A Balrog Is Come!

by Llinos
beta Marigold 

Herbie Pottleshaw had felt decidedly miffed when he was ordered by the Thain to fetch a pint of ale to make reparations to Tom Cotton. After all, it was Thain Peregrin himself that had caused the wasps to sting the old farmer and now he, Herbie, was going to miss all the fun. And why did he have to go a mile and a half to the Green Dragon when the Ivy Bush was just round the corner?

Nevertheless, he was not one to argue, especially with such important hobbits as The Thain, The Mayor and The Master giving the orders. Besides, he was bound to get a good tip from Farmer Cotton, just so long as he managed to wheedle a pint of 1420, a fermentation that was becoming increasingly rare, out of the barmaid.

Herbie had expected to find the inn deserted, so he was quite surprised to discover a bustling trade going on.

A couple of gaffers sat by the fire, which burned summer and winter alike, partly for the atmosphere and partly so they could bang their pipes out into the embers and relight from the copious spills provided there.

An assembly of dwarves sat pie-eyed before a mountain of empty beer mugs, having taken a detour in their journey from the Glittering Caves to Bree to sample the renowned ale of The Shire.

Some rowdy tweens were taking advantage of the freedom from mature stern gazes upon their antics. The Engine, they had decided could be seen in action later; why waste an opportunity to have the inn to themselves for once, with no parental reprimands about their drinking and smoking. They were clustered around the long table and engaged in a tale telling contest, which obviously involved a great deal of imagination and a lot of very real drinking.

Young Poppy Hollowtree was minding the bar, not her usual task, as she normally only collected dirty beer mugs and washed them. But today the landlord and his wife had taken a chance that she would manage and joined the throng in the Party Field to see the amazing new engine. Besides, Gammer Barlimow was upstairs, elderly and bed-ridden though she was, the old landlady could still be called upon for lucid instructions and guidance.

"Oi there Herbertimus!" Rolando Puddifoot called out from the table as he entered. "You got bored with the great engine already?"

"Not at all!" Herbie did not like to be called "Herbertimus". "You don't know what you're missing!"

"Oh I seen engines going afore," lied Rolando. "Tain't as good as a day in the pub without your gaffer breathing down your neck."

"It tain't the engine as is the entertainment!" Herbie grinned knowingly. "It's watching the Thain and the Master trying to make it go! You wouldn't believe what they got up to!"

"Well get yourself a pint of best and tell us!" Rolando, full of largesse and ale, flicked a ha'penny at Herbie.

"I'll get my own, ta muchly Rolly." Herbie knew he should not stop for a sup, but he did not want to be outdone by a know-it-all Puddifoot and he certainly had a tale to tell.

A pint and a half of best bitter later, Herbie was in his element. Even the old gaffers had joined the table and were guffawing loudly as Herbie related how the Thain had leapt at least 30 feet into the air, performed a double backwards somersault and then described the Master's daring feat of stopping the engine single-handed with his bare teeth. Ale and enthusiasm were great aids to story telling, besides these hobbits wanted a good yarn, not boring facts!

Herbie had just reached the end of his second pint and the part about the wasps, when he suddenly remembered his mission. "I'm sorry lads," he noisily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Got to go. I'm on a special errand for Cap'n Peregrin himself, I don't doubt he'll give me a ride on his engine when I get back."

Slightly unsteadily Herbie rose from the table and slapped the Thain's coin on the bar. "A pint of 1420 for Cap'n Peregrin," he announced grandly, well aware of the gasps that went up.

"I'm so sorry sir," Poppy bobbed a curtsey, now quite in awe of Herbie after his grand stories and clearly important social connections. "I'm not allowed to draw that, it has to be done by the landlord hisself, and he be away at the Party Field with the Missus."

"Well the Thain is going to be mightily put out and I comes back without it!" Herbie said in his sternest tone, which would not be that intimidating to most hobbits, but young Poppy was suitably impressed.

"I'll go and ask Gammer Barlimow," Poppy curtseyed again. "She'll know what to do." And without waiting for further remonstrations she hurried off upstairs to consult with the matriarch.

"Hoi Poppy!" Rolando called after her. "We need another round here."

"And the fire's gone out!" One of the old gaffers shouted. "You need to fetch some kindling and more logs."

"Don't trouble her now," Herbie sniffed imperiously. "She's about the Thain's business."

"The Thain can mind his own business!" The gaffer retorted indignantly. "My old bones need a bit o' warming and how am I supposed to light me pipe?"

"I'll see to it," Rolando announced pushing himself up from the table rather unsteadily. "No need for kindling, I've seen the landlord do this many a time. Then I'll get another round in." He winked conspiratorially at his comrades. "After all, a bit o' work deserves fair pay. One of you fetch the logs and I'll get the cinders."

Indeed the landlord of the Green Dragon was famous for his sprint through the main bar with a shovel full of hot cinders and cries of "mind yer backs!" Using burning coals from the kitchen stove was an expedient method of lighting all the fires in the pub without messing about with bellows and bits of sticks.

However, it must be said, that there was more skill in the operation than met the eye. Rolando found the shovel with no trouble and loaded it with red-hot cinders. Then he added a couple of burning coals, just to be sure, and pushed open the kitchen door with the landlord's signature cry.

"Mind yer baaaacckkkkssss! Aaaiiiieeee!" Rolando, full of ale and bravado, in his attempt to imitate the landlord's sprint caught his foot in the rush matting and the shovel full of burning coals went flying into the air.

Unfortunately the coals did not stay in the air. They landed in the crisp pile of new dry rushes set carefully aside to renew the flooring. The two elements blended well together and a crackle of flame started immediately.

Herbie, seeing the imminent danger, seized a jug from behind the bar and threw the contents onto the flames. Sadly, his prompt action was in vain. The jug actually contained lamp oil ready for replenishing the pub's lighting.

A wall of flames engulfed the corridor and quickly took hold of the well-seasoned timbers of the stairs, fanned by the draught from the back kitchen door, left open by the lad collecting logs. The fire also decided to follow another interesting route, as the oil ran along the rush-coated floor into the main sitting area.

"Everyone out! Everyone out! Quickly!" Herbie grasped hold of Rolando, who was still floundering about on the floor, and pulled him to his feet. "Come on Rolly, this whole place is going up in flames!"

The younger drinkers, none too steady themselves, helped the two old gaffers to the door, while the dwarves, still drunk but sobering up at the sight, made it through the front entrance in record time, all screeching, "Ai! ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!"

"Quick!" Gaffer Appleby urged, showing the wisdom of years. "Fetch some buckets."

"Where are they?" Rolando looked frantically around.

"I don't know," Herbie was, like his comrades, not a frequent patron of this particular hostelry.

"In the back of the kitchen!" Gaffer Appleby shouted. "Fetch some water from the Pool."

"Wait Rolly!" Herbie caught his arm. "You can't go back in there, the fire is right in front of the kitchen."

"At least everyone got out," Rolando exclaimed with relief. He turned questioningly to Herbie. "They did, didn't they?"

"Poppy!" Herbie started back towards the entrance. "And Gammer Barlimow – they're both upstairs!"

-TBC-

A/N: The landlord racing through the pub with a shovelful of hot coals is a childhood memory of my grandfather. He lit all the fires in his pub, The Red Lion, by this method and the cry of "Mind yer backs!" was his. Oh, but he never actually managed to burn the place down - as far as I remember.