so the two Men estimated how much meat the Fellowship could consume in the next few days and regretfully buried the rest.

Instead of leading them out, the wizard motioned Aragorn to the point and stood silent and attentive as the Company passed him.  Pippin saw that his brow was furrowed and his lined face focussed; he leaned on his staff with both hands wrapped tightly around it.  Looking behind him, the hobbit watched as Gandalf heaved a great sigh and abandoned his stance, evidently not satisfied with whatever he was seeking.  Muttering to himself, the wizard strode past them and rejoined the Ranger, keeping their voices too low for the tweenager to hear.

The Company marched more quickly as the night deepened, the rest and nutritious food warming their limbs.  There was something peaceful about walking in the moonlight, the stars twinkling above.  Despite his regret at missing Elrond’s feather beds and laden supper-tables, Pippin sighed happily, looking forward to adventure.  Frodo seemed more at ease, too, the tweenager noted, his face not so strained and tense.  Only Merry seemed stiff and uncommunicative, growling, “I’m fine, Pip.  Leave me alone,” when Pippin tried to strike up a civil conversation.  Pippin dropped back and walked behind him, troubled by the change in his adored elder cousin.

With only brief stops through the long night, the Company was weary when the first brushstrokes of dawn painted the sky above the far mountains.  It was still too dark to see clearly when Gandalf allowed them to stop, obviously uneasy about something.  After some deliberation, the wizard chose a campsite among yet more ruins, a narrow place between the standing sides of two buildings.  It must have been an alley in ancient days, but now the isolated walls served well as a windbreak.  With relieved sighs, they chose their places along the walls and sank down to roll out their bedrolls.  Sleep came quickly, for they were very tired.

Pippin sat up in his blankets and watched the world brighten, worrying about Merry.  Boromir, taking the first watch, rose and stretched, walking around the camp to ward off weariness and keep himself alert.  Passing the young hobbit, the Man smiled at him and motioned for him to sleep.

Lying down, Pippin again felt the faint rumbling of the earth that had preceded the passage of the herd.  The youngster splayed his hand against the ground and laid his ear against the earth, as Aragorn had taught him.  Odd … he could clearly “hear” the herd ahead of them, but he also thought he could feel other hoof beats, fewer in number but nearer and –

“’Ware, camp!  Attackers!” Boromir’s voice roared over the dawn birdcalls, bringing Aragorn and Gimli and Legolas to their feet with their weapons at the ready.  An arrow whistled past them, striking a stone and skittering off to bury itself in a clump of bushes.  The hobbits struggled free of their blankets and drew their small swords, startled to find Gandalf there, pushing them together.  Now the wizard cursed the high walls that had sheltered them from the wind, unable to see past them to their attackers. 

Gandalf growled, his sharp eyes sweeping ‘round the ruined walls that constrained them.  “Their movements were camouflaged by the movement of the herd, their horses’ hoof beats hidden among the others.  I could not tell them apart from the thousands of animals they moved among.”

“But why do they attack?” asked the Elf.  He raised a slender hand to shelter his eyes from the sun.  “We have little enough to steal.”

“We have the greatest treasure in the world,” returned the wizard, his eyes seeking out Frodo’s.  The Ring-bearer paled and his left hand strayed to his throat.  Then resolution filled his ashen face and he raised his sword.  It did not glow, and Gandalf and the hobbits released a breath of relief as they realized their attackers were not Orcs.

Samwise set himself at his master’s back, and Merry and Pippin arrayed themselves at his sides.  Gandalf nodded in approval.  With a worried glance at them, Legolas sprang lightly atop a fallen arch and from there sought the destroyed crown of one of the buildings, seeking cover from which to shoot.

“I do not think these are random brigands,” Gandalf explained.  “They knew to hide themselves among the snow-deer.  I think they have watched Rivendell, waiting for us to depart.  They knew we were heading East, which limited which roads we could take.  They know we carry something of great value.  These men have been given instructions.”

“Saruman?” whispered Frodo, and flinched under the look of rage that Gandalf turned to him.  Gandalf’s face softened.  “I am not angry with you, Frodo, but with Saruman and with myself.  I should have guessed that, his first attempt having failed, he would try again to obtain the Ring.  He no longer has limits on how low he would stoop to gain what he desires.”      

Aragorn came up to them then and knelt before Frodo, looking into his eyes.  “Legolas has taken a sniper position atop that roof, there.”  They followed his arm and could barely see the top of the Elf’s head as he lay stretched out on the stone.  “Gimli is around the corner.  Boromir and I stand at each end of this passage and will allow none to pass.” Aragorn rose and now his dark eyes turned to the wizard.  “But … but if they do, Gandalf, you must defend yourself and the hobbits.” 

“These walls limit us –“

“And shelter us.”  Aragorn would not hear Gandalf’s self-recriminations.  “They cannot come at us in mass.  Better here than on the open plains, where they could shoot us down like dogs.”

Aragorn left them, his long sword firm in his hand.  Boromir glanced back at them over his shoulder, his great shield on his arm, his face dark and dangerous.  “I should have allowed Elrond to provide us an escort,” Gandalf growled.  “I should have -"

“Gandalf, will you give over?”  The wizard stared at Frodo in shock.  “If … if,” the hobbit continued, “saying ‘if’ is useless.  As far as I am concerned, it is by your efforts alone that the world is not already plunged into darkness.  I would have stayed happy and ignorant in the Shire, the Ring tucked away and forgotten … until they came for me.  The Ring would already be in the hands of the Enemy if you hadn’t stirred everyone up.”

Gandalf threw back his head and laughed so hard that his hat fell off.  Pippin retrieved it and held it up to the wizard.  Gandalf took it from him with a smile then turned to Frodo.  “Thank you, my friend,” he said gravely, humor still gleaming in his deep eyes.  Then the laughter faded as he heard the Elf’s bowstring twang and a scream resounded through their narrow shelter.  “The War of the Ring has begun.  Now we fight the first battle.”

* TBC *