~ Content warning for Chapters 53 through 55: angst and minor character death ~

Chapter 53. The Battle of Bree

Over the course of my journeys, I have learned to spring from a standstill to my top speed in the time it takes to blink an eye. Thus, I hit the half-door to my enclosure at a full gallop, completely taking by surprise the ruffian who is entering. Who intended to enter, I should say.

For the force of my charge, throwing all the weight of my body (rail-lean though I might be) and all the hard muscles I have forged over the past weeks, along with fierce determination against the swinging door and the Man partly behind it, propels him backwards and downwards. With a sharp cry, he sprawls on the stones outside my loose-box. Happily, the half-door is well-built and securely mounted. I am glad that the innkeeper's property remains undamaged.

The impact helps me to halt on the spot. I take advantage of the Man's momentary helplessness to bring my sharp, iron-hard hoof down upon the thick, sturdy handle of the whip he holds, snapping it neatly and rendering the weapon impotent.

The stables' central space is all confusion; the intruders are shouting, the horses and ponies screaming, rearing and plunging, kicking and striking out with their forefeet, snapping viciously at any hand that dares to come near enough to grab at a headstall. It is a very good thing that the central space is paved with flagstones and was well-swept of any dust or wisps of hay or straw earlier, for the Men who bore torches have dropped their fire-tipped sticks, and most of them have thrown up their hands and arms to shield their heads and faces from equine attack.

One of the horses rears and flails, causing the Men closest to her to duck away in fear. Flee! that mare trumpets at the top of her voice. Flee for your lives!

So compelling is her neigh that I pivot with the rest towards the yawning doorway, and I lead the plunging exodus all the way to the archway where the inn meets the street. Before that point, when still only a few strides past the stable door, I instinctively lift my forequarters to leap over an unexpected lump or log on the ground. Behind me, I hear the repeated sound of an interrupted gallop, informing me that the stampede following in the wind of my passing are doing the same. It is only prudent, if only to avoid stumbling and falling and becoming another obstacle subject to trampling hoofs in our rush to escape the menacing strangers.

...but the street outside the inn offers no safety, only more chaos and confusion. I hear the sounds of glass breaking and splintering wood, as if the inn and other buildings are under attack. Ahead of our thundering herd, struggling bodies fill the street, their shouts arising in a cloud of steam; the icy air is heavy with fury and fear. 

Just after passing under The Prancing Pony signboard and emerging onto the street outside the inn, I find I must swerve to avoid a limp form on the ground before me. My half-turn brings me into the midst of the commotion.

A tall form swings a club – not at me, perhaps, but I am passing him at just the wrong moment. I squeal at the impact and pivot to confront him, but two others are there before me, someone half the ruffian's size, and another that might be a tall Hobbit or, perhaps, a short, apron-wearing Man. The latter throws himself against the club-wielder's chest and, ducking his head to try and avoid potential blows, catches him in a tight hug and strives to bear him to the ground. The flailing club strikes his back and shoulders, but he holds on with grim determination. The Hobbit with him sees his opportunity and dives into the struggle, first seizing upon the ruffian's club to stop its attack and then sinking his teeth into the Man's hand to encourage the rogue to loose his hold on the weapon.

I hear a pain-filled shriek behind me, but there is no time to look around. I dare not even kick out behind me in support of those defenders of the town, lest I should injure one of them instead of the rogue Man. I swerve again to avoid the body of another Man on the ground – whether ruffian or defender, I cannot tell in the semi-darkness, lit only by the bright lamp over the entrance to the inn, the light shining from shattered windows on both sides of the street, and the few torches that have not yet been knocked to the ground.

All around me are similar struggles between rogue Men, wielding clubs and whips, and Bree-landers. The latter comprises both Men and Hobbits, mostly unarmed, but united in their determination to beat off the ruffians' attack on the town. 

I raise my voice to shout to the excited horses and ponies now mingling in the melee. Target the club- and whip-wielders! Kick them! Strike them! Seize their weapons with your teeth and yank them away! Run them down and chase them to the Gate and out of the town!

Too late, I take warning from smelling a familiar sour reek just off my near side. I duck away, but not in time to avoid the rope that settles over my head and tightens around my neck.

'There I have you, you miserable jade!' As I whip my head around, opening my jaws wide that I may savage the hand that holds me, sharp pain rains upon my head, neck and shoulders from the lash in his free hand in accompaniment to his shouts of rage. 'I'll teach you to defy me!'

'Here's your pony, Ferny, just as you wanted!' sounds from behind me, and I recognise the voice of my would-be captor from back in the stables. His tone betrays pain and breathlessness from our earlier encounter. 'But you owe me for my efforts! "He'll give you no trouble," you said. Hah! You'll pay me double what you promised, or I'll take it out o' your skin!'

Momentarily wresting my attention from the rope around my neck and the punishing blows from the heavy lash, I plant my front feet and kick out behind me with both heels, connecting solidly with my intended target, I warrant, for the demands break off with satisfying suddenness.

Having taken care of that particular business, I turn my attention back to the matter at hand. A vigorous stomp of my sharp hoof upon his boot with all the weight I can bring to bear, for starters. Then, ignoring his howls, I duck my head – which he might mistake for my giving in to him, I suppose, except that I bring it up again abruptly on my way to rearing up on my hind legs, delivering a solid blow with my crown to his chin in passing.

Even as he falls back to avoid my beating at the air between us, he drops both whip and rope's end and raises his arms to protect his face and head from my flailing hoofs. He seems to shrink before my eyes, from the remembered terror of my days and nights to little more than a dog, snarling and cowering before me. And then, though I only threaten and do not strike again, his eyes roll up in his head, and he crumples to the ground, still shielding his head with his arms.

As I come down on all fours before him, the rope still hangs from my neck, but no longer choking-tight and, thus, presenting little impediment or menace.

The tone of the tumult seems different now. The ruffians' jeers and bullying shouts have changed to a more panicked sound, 'C'mon! Get out! Run!'

The townsfolk are yelling almost the same words. 'Get out! Get out of here!' And more of the same feeling expressed with different words.

My would-be captor stumbles past me, giving me a wide berth, and seizes the creature cowering before me by one arm. 'Come on, Ferny! We've got to get out of here!'

I stand quiet now and watch them stumble away, supporting each other, along with other rough-looking Men, in the direction of the West-gate, escorted by an angry mob of Bree-landers and townsfolk wielding the clubs they wrestled from the invaders. Objects fly through the air – stones? Empty flowerpots from the stoops of the nearby houses? Vegetables, even? Whatever the missiles might be, they elicit a steady stream of yelps from the routed ruffians.

Thus, I perceive that the rogue Men are no longer my concern. I look around me to take stock of my surroundings.

Bodies lie scattered on the deserted street, some groaning and trying ineffectually to get up, while others are ominously still.

Someone – a Hobbit from his size, but clutching a ruffian's club in his hand – is bending over one of the supine figures. As the grumbling of the crowd recedes, his quiet, anxious pleading becomes audible. 'Master? Mr Butterbur? Please... Master?'

And then a groan emerges from the short, stout, Man on the ground, his apron shining uncannily white in the light from a nearby window despite a jagged tear and splotches of blood that bear witness to the ferocity of the recent fight.

'Master?' the Hobbit says again, but now desperate hope infuses his tone. 'Shall I fetch...?' His voice breaks off as he looks around at the wreckage that was once the main street of Bree. Exactly who or what he would fetch remains unspoken.

'Nob...' the Hobbit's master moans, and then the Man tries to raise himself up. 

The Hobbit shifts to one side, causing the light from the nearby window to fall upon his face. In that moment, I recognise the stable master's brother from our brief acquaintance before the Company set out on our long journey into the Wilderlands. He brought me a warm bran mash from the inn's kitchen that morning, and stopped to stroke my neck as he talked to my Sam and this-is-Bob-the-stable-master (as opposed to that-Bob-the-groom) about the happenings in the night. If I am remembering right, he works in the inn proper, serving the guests much as his brother serves the horses and ponies in the inn's stables, I should think.

Partly supporting and partly restraining the injured Man, 'Wait,' the Nob-hobbit protests, adding something about a healer.

But, 'Nonsense,' comes the reply, along with more struggles on the part of the Man, and finally the Hobbit relents and helps his master sit up. Only then do I recognise the innkeeper, bruised and battered, blood running down one side of his face, black blood like that of an Orc, or so I remember hearing somewhere or other, and I shy away before I can catch myself. 

His blood is as red as yours, the Voices whisper, and it is shed for your sake, among others. It is only the darkness that makes it look black to your eyes.

My sudden movement has drawn the innkeeper's attention to me. He stares at me and grasps the Hobbit's sleeve more tightly, saying, 'The pony! How has he come to be here? Have we lost all the other horses and ponies, then, as we did before?'

The Hobbit swivels his head to survey the street where my companions from the stables now stand, uncertain and unguided, singly and in pairs, scattered amidst the detritus of the aftermath of battle. The townsfolk saved us the trouble of chasing the ruffians from the town, but now we are all rather at a loss, to tell the truth. 'I think...' he begins, and swallows on a dry throat. He turns his face away and coughs, then tries again. 'It looks as if they are all here, not run away as before, Master.'

The innkeeper blinks and then carefully cranes his head to study the inn and surrounding buildings. 'They were going to fire the inn,' he says blearily. 'Break the windows first, and then throw torches in... Is...?' Even though he is sitting on the ground, he does not seem to notice the snow and the cold. But then he sways, and ends up leaning more heavily against the supporting Hobbit.

'We stopped them,' the Nob-hobbit says, his arms around his Master and his tone suddenly fierce.

But the innkeeper is not reassured. 'The stables...' he whispers, his gasping breaths forming clouds in the icy air, much as if he were peacefully puffing on a pipe, and somehow all the more horrible for that.

'From what I can see...' the Hobbit begins, but the Man pushes at him, muttering about his need to make sure the stables are safe before we can gather the beasts and put them away again. Thus checked, Nob stops speaking, then slowly helps the innkeeper to his feet.

The Man leans heavily on the shorter figure as they stagger together towards the inn's archway, but then they halt, and the innkeeper falls to his knees with a sob. 'Rowlie!' The still figure lying on the street before him lolls in his grasp.

The Hobbit bows himself almost to the ground, lingers for a few moments, and then slowly pushes himself upright. 'I'm that sorry, Master Butterbur. He's gone.' His voice breaks on the last word, and in the shadowy darkness, I see him drag his arm and hand across his eyes.

The innkeeper kneels for a long moment, head bowed, then struggles to his feet once more. 'Stables,' he whispers, turning to one side and wiping at his face. He stops a moment, seeing the blood on his hand, and then he seems to shake off weakness and speaks with determination. 'Stables, first. Make sure the stable block is intact, and then help Bob and the others round up all the horses and ponies...'

I nicker to my fellow equines, and they fall in behind me as a matter of course as we follow the pair out of the street and under the archway to the inn.

All along the way, the innkeeper is muttering. 'Stop up the windows with cloths to keep out the cold... Sandwiches... lots of sandwiches... and hot drinks...'

'Check on the guards at the Gates,' the Hobbit puts in.

'Someone else...' the innkeeper says. 'One of those Ranger-fellows...'

'There were no Rangers at the inn or on the street this night,' the Hobbit interrupts, 'none to be seen since late afternoon, in fact, after that Lurker fellow left off the pony and took himself off again, at least if my own eyes are to be trusted.' 

The Man stops short and, despite his battered state, stands upright and stares at his companion. 'No Rangers! Where are they?' he demands. Then he shakes his head. 'Never there when you really need them...' Apparently made dizzy by the movement, he leans harder on his helper, who stiffens with a grunt of pain and then bears up under his Master's weight without complaint.

Instead, the Nob-hobbit says firmly, 'Never mind that,' as if suddenly their roles have been reversed and he is the Man's master. 'We'll sort all that out later. But someone's got to check on the gate-keepers – whoever had the duty this night...'

'Harry Goatleaf was on the West-gate,' the innkeeper mumbles, and now it is the Hobbit's turn to rear up and stare in consternation.

'Harry Goatleaf! Why, he was in the thick o' things!' he exclaims. 'He had his club with him, and I saw him strike down Mat Heathertoes from behind, as if Mr Heathertoes might have been one of the rogues attacking the town!'

Because they have stopped walking, I stop behind them, and the rest of the trailing herd eases to a halt behind me. 

The innkeeper blinks at the Nob-hobbit in confusion. 'Could he have mistaken our good friend Mat for one of the invaders?'

But the Hobbit's denial is both angry and bitter.

After a long pause, the innkeeper speaks low. 'Well then we know how the rotters got past the Gate, curse them and Harry, all together in one.'

'All in together would be right, I wot,' the Nob-hobbit answers, 'and that miserable Ferny, as well.' 

I snort softly and shake my head at the name, though it has no more power over me beyond the briefest feeling of disgust. Good riddance to bad rubbish!

The two do not seem to notice me immediately behind them, but resume their halting progress towards the stables. Of course the rest of us follow at a slow walk.

Just as I am hoping to find rest and respite once more, for the inn's yard is dark and quiet, as are the wings of the building to either side, except for spots of light shining from a few windows, an anguished sound of mourning arises from the shadows ahead of us.

'Bob!' I recognise the voice of Bert, the tween who cared so well for me only a few hours ago. 'Uncle Bob! What've they done to you? Please, Uncle – open your eyes! Speak to me!'

*** 

Author's notes: 

In the chapter 'Homeward Bound' in The Return of the King, Tolkien has Barliman Butterbur recount the Bree-land's losses in the Battle of Bree: 'Three and two [referring to the big folk and the little]: ...poor Mat Heathertoes, and Rowlie Appledore, and little Tom Pickthorn from over the Hill; and Willie Banks from up-away, and one of the Underhills from Staddle: all good fellows, and they’re missed.'

The term "jade", referring to a worthless, worn-out or broken-down horse, dates from 14th-century Middle English.

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