CHAPTER 12

Berilac rode alongside Éothain. “How much further do we have until we reach Tharbad?”

The leader of the Rohirrim glanced down to Beri on his pony. “We can do one of two things: we can continue riding into the night, and arrive sometime in the middle of the night, or we can make camp this evening as we usually do, and arrive tomorrow, noontide at the latest.”

“Which do you recommend?” the hobbit asked.

Éothain shrugged. “It does not matter to me, Master Berilac. We shall have to wait for the others to rejoin us at any rate. So we will be waiting a day or so at the settlement no matter what.”

Berilac looked back at the others. He did not suppose the lads would mind riding through the night, but Viola was a different matter. He knew that she was far more timid than the rest of them, nor was she as experienced a rider. And then, too, there was the matter of meals. Denny and Rolly were cooking today. If they rode into the night, that meant supper in the saddle, after eating in the saddle all day. And Rolly had promised to make griddlecakes for supper.

“As you are leaving it up to me, then Éothain, I believe that we shall stop as usual. There is no need to change the routine.”

“Very well. And as Legolas and Gimli went with the others--” he broke off and called out “--Leodwald!”

The Rider trotted up; he was the one who had the job of riding with Cado today.

“Leodwald, give the prisoner to me; I would like you to scout for our campsite this evening, as the Elf is not here.” For that had been Legolas’ self-appointed task--to locate the evening’s campsites, and as he was so very good at it, the captains had seen no reason for him not to do so.

There was a brief halt, as Cado was transferred to É othain’s horse. The captains did not usually carry the prisoners, but in this case an exception was being made.

Cado scowled. It was bad enough being carried like so much baggage, with no consideration for his own wishes at all, but it was even worse to be shuffled off like that, like a sack of potatoes. He glared at the Riders and at Berilac Brandybuck, and was of course, totally ignored.

Leodwald trotted off ahead, and the rest of the group resumed their journey. Cado was miserably hot, and had come to detest the mingled stink of horse, sweat, leather and rust, that he was forced to endure for hour after hour. He could only think that Men must have less sensitive noses than hobbits, to be able to stand that particular smell. Éothain took a swig from the water flask he carried on his saddle. “Here.” He offered it to Cado, who took it, and wiped the lip of it off before taking a swallow himself.

Berilac looked over in surprise as Viola moved up to ride beside him. “Hullo,” he said with a smile. She smiled back, and they rode in silence for a while.

Cado glared. It was becoming obvious that the Brandybuck was enamored of the comely young healer’s apprentice. And now it looked like she was returning his regard. That was hardly fair; Brandybucks had all the luck. He could still remember Merry’s face and his fierce grin when he had laid both the brothers out at the Ball. If things had not moved so quickly, his father could have placed an action at law against Meriadoc Brandybuck for assault, that could have beggared the Brandybucks. But no, it would never have worked out that way, not with the Thain in charge. Sure, Paladin was his uncle, too, but Cado knew that he and his brother had never been forgiven for what they had done to Pippin long ago, and with Frodo Baggins as the acting Mayor, the Bankses would never have been able to pursue that line. Merry Brandybuck had powerful family and friends.

It just wasn’t fair that the Tooks and the Brandybucks and even the Bagginses had so much power, just because their families were old. The Bankses were very nearly as old a family line as the Bagginses, and there were certainly more of them. And the Tooks had that strange hankering for adventure and far places, and the Brandybucks were just wild and queer. Why couldn’t a *respectable* family be in charge of the Shire?

That had always been what he had heard from his father, who had never been happy with his sister’s marriage to Paladin Took--until he became Thain.

When Lotho had approached his father and Dago Bracegirdle it had seemed like such a good opportunity to grab a rise in status. But they should never have trusted a Baggins, even if he did have Sackville and Bracegirdle connections. It had all come to naught, and then his father had to try and keep his dealings with Lotho secret.

And of course, his brother’s stupid idea to attack the Men’s camp was what had ruined it all. If there was *one* lesson Cado had learned, it was *never* again to listen to any of Clovis’ ideas.

Clovis was bumping along miserably in front of Borondir. He kept remembering what Dago had said about that tattoo, and wondered if there were any way to get the Man to speak of it. Probably not; the Men followed the hobbits’ lead in not speaking to the prisoners any more than they could help.

Bergil was riding alongside. The lad was worried. “Borondir, do you think the others are in any danger? I mean, what if whoever killed that hobbit are still about?”

“That sounds unlikely, Bergil,” he replied. “From what the Ranger said, whoever it was had been killed quite some time ago--months and months, at least.”

“Oh.” But he still looked concerned.

“Do not let it fret you, Bergil,” said the Man. “I am sure they will all be well. And they have Captain Targon with them, as well as the Ranger and Legolas and Gimli.”

“That’s true.” Bergil brightened up. “I am going to have *so* much to tell Father when I get home.”

“You are indeed,” chuckled the Man affectionately. He had become very fond of Bergil on this journey. Of course, all the Men of the Third Company thought of themselves as the boy’s “uncles“, but since he had been in the Shire, he had absorbed some of the hobbits’ views of kinship. He was only a very distant cousin to Beregond in the way Men reckoned these things, but he had begun to count that blood closer than he once had. He supposed it was about time to return, as he thought, amused, that he was in some danger of being turned into a hobbit.

“I will be glad to get home and see Father,” Bergil said, “but it’s funny, Borondir, I rather miss the Shire already, also. It was a wonderful place.”

“Aye, Bergil, it was. I shall always count my journey to the Ringbearer’s homeland as one of the most wondrous experiences of my life.”

“The Ringbearer still seems very sad, doesn’t he?” asked Bergil.

“He does. But he went through so much, Bergil. I do not imagine it can be easy to forget his peril in the Black Land.”

There they go again, thought Clovis sourly. If they are not going on about how wonderful Pippin was or how brave the Brandybuck was or how great that gardener Gamgee was, they would be praising the “Ringbearer”. As though Frodo Baggins had hung the moon. As far as he could tell from his involuntary eavesdropping, all he’d done was to carry a little ring. Apparently Frodo had not even thrown it into the Fire on his own, if what he heard was correct. Yet they could not praise him enough. It was disgusting. If I could have put *my* hands on that Ring they’re always on about, things would certainly have been different, he thought.

He lost himself in a pleasurable fantasy about what he would have done with that kind of power. The first thing would have been to put that wretched Merry Brandybuck in his place…

As the afternoon was drawing in, Leodwald returned with the news that he had found them an ideal campsite, only a few more miles away. There was water and a pleasant glade on the east side of the Road. It would make a very nice spot to stop for the evening, although they would be stopping just a bit sooner than usual to take advantage of it.

It was most certainly a lovely camping spot. A small streamlet ran nearby, and a fallen tree had created a small natural dam, behind which a little pond had formed.

Jolly looked at the pond appraisingly. “I’ll bet there are some fish to be had there!” he exclaimed.

As soon as the campsite had been prepared, Jolly, Danulf and Borondir cut some willow branches for poles to which they could attach their lines.

Berilac and Viola decided to go mushrooming in a promising shady copse of trees, and Bergil came along. The two hobbits soon found some, and began to educate the boy in how to tell which ones were safe.

“Look! Here are some!”

Viola shuddered. “Bergil, I’m sorry, but those are very poisonous! We should all be sick, maybe even die, if we ate those!”

His face fell. “I gave Sir Pippin some just like this one time! He didn’t say anything!” He sighed. “I guess he just didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

“That’s probably true, Bergil. But now you will learn how to tell the safe ones, and will have a useful skill,” put in Berilac.

When the three of them returned, with a number of lovely and perfectly edible mushrooms, they saw that the anglers had good fortune as well.

They supped on fresh fish rolled in meal and fried in a bit of bacon fat, mushrooms and griddlecakes served with the last of the honey that Mistress Poppy had purchased in Bree. Afterward, Bergil and Anwynd brought out their flutes, and they had music until the moon was high. Then they all sought their bedrolls.

Viola had thought she might have trouble sleeping, missing her mistress, and being alone in the small tent that the healers used. However, she was asleep almost as soon as she had settled into her bedroll.

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The next morning they all arose early, and Berilac started on breakfast, with Viola’s and Jolly’s assistance.

When all had eaten they broke camp, and were once more on the road.

This morning, Dago rode with Leodwald, Clovis with Adrahil, Cado with Danulf, and Clodio with Artamir. Borondir and Anwynd were the banner bearers, and Éothain rode right behind them with Berilac at his side. The morning was hot and oppressive, and it seemed likely that there would be another storm that afternoon. But by then they hoped to already be in Tharbad.

“What is Tharbad like?” Berilac asked Éothain. “Is it similar to Bree?”

“No, Bree is an old town. Tharbad is just a settlement. It has only a few businesses--an inn, a smithy, a small shop selling dry goods, a few others. But more are coming in each week, and I believe that someday it will be a town just as prosperous as Bree.”

“It has an inn?”

Éothain smiled. “Yes, it does; a good sized inn. In addition there is a waystation there for Rangers and King’s Messengers. It is Targon’s plan that we, with the prisoners, stay at the waystation, and that you hobbits might stay at the inn. There is little enough chance of such a thing on this journey, and we thought to take advantage of it while we could.”

Berilac brightened considerably at this news. Camping was all very well and good; he didn’t mind it, as he knew Freddy did, but there was nothing like four walls and a bed. “Do you think the others will be there when we arrive?”

“No, I am quite sure that we will have to wait at least a day for them to return to us. Perhaps longer.”

Berilac was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “Do you have any idea as to why they would have found a dead hobbit?”

With a shake of his head, Éothain replied, “No, I am myself most puzzled. It is a mystery to me.”

Viola, riding behind with Jolly, Denny and Rolly, was hot and miserable. She took another swallow from her waterskin and looked at the others. One of the things that she knew she should watch out for in this sort of weather were signs of heat exhaustion. Most of them seemed to be all right, but--

She trotted over to Artamir. “I beg your pardon, Artamir, but *that one* is not looking any too well.”

Artamir pulled up and looked down at his charge. Clodio was quite red in the face, and seemed very listless. “You are right, Miss Viola; I should have been paying more attention. I offered him some water, but he refused it, and I did not insist.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m going to insist.”

“Lord Éothain!” Artamir called out.

Éothain signaled a halt, and trotted back. He looked disturbed when Viola explained that Clodio was suffering from the heat. They decided to take a short break, in the shade of some nearby trees, and the listless hobbit was coaxed, finally, into taking some water. Viola wet a cloth and bathed his face.

“He’s not all that badly off. I noticed before it became serious.” She looked up crossly at everyone. “Don’t you realize that you need to be drinking a lot of water in this heat? I don’t want to have to answer to Mistress Poppy if she returns and finds you’ve all dropped like flies to the heat!” As Clodio began to stir, she finally spoke to him. She didn’t much like it, but she was a healer, and that made it in the line of duty.

“Now, the next time you are offered water, you will take it, or you will have it poured down your throat! Do you understand me?”

Shocked both at being addressed at all, as well as the tone of her voice, he nodded numbly.

“Well, shall we get on with it then?” She noticed that everyone was gaping at her. “What?” she snapped.

Éothain hid a smile, and ordered the group to move out once more.

Berilac was grinning as he rode alongside É othain. “She’s pretty impressive when she gets angry, isn’t she?”

The Man studied the young hobbit’s expression, and then grinned himself. It appeared that Master Berilac was smitten with the young healer. He wondered how her mistress would take to that development. Out loud, he merely said “I have noticed that most healers are impressive when they are angry. And even the meekest and most timid of them will speak out when they think that others are not heeding their wise advice. I have seen King Elessar both as warrior and as healer, and I can tell you now, I would far prefer to offend the warrior than I would the healer!”

Berilac laughed. “The worst a warrior can do is to kill you. But with a healer you have to deal with their brews and potions and orders to stay abed.”

“Exactly!” They both laughed at this.

It was shortly afterwards that they began to notice the occasional small farm to one side of the road or the other. The little farmhouses were roughly built, of logs or new-cut wood, or even mud and wattle. The land around them still looked a bit raw from being cleared, but crops were growing in the little gardens and small fields.

Every now and then a farmer in his field would look up with a friendly wave, or a child would run in to tell his parents of the travellers.

Finally, they came around a bend in the road, and saw ahead of them the cluster of new buildings that indicated a settlement.

They had arrived at Tharbad.

And just in time for lunch, too.