Chapter 18. The Battle of Greenfields
Friend maintained a slow gallop, his hoofbeats merging with those of the massed ponies behind him in a rolling thunder that rivalled the distant grumbles sounding from the sullen skies overhead.
Or was it the murmur of battle?
Both, Bandobras decided, seeing a bright flash above and ahead, a deadly spear hurtling to earth with a sharp crack, as if the very sky above the Shire resented the goblin invasion.
Ahead was the region dubbed ‘Greenfields’ in the preliminary surveys, lush grazing land where future inhabitants would someday produce rich milk, well-marbled meat, and healthy wool both soft and dense.
While Long Cleeve had been settled with an eye to fertile land for the plough and some pastureland for grazing and haying, the expanse of green fields had been deemed by the settlers to be better suited to herds than ploughs.
Someday took on a different meaning now, for the emerald grass had been trampled, churned into a muddy stew splashed with crimson or ebony splotches, depending on whether the spilled blood came from hobbits or goblins. An overwhelming force of goblins was attacking two defensive rings of hobbits, likely separated by the savagery of the assaults they’d survived – barely.
***
Ferumbras had thought to leave two or three ranks of archers to defend Long Cleeve. Bandobras had countered him. ‘If we’re not strong enough to defeat them before they reach the town, will twenty or thirty archers make enough difference? If they tip the balance at Greenfields, the goblins won’t get through. But if we split our forces, and don’t have enough to meet them, they’ll overrun us there... and here.’
Bandobras fought despair as he saw another wave break over the stalwart but outnumbered hobbits. Ferumbras signalled, the horn sounded; the ranks spread, becoming one line, and increased speed.
***
Bandobras, riding in front of Ferumbras as his defender and shield, began to fire a rapid succession of arrows. Soon, a thick and deadly hail fell on and around the attacking goblins, impacting with lethal force on those attacking from the Long Cleeve side, while the shafts of the archers who targeted taller combatants flew over the heads of the defending hobbits and skewered goblin skulls on the far side as if the shooters were engaged in the melon-splitting event at the Tournament. Meanwhile, the beleaguered hobbits crouched down, striking upwards or holding shields to cover themselves and their fellows.
Despite their peril, the goblins broke through on the far side of the larger ring and plunged into the centre. One, taller than the rest, reached down and lifted a struggling body, holding the twisting hobbit easily before him like a shield.
Bandobras fired his last arrows into the goblins to either side of the chieftain and pulled the heavy club from the Mathom-house from its sheath. ‘Go, Friend, go!’ he screamed, staring at the fiery curls held fast in the goblin chieftain’s pitiless grasp. Guided by the shift of his rider’s weight, Friend charged at the Master’s captor.
A grin twisted the foul creature’s face, and it stared directly into the Chief Scout’s eyes as it lifted its razor-edged weapon and swung it slowly to one side, preparatory to beheading the fighter he’d identified as the leader of the defenders in front of his hobbits to demoralise them and scatter them in confusion. As he began his murderous stroke, Friend leaped forward, trampling goblins underfoot, closing the gap with incredible speed, even as Bandobras swung his club in a desperate play to intercept the whistling blade.
Miraculously, club met blade as it passed before the goblin chieftain’s face...
***
With shattering force, the antique yet solid, skilfully crafted club impacted the goblin chieftain’s broad, jagged, bone-cleaving, lethal blade with such force that one sharp edge caught the lower side of the club and was itself caught, thus turning the club into a club-and-sword of sorts.
The force of impact drove the exposed edge of the sword ahead of the club itself, slicing neatly through the goblin chief’s neck, whilst the heavy club finished the creature’s destruction, sending the grisly head flying high into the air, trailing droplets of black blood behind it.
Friend halted, rearing.
Unbelievably, the battle stopped.
The chieftain’s body stood a few seconds more, and then it toppled, taking the red-headed hobbit down with it. All of the other living combatants stared, as if enspelled by some enchanter’s power, following the flight of the awful sphere as it soared in a high arc and then down to the ground, where it hit, bounced horribly two or three times, and then rolled into a large hole in the ground, the opening to some creature’s den, more likely than not.
A great yell went up from the goblins, and suddenly they were dropping their weapons, stumbling away, fleeing...!
***
Those archers who still had arrows pursued the shrieking retreating goblins with deadly intent until their quivers were empty. Then turning their ponies around, they rode back to the delaying force and their fellow archers, who’d jumped down from their ponies and were employing the tools provided by the curator of Michel Delving’s Mathom-house where they would do the most good – slaying any goblins that were not yet dead.
Rivers of black blood ran from the two small hills where the defenders had made their stand.
Ferumbras held tightly to Bandobras (who would have flung himself down), shouting, ‘Friend! Down!’
***
As soon as the horse knelt, he loosed his grasp. Bandobras slid from the saddle and fell to his knees before Rorric and the goblin chief. ‘Master!’ he gasped.
‘Will someone free me from this blasted snare!’ Rorric snapped, twisting and trying to pull himself free from the goblin’s death-grasp.
Bandobras laid his sword-club down and took out his pocket-knife. ‘Hold still,’ he said. Carefully, he cut the Master loose. ‘Are you hurt, Sir?’
‘I’m better than I ought to be, thanks to you!’ Rorric answered, regaining his feet. He clapped his Chief Scout on the shoulder. ‘Just in time!’
And then an indomitable force hit Bandobras, knocking him to the ground. His first wild thought was that a goblin had survived and had identified him as the one who’d struck down their chieftain.
This notion was quickly confounded as his head was seized in a firm grasp and lips fastened on his mouth, kissing him fiercely. He had a confused impression of red hair... but it was not the Master...
When she let him go again, he gasped, ‘Ruby!’
‘We thought you’d never come!’ she sobbed wildly, tears running down her face. ‘We thought you’d never come in time!’
***