Chapter 66. I am asked to take part in a rescue 

Young Bert looks around the small circle of Men (and a few Hobbits) of Archet who have briefly left off their labours to see us off and wish us well on our way. He pats his breast, where he has just now tucked away their list of needed supplies under his shirt. 'We should come to the South-gate well before teatime at the rate my Bill can travel. Once we reach the Pony, I'll bring your list straight to my master,' he says. 'He will already have been organising the relief party to come, including waggons and teams to pull them and armed guards to dissuade any ruffians who might be tempted by such spoils.'

The words bring to mind the innkeeper's voice, addressing a gathering crowd before the inn as this-Bob and Nob readied me for our gallop to Archet. Ploughing and planting are all very well – and they'll still be there when the animals return from the journey. But the good folk of Archet cannot wait!

'We could send an escort of sorts along with you,' says the first Man, the one who greeted us upon our arrival but whose name I have not heard, though Bert addressed his Hobbit companion as "Master Brockhouse". He seems worried about letting us go.

But my rider shakes his head. 'Bill will show any ruffians who think to accost us his heels, just as he did in our coming here. Why, as a matter of fact...' he adds with a wink and a broad grin, 'should he gallop any faster than he did on our way here, we're likely to meet ourselves coming and going!' I toss my head in agreement for good measure.

The chuckles that sound around us are subdued, but they also serve the purpose of blunting our well-wishers' obvious concern.

Before anyone else can raise an objection, Bert steps lightly up into the saddle and settles on my back. I look behind me to see him raising an arm. 'Our thanks for your help and sustenance!' he cries.

'Our thanks to you, ra-ther!' Master Brockhouse counters, and I see all those around him nod.

'Be that as it may...' Bert says, turning me to face the slowly opening gate and nudging me into motion. 'We'll see you on the morrow, carrying supplies! For Bill can pull a waggon as easily as he bears a rider! Moreso, even!'

I toss my head again and break into a trot, reaching the gateway when the gate is still but half-open. It is enough, I deem. Once outside Archet's wooden wall, and just before Bert signals me to gallop, a backwards glance reveals the gate is already shutting again. Good. I hope it will keep them safe from further incursions. They can hardly gallop away from trouble as a pony might.

The first part of our return journey goes as smoothly as our earlier effort. Strengthened by some of the most delicious grass I have ever grazed (possibly even rivalling the Brown Wizard's grass in terms of sweetness and freshness) and cool water freshly drawn from the well in Archet's central gathering place, I breeze along quite easily at a steady gallop. Bert has no need to remind me to keep up my speed. Well-fed as I am, the grassy verge speeding by holds little appeal. (A pony can always find it in himself to graze, of course. But I have no need at the moment.)

But not long after we enter the deepening valley, though not yet within sight of the makeshift barrier guarding the village of Combe, we come upon the aftermath of another battle.

Several ruffians – from the ragged look of their clothing, at least – lie in the road.

Bert shifts his weight and draws back on my reins, but I shake my head and fight the bit. What if it's a trap? What if these rogue Men saw us pass and waited for our return, and cast themselves down in the road as if in need of aid?

Are they about to jump up from the ground, seize my reins, pull my rider from the saddle? I half-rear and strike out before me in warning. Coming down, I kick out my heels to demonstrate my readiness to fight off any attackers foolish enough to accost us.

For I've no doubt that these are not townsfolk – their unwashed smell is too strong, for one thing. It is not the odour of current or recent labour but reminds me of Ferny's sour stench as I remember him, most of the days of our too-long acquaintance. I remember hearing him jest about "having a bath once a month, whether I need it or not!", followed by uproarious laughter from his cronies.

I halt at last under protest – not that you could call it "halting" by any measure. I prance, I rear up again (though not so high as to unseat my rider), I dance in place and turn a circle, maddened by the smell of blood all around us.

The blood is fresh, I deem – too fresh for my comfort – and belatedly I see shafts protruding from some of the bodies. If we have not ridden into the midst of battle, then we have come upon the scene not long after.

A faint hail comes to my ears, and almost without conscious thought, I stop turning in circles and settle slightly, no longer prancing but unable to stop myself from pawing at the earth. Bert is little help; he has stiffened on my back, no doubt as horrified as I am, and the flow of soothing words that came from him at first has ceased. He sits, as stiff as a block of wood and about as silent.

The hail comes again, and I look up the slope to where, when we passed this way before, woodmen were working while archers guarded their labours. Help! Help us!

The slightest shifting of Bert's weight tells me that the tween has roused from his frozen state and is looking, too.

A Man is sliding down the hillside – walking, you might call it, but with each step, some earth slides from beneath his boots. Looking past him, further up the slope, I see other Men, grouped near a fallen tree. They seem to be encumbered somehow, tied in place, straining – though what it is they are straining to do escapes me.

He reaches us and grabs at my neck near my head, startling me though I am already thoroughly unnerved. But there is no menace in him, and he smells clean by comparison to the arrow-ridden bodies littering the roadway. In other words, he reeks of fresh sweat, comprising heavy labour mixed with rage and fear, shading to terror. I plant my feet and set myself to bear up under his weight, for it seems he would use me as a walking stick or prop as he slumps against me, appearing to be at the edge of collapse. 

The forester's first words concern that very tree above us on the slope, it seems. 'The tree—!' he gasps. From the corner of my eye, his arm is a blur, waving vaguely towards the slope. 'We had just struck the final blows with our axes when they set upon us...!'

'How badly are you hurt?' Bert demands.

The woodman shakes his head. 'Not hurt – I'm not hurt,' he insists, 'but Alder...! As they attacked us, we fought back, axes in hand... the archers were higher on the hill, for we'd told them to get clear before the tree fell. They feared to shoot into the brawl for fear of hitting friend as well as foe! But then the tree came down, as if to come in on our side – but it fell upon Alder along with some of our attackers!'

'What can we do?' my rider says, then adds, 'We'll ride to Combe for help...'

'No time!' the Man pants. 'No, but we've fixed ropes, and braced our tools under the bole, and we're trying to dig him out from under... but the slope – you saw how it crumbled...'

Bert remains strangely calm. 'What would you have me do?' he says, quite reasonably, as it seems to me.

'Some of them got away with our ponies,' the Man gasps out. 'They were tied up out of the way, ready to haul the tree once we had it down and trimmed. But we still have harness – Can we use your pony to provide a counter-pull on the tree while we dig?'

I nod and snort. Wearing harness and pulling a sledge are what my hobbits might refer to as "child's play" to me. My old Man of Archet taught me those skills, along with many others, and miserable Ferny certainly got his penny's worth of my training and exertions.

My old Man of Archet... Was he there this day? Though I looked for him, as well as his wife, I did not see or smell either of them. But then, I have not seen him since that day when a Hobbit came and led me away from our meadow, my dam's and mine, and to the pony market in Bree, a year or so before I left Bree behind to take up with my own Hobbits, and then the rest of the Company. I know this because Ferny led me away from the pony market on a summer's day, and I took up with my hobbits not that autumn but the next.

My thoughts are interrupted by Bert's shifting weight, and then he slides from the saddle and grasps my reins beneath my chin. 'Show us,' he says. 'But – are you certain the danger is past?'

The Man's gesture encompasses the unmoving bodies on the road. 'After the tree fell, our archers chased them away,' he says. 'Those that were not crushed by the tree, or already gone with our ponies. I doubt any would come back for a single pony, after taking four at one throw.'

'E'en so, someone ought to be keeping watch,' Bert insists, his hand tightening on my reins.

'We will!' the Man promises. He looks from me to the tween and adds, 'Just so soon as the pony can take some of the weight of the tree, we'll be able to spare some archers to wreak havoc on any scoundrel who dares to show his face...'

Bert nods. 'Very well,' says he. 'But that said, the time is passing. Come, show us where we might find some harness for Bill-here.' 

And without further ado, we are on our way – a different way, not down the road through Combe and Staddle to Bree, but walking at an angle up the hillside until we double back to walk the other way, zig-zagging up the steep slope to the scene of the current emergency.

***