7. Going for Help
Rorric craned his neck and shaded his eyes to look up at Bandobras on his tall perch. ‘I’m not so sure about this,’ he said. ‘I’ve any number of objections...’
‘And there’s no time to argue,’ the scout replied. ‘So let me dismiss all at one throw.’
‘Very apt,’ Rorric said. ‘Seeing as how you’re gambling with your life... You can barely keep your seat...’
‘Friend won’t let me fall,’ Bandobras said, patting the soft neck. The horse tossed its head and snorted.
‘How do you know they won’t accost you as you ride Southwards? We know now they can attack in daylight if it’s overcast. How do you know you’ll get through?’
‘I don’t. All I know is, Friend outran them once before. Perhaps more than once,’ Bandobras said, thinking of the wounds he’d seen earlier on the horse and his rider.
‘And how do you know you’ll be able to gather any at all to help us, much less an army of Shire-folk?’ was Rorric’s next question, as if they had any choice in the matter.
‘Because if I don’t try, and help doesn’t come...’
Rorric loosed his hold on the reins and stepped back. ‘Go,’ he said.
***
Riding through the surrounding crowd of well-wishers, Bandobras lifted his hand in farewell. In the next moment, sunlight pierced through the clouds, sparking a wave of dizziness that made him grab at Friend’s mane and close his eyes. ‘Shine bright, my Lady Sun,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t mind me.’ Sunlight would discourage the foul creatures who threatened the North-lands, spoil their aim, make their legs less steady.
A familiar voice rose above the others: ‘Come back safe!’
He opened his eyes, fighting the double vision lingering from his head injury, and recognised Ruby by her fiery hair. ‘I will!’
‘You’d better!’
***
If luck was with him, he wouldn’t encounter goblins on his way. Friend would have to make all possible speed as it was, to reach Michel Delving before the Lithedays celebration ended. Goblins would slow them down and indicate the menace was already spreading southward.
If luck was with him, the Thain would be at Michel Delving to see the races – how his father loved the races!
Even better if a host of Tooks were with him, drawn by the rich prizes at the Free Faire’s archery tournament, along with any number of skilled hobbit-archers from all over the Shire.
***
‘Two days to Michel Delving,’ he told the horse. ‘Two days’ steady travel. You look as if you’re bred for speed and stamina. Trained for it. Conditioned...’ he slapped the glossy neck. ‘You rested and ate well, they told me, the entire time they were keeping me prisoner in the bed. I think we can do this if we walk and trot by turns, gallop when we can, rest when we come to water, long enough for you to have a good drink, at least... But must we stop at night?’
Friend snorted and tossed his head.
‘If you insist.’
***
Cushioned in the lush grass of their stopping place, Bandobras gazed in wonder at the night sky, more stars than a hobbit could count in a lifetime, even if one had the leisure to count them. Urgency burned within, but common sense insisted on rest for Friend, if not himself, and time for the horse to graze. Happily, his double vision was clearing. With no lanterns or torches or bonfires to distract the eye, the stars seemed impossibly bright.
The homely sound of tearing and chomping was reassuring. Friend evidently feared no danger.
Despite his determination, his eyes drifted closed.
***
Halfway between middle night and dawn, they were moving again, both refreshed by the rest they’d taken. Miles... leagues... flowed smoothly beneath Friend’s steady strides. Every time Bandobras heard the splash of water, he sat up from lying upon the horse’s neck and spoke a quiet word, and Friend would slow, stop and drop his head to drink.
Though the hobbit’s water bottle was empty now, he didn’t want to take the time to get down and then up again. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said to Friend and himself. ‘At the rate we’re going, we’ll arrive in time for tea.’
***
He’d missed the dawning and half the day, it seemed. Mouth dry, head pounding, Bandobras wearily hauled himself erect. He sat up straighter on recognising the passing countryside. He’d come this way before, travelling from By-the-Water to Michel Delving! They were passing neat farmsteads now, clopping along a well-kept road.
He’d fallen asleep, or lost consciousness, somewhere along the way. Somehow, the horse had continued on the course he’d set them on.
‘Faithful should be your name,’ he muttered, ‘or Pathfinder.’
Friend snorted, but his pace never faltered.
‘Of course I know how you are called,’ Bandobras reassured. ‘Friend, indeed.’
***