Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

The child was born too soon. Nearly two months early, yet he was not small: more solid than most newborns, and his head as round and hard as a stone meant to be hurled from a catapult. It was not an easy birth.

His color troubled Malawen at first, tinged with blue like slate. She was a skillful midwife and rarely lost a babe, but the few she had not been able to coax to steady breathing had been blue like this. Logi, however, breathed without assistance, and cried as soon as the cool air touched his skin. Bellowed, in fact, sounding more wrathful than distressed. His grandmother sighed with relief at the vigor of his cry, but Canohando, listening from another room, drew his brows together and chewed his thumbnail.

Malawen had been determined to attend this birthing, the fourth child of their youngest granddaughter, and the Commander had come to bear her company. To be on hand if anything went ill, though he had hidden that thought even from himself. Nala's last confinement had come near taking her life.

They remained for several months after Logi's birth, until Nala was on her feet again and able to manage her household. Then Malawen took her two-wheeled pony cart and went off to tour the Shire, according to her custom every spring, searching out anyone ill or in distress, for she had the wisdom of the Elven race. Queen Mab, the Hobbits named her, with fond reverence.

In the usual way of things, Canohando would have set out at the same time on his spring round of inspection. Four dozen stone-built fortresses ringed the Shire, manned by the Guardians, his sons and grandsons down twenty generations. When he had well tested their alertness, he would return to his own headquarters at Bridge Fort on the Brandywine, to wait for Malawen's return.

The river was the border now; no Hobbits dwelt east of Brandywine anymore. The town of Bree, fed by increasing trade in the flush years of the Kingdom, had grown far beyond its ancient bounds, pressing finally against the very eaves of the Old Forest. But then the malevolence of the woodland was aroused, and while the Men of the town were quick with fire and axe to keep the trees in check, the Hobbits of Buckland were not able to beat back the encroachment. Yard by yard and year by year, the Forest pushed past the Hedge, trees springing up seemingly overnight closer and closer to the Hall itself, until at last the Brandybucks packed up and withdrew behind the shelter of the river.

Canohando had wanted to contest the matter, to lay waste as much of the Forest as was needful to maintain the Hobbits' suzerainty of the land, but Marabuck, then Master of the Hall, dissuaded him.

"There is space enough for us across the river," he said. "There are not so many Hobbits as there used to be, Commander; have you not noticed? There are smials standing empty and fields going to brambles inside the Shire. I think we had better strengthen our hold within our ancient boundaries. We are spread too thin over the land for good husbandry."

"Why are your numbers shrinking? There is peace, and no lack of food; there is no more sickness than the ordinary run of life..." The Orc had been distressed, but Marabuck had shrugged.

"Here, have a glass of brandy with me. To your very good health! It is no fault of yours, Commander. Folk seem not to have as many young ones as they used to, and it's uncommon now to see an old gaffer celebrate his hundredth birthday. We haven't the vigor that we had of old. I don't know why."

Nine years later Marabuck had gone to his rest, a few months shy of his eighty-first year, and there had been no more Masters of the Hall. The Hobbits of Buckland had found untended farms inside the Four Farthings, and as time went by, many families returned from the western Downs as well, which had been added to the Shire in the days of Old Sam. The pleasant fields and orchards reverted to wilderness, but the Tower Hills Canohando kept under his own command, a guardpost on the border, for it was not long before little groups of Men began to come up from the South into the country the Hobbits had deserted.

Yet if the Shire were smaller now, it was no less fruitful. The gardens were as bright with color, the yearly festivals as merry as of old, and songs and brown ale flowed in the taverns as freely as they ever had. Hobbit lads still neglected their chores to visit the fortresses, tying up their ponies next to the tall horses in the stables, and challenging the Guardians to contests of stone-skipping and bowmanship.

From the beginning Canohando had encouraged this familiarity with the Shirefolk, counting on the Hobbits' influence to tame the Orkish nature of his offspring. And the strategy must have been successful, or perhaps it was the mixed nature of their heritage. For the Orc's sons and daughters had intermarried with humankind until they bore little outward sign anymore of their descent from the Elder Children, and those a few generations removed from Canohando and Malawen were not immortal; they aged, albeit slowly, and died at last as Men did. But however it came about, the Guardians for the most part were good-natured and slow to wrath, valorous when danger threatened, but not inclined to quarreling.

So the Commander remonstrated with himself in this uneasy springtime. He had not gone to inspect his fortresses; he was still inhabiting Nala's spare bedroom, keeping himself occupied by giving the eldest lad his first lessons in archery. He sat now in the sunshine outside the house, smoothing an arrow short enough to fit a child-size bow.

Still, it was not Logi's elder brother who kept the Orc kicking his heels here, trying to reason himself out of the foreboding that sat stone-heavy on his chest.

What matter Logi's dusky complexion, the harshness of his wail? He'd had a tumultuous entrance on the world, by far too early; that was reason enough for his crankiness. That and the teething.

It was not unknown, Malawen had assured him; it happened sometimes that a babe arrived with a pearly tooth already visible. Now at four months Logi had seven teeth, and sometimes he nipped his mother as he nursed. She brushed it aside as something the older children had done also, when they were cutting teeth; still, more and more often Canohando saw her grimace while she was feeding the babe. It added to the Orc's disquiet.

He heard Logi now, howling for his dinner; heard Nala's footsteps, going to take him from his cradle. For a few moments there was peace, then another shriek tore the silence, the mother's voice this time, and Canohando dropped his handiwork and plunged into the house.

"Give him to me," he ordered, but Nala writhed wordless in her chair, unable to obey. The babe had clamped down on her breast with all his might, yanking and tearing like a dog with a piece of meat, and she clenched her teeth and moaned while the tears ran down her cheeks. She was struggling without success to pry Logi's mouth open with her finger.

Canohando reached in and pinched the babe's nostrils shut, keeping his grip in spite of Logi's contortions trying to break free. It took no more than a minute, although it seemed much longer. Deprived of breath, the child had to let go, and Canohando drew him bellowing out of his mother's arms.

"Go put some salve on that and bind yourself up. So my brothers did also, to our mother, but I never thought to see the like again. You will have to wean him, Nala. He can feed from a milksop and learn patience."

But after she left the room, he prised the little jaws apart once more to look closely at the pointed teeth. Logi glared up at him, squirming and twisting in his arms and roaring his displeasure, and finally Canohando sat down with the child pressed tight against him, pinning the flailing limbs till Logi quieted. Warily they regarded one another, the grey-skinned Orc and the red-faced, angry infant.

"You cannot behave so," the Commander said, as if he spoke, not to a babe, but a child of several winters, able to understand. "We are in the Shire, not Mordor; there is no place here for Orcs."

Logi was still, his eyes locked on his grandfather. Gently Canohando peeled away the blanket and little garments, laying him bare and examining him head to toe and front to back. The longer he looked the more somber his expression, and at last he sighed and dressed the child again. He settled him against his chest, rocking him back and forth, smoothing the wrinkled baby forehead under his thumb.

"There, go to sleep, little greyskin. We have a hard road ahead of us, you and I."

From that day he took over Logi's care, and Nala made no objection. In truth, she was relieved to turn back to her other children, the older brother and his little sisters, twin two-year-olds with round blue eyes and hair as pale as wheatstraw. The Commander moved Logi's cradle to stand by his own bed, and he permitted no one but himself feed the babe or do anything for him.

He fed the babe with a rag dipped in milk, gentle but brooking no rebellion, and when Logi bucked and writhed, howling his discontent, his grandfather swaddled him in a blanket till he could move neither hand nor foot. Then he carried him outside and paced with him under the trees, keeping up a flow of soothing talk until the child quieted to sleep.

Malawen returned at the end of May, surprised to find the Commander of the Shire playing wet-nurse to his grandson. Soberly he told her what had happened.

"What am I looking for?" Malawen gathered the child in her arms, peering into the little scrunched up face.

Even in his sleep Logi looked ill-tempered. Canohando had loosened the blanket to give him some freedom of movement, and suddenly he twisted in Malawen's arms, arching his back and then bringing his head sharply forward so his brow struck painfully against her throat.

"Oh!" She recoiled, trying not to drop him, and at that moment the child opened his eyes and stared into her face, wide awake and well aware that he had hurt her.

"Oh!" she said again. "Here, melethron, take him!" She passed him back hastily to Canohando and stood massaging her neck, regarding the baby in great disquiet.

"This one is an Orc," she said. "Not like our children, melethron, not like you…"

"He is like me, as I was before Frodo. We will have to raise him ourselves, Elfling. It is the only chance he has."

Malawen's voice was bitter. "Now I am repaid for the babe I would not keep. He has come back to haunt me." But she did not say she would not keep this child.

Nala wept at sending her son away, but her husband, horrified at her torn breast, argued till she was persuaded to consent.

“Already Logi is rough with his brother, though Bredor is older by four years, and the girls are afraid of him even now. What manner of household will this be, when he can run them down?” The goodman regarded the babe anxiously. “Let the Commander have him, my dear. He will know how to tame this wildness.”

Canohando listened impassively, questioning within his heart whether he did know. But if he did not, there was none other who did, unless indeed the Brown Wizard could return from the Blessed Land to take this child in hand. He makes me think of Yarga, he thought, remembering his brother Orc who had tried to kill the Ring-Bearer in Mordor. What was it turned Yarga to the light?

He pondered that question many times in the years that followed. Logi was slow to talk, but he got his feet under him in his tenth month, and after that it was impossible to corral him. Malawen wearied of having her garden trampled and her stores of herbs pulled from their tidy bunches and thrown about the floor. She could not control him, though he treated her with wary respect.

Only once Logi openly defied her, when he had grown tall enough to look her in the eye. He was strong for his size, and she tried to make him wash, when he came in grimy from his play. He shoved her up against the wall, pinning her, and her green eyes snapped with fury as she ordered him away. He gave an insolent laugh, and then he was lifted off his feet and flung crashing to the floor, and Canohando stood over him with a foot on his neck and his knife unsheathed in his hand.

“Choose now, Logi,” the Commander grated. “Life or death? For I am more Orc than you, and I swear you will not live to threaten Malatara!”*

The lad was rigid with terror. Always his grandfather had shown him firm discipline, but never before had Logi had cause for fear.

Canohando jerked the child to his feet without putting away the knife. They were living then in Bridge Fort, hard by the Brandywine, and Canohando marched Logi to the River and dragged him in until the lad was chest deep.

"You are Orc, so I will take from you the blood-oath of our kind. Stretch out your arms to either side." And when Logi obeyed, Canohando slashed his knife across both the lad's forearms so they bled freely.

"Hold them under the water and say this. The River is my witness, I will guard the life and body of Malawen, my grandmother, with my blood. And if I fail to guard her, the River remember my blood. May water fail my life, from river, lake, and well. May my throat close up from thirst, may my skin break open from dryness, may my eyes crumble to dust, if I keep not this oath that mingles my blood with water."

Slowly Canohando repeated the words, and Logi stammered after him. When they were done, Canohando guided him home with an arm around his waist, for the youngster was shaking uncontrollably, whether from cold and loss of blood, or from fear at the oath he had been forced to take. Inside the fort, Canohando bandaged his arms and heated wine to warm him. To all this Logi submitted silently, following his grandfather with his eyes.

"I have seen an Orc die in torment, who took that oath and did not honor it. But I will give you something to help you keep it, both for my mate's sake and because I love you." Canohando unfastened the chain from around his own neck and bent over his grandson, hanging at Logi's throat the Jewel Frodo had given him, long ago in the mountains.

"The Lady's Jewel holds power beyond my understanding. It brought peace to my brother, the little Ring-bearer, and for long years it has kept me from the Dark. May it bring you peace as well, and keep you faithful."

Canohando pulled him to his feet, embracing him fiercely. "You, most of all! You are more my own than any of my children; you are the son of my Darkness. But I would have you come into the Light."

From that day forward there was something between Canohando and his grandson which ran deeper than his tie to any other person, save Malawen alone. Logi followed at his heels more faithful than a hound, quick to imitate his grandfather's every gesture, even to the tone of his voice. As he matured, more and more Logi seemed like a younger version of Canohando. But the Commander wore wisdom and judgment like a crown on his forehead, while Logi was quick to anger and prone to take revenge for petty insults. Canohando kept him close and gave him responsibility as he grew into it, but he did not share his full mind with his grandson, and his son Osta remained his second-in-command.

Now Osta also had a grandson, whose name was Haldar. He was fair of face and form, some years younger than Logi, and he was as bright a spirit as Logi was dark. His rollicking laugh was ready at all times to make light of the older lad's moods, but he adored Logi and ran after him like a puppy, until he grew old enough that the difference in age no longer mattered and they were friends. Few indeed were those whom Logi loved, but Haldar was chief in his heart after his grandfather.

And Haldar kept the young Orc from many excesses. For Logi was cruel - for sport he would torment small animals to death, and many were the tricks and traps he set for his fellows, for the pleasure of mocking at their discomposure. But Haldar followed in his wake, undoing what harm he might, and persuading Logi out of his wilder pranks.

When they hunted together, Logi would shoot to wound, prolonging the death, for he liked nothing better than following a blood trail. But Haldar was keen-eyed as an Elf and a deadly bowman, and many the deer he put out of its suffering in Logi's despite.

"Go to, you're hungry, aren't you?" he would answer the Orc's grumbling. "Cut yourself a steak and start a fire, while I clean her out. You owe me a beer at the tavern, if I finish before your meat is cooked."

Canohando watched in amazement how Haldar tamed Logi's ferocity, bringing light to the smoldering eyes and an unwilling smile to the sullen mouth. As much as Frodo's Jewel, he trusted Haldar's influence to turn Logi away from Darkness. When they were both full-grown, he sent them to Bridge Fort, at that time under command of his son Balta, to guard the northern border.

"As far from trouble as I can put them," he told Malawen. "If Logi never sets foot on a battlefield, all the better for him."

The Commander growled softly in his throat. "His courage is not in question. The Orc-fire sleeps in his blood, and even sleeping it runs hot as molten lead. I fear to see it wakened."

*Malatara - "Little Golden Mother", a nickname given to Malawen by her children and used by all the Guardians except her son Arato.

Canohando lay under a tree with his head in his mate's lap. His eyes were shut against a sunbeam that had snaked its way through the foliage above, but he was awake. Malawen was running a tortoise-shell comb through his hair.

Malawen wrinkled her nose. "You always cut it short before you go to battle. I would rather see it in plaits." She parted his hair down the middle and sectioned off the front. "You'll have to sit up when I get to the back."

She gazed out over the river as she braided; many times she had done this for him, and had no need to watch her fingers. The tree that shaded them was massive and old, but it stood nearly alone in a broad grassy area before their home; Canohando would not have their view of the country impeded, for this was a fortress before anything else, and he would permit no enemy to take them unaware. But the walls of rough granite were surrounded, incongruously, by flowers, for he would give joy to his beloved, and he also liked to walk the garden pathways when he had leisure for it. This was Sarn Ford, where the old Road came up from Dunland, and to the Commander’s mind it was the most critical of the Shire’s defenses.

He did not anticipate danger in the North. There were still forts there, but the territory beyond the Shire was nearly deserted now. For over a thousand years the sons of Elessar had kept the peace from Minas Ithil to the Gulf of Lhun, but the waning of their power was farther in the past than that, and for thrice that time the Guardians had kept the Shire.

The Guardians, his children and grandchildren. They had every one of them been faithful to their trust; even Logi Greyskin had grown into a warrior worthy of the name, bold and wily in battle, if somewhat erratic in obeying orders. Canohando had an eye on him to command one of the border fortresses, in a few years when he steadied down a bit.

They needed new captains; they had lost too many men in recent years, holding the Shire secure. At the insistence of the Mayor, the fallen Guardians were buried in Hobbiton in the West Farthing, where the Ring-bearer himself slept underneath the sod. Twice yearly Canohando journeyed to Bag End, to visit the little graveyard and take counsel with the Mayor. For that dignitary still served his term, twelve years instead of seven, though elections had become more form than substance. There would have been considerable dismay if anyone but some descendant of Old Sam had been named to the honor.

Some Hobbits, with a taste for ancient lore, knew the story of the Ring War. A few had even read Frodo's Memoirs and so heard of Canohando of Mordor, who befriended the Ring-bearer in the years after the War. No one really believed the Commander was the same person; it was assumed he must be a descendant, which explained both his appearance and his name. Occasionally someone would ask him how many generations separated him from the Orc of legend. Canohando always answered truthfully, but his words were taken as jest, and occasioned a great deal of innocent mirth. Since he joined in the laughter and never seemed offended, no harm was done. The Memoirs made no mention of Malawen.

So the centuries slid by, not without event, but change came slowly and the Shire was adaptable. The land of the Hobbits was still unmistakably Frodo's country.

There was a faint drumming in the distance and Malawen's hands grew still; she leaned forward trying to see around the tree.

Canohando got to his feet unhurriedly, helping her up, but his other hand went by habit to his swordhilt.

"One horse only, but ridden hard. I do not think we will have any more leisure today, melethril. Come inside the walls."

She obeyed without demur; many times in the past his instinct for danger had saved them. They had just reached the fortress gate when the horseman appeared, a young man with flying hair that struck sparks from the sun, riding without saddle or bridle. He flung himself to earth almost before the horse stopped running, and ran to salute the Orc with his fist over his heart.

"Haldar!" Malawen exclaimed, and he bent quickly to kiss her cheek, but his words were for Canohando.

"Adah, there is trouble in the North! We saw smoke four days ago, and a patrol rode out to see. They said it looked as if all Chetwood were ablaze, and half the population of Bree was fleeing down the Road. They'd been attacked by a horde of barbarians, and those who escaped alive called themselves lucky! We have men scouting the area, but we haven't the numbers to challenge them outright. We need you there as quickly as may be."

Canohando stared into the North as if he might see the smoke for himself, but there was only a haze of woodland in the distance, rolling away in gentle hills. "Very well, bring your horse, and the stable lads will see to him. Come break your fast, and tell me all you can."

But there was little to tell. Haldar gulped his ale thirstily, but he waved aside the beef and bread that Malawen proffered.

"I ate dried meat on the way; I am not hungry. But I rode without stopping, only to change horses; I am fit to sleep here on your solar floor! All I know is what I told you, Adah. There was no warning. We had visitors from the town not long ago; they wanted some mares bred to that stallion that won the long race at the Autumn Meet."

"All was quiet then? Did they bring any news?" The Orc sat methodically scraping a stick of wood with his knife, a heap of wood shavings piling on the floor between his feet. Malawen looked at the mess but didn't speak.

"Nothing much. They'd had uncommonly good hunting since mid-winter – so many deer, they were a threat to the orchards. They'd been feasting on venison, though it was the wrong time of year; they brought us several fine haunches, actually."

Canohando's eyes narrowed. "Game moving, in multitude? No one wondered what was driving them out of their home range?"

Haldar looked abashed. "I'm sorry, Adah, I should have thought of that! And I call myself a woodsman –"

"There are older heads than yours that should have thought. They might have been prepared. What of Fornost?"

Fornost, standing guard on the Northern Downs. A thousand years after the city was abandoned, the fortress was maintained.

"Get some rest, lad. There's still a bed for you in Logi's chamber. By the time you wake up, we will be ready to ride. Where is Logi while you're sent down south here? I had thought the two of you fastened hip-to-hip, so seldom I've seen one without the other."

"He's with the scouts. He knows every path in the Old Forest, and he has no fear." There was pride in the young voice, and Canohando hid a smile behind his hand. Plainly Haldar still hero-worshipped his elder cousin.

"Still hunts the Forest, does he? Why should that surprise me? And you go with him?" He regarded the lad fondly; his great-grandson, but tall and fair of face, like the Elves of old.

"We run well together," Haldar agreed. "We haven't forgotten how to tame the trees; remember how you taught us? No one else dares hunt there; it's our private game preserve."

Malawen smiled on him, smoothing the blond hair back from his forehead. "The perfect partnership of Orc and Elf. If we had been joined in such friendship long ago, how different the story of Arda might have been!"

"If only Orcs had been free to form such friendships," said Canohando. "Make sure he gets some sleep, Elfling, or he'll sit here the next hour and make conversation, like a Hobbit. I must set the fort in order and send out messengers. Are you coming?"

He left it up to her; he did not say, I ride to war; your place is here at home, nor yet, I want you by my side. But their eyes met in the understanding of many dangers faced and surviveded together.

"I'll get our things together as soon as I've seen Haldar off to bed. Packhorse, or saddlebags only?"

"No baggage, melethril. Weapons and a change of clothes – this is a race, who first shall reach the Bridge."

Logi crouched under the brow of a little hill, staring down the valley at the flicker of at least a hundred campfires. He was a couple of hours from Bridge Fort, no more than that.

Logi made a quick calculation: one campfire for how many men? Eight, maybe – so not less than eight hundred warriors encamped practically on the Shire's doorstep. He swore quietly, savagely.

"The Guardians can field a thousand, Logi. We're about evenly matched, if this is the lot."

"If," said Logi. "How many are at Fornost? Three or four hundred? So far we've heard nothing from them; no one has gotten through to call for aid. We'd better cast about, Mazik, make sure there are no more. Take the lads upriver a bit. I'm going in, see if I can hear anything."

Mazik frowned but didn't argue; Logi was known for taking risks. Sneaking alone into an armed camp was about what you'd expect from the Orc. Better if Haldar had been with them on this jaunt; he was the only one who could talk sense to Logi. The Elf, folk called him: as finely featured as Malatara herself, but tall. You could get an idea what the Eldar People must have been, looking at him. It was an old joke, the Orc and the Elf.

"No. Have a good look round, then go on back. I'll see you at morning report." Logi slapped Mazik on the shoulder, then turned and began cautiously working his way downhill. Halfway down he dropped to his belly until at last he crawled, snake-like, in among the tents.

They were crudely made of hides, sewn with the hair side out, stretched over bent poles. Low to the ground; Logi doubted he could have stood upright inside any of them. But it was an orderly encampment; he would give the barbarians that much. The tents were set in circles with a fire at the center - five tents to each fire, and the circles in turn formed the rim of a larger ring, and inside that another one, always five tents around each campfire. The Orc nodded grudging approval: there was strong leadership here. Then he sucked in his breath, appalled.

There were children sleeping on the ground beside one fire, quite small children. A woman sat by them, her hands busy at some task he could not make out.

Women and children in the camp – this was no raid for plunder and run for home when they had enough. This was a movement of the whole tribe, seeking new lands.

We're getting too much of this, he thought. He paid scant attention to statecraft, normally; that was Adah's concern, as his part was to fight. But twice since he'd been old enough for battle, the Guardians had faced wandering hordes in search of new pastures. Both times they'd held the invaders off, but the losses had been heavy. We've not made up our numbers yet! We are not ready –

He groped his way deeper into the camp, prey to a smoldering resentment that attacks on the Shire were coming so relentlessly, before the Guardians had time to regain their strength. Many of the barbarians were sleeping outside – it was a warm night and no doubt the little tents were stuffy inside. He would have slept out under the stars himself, given the choice.

There were sentries, but only at the edges of the encampment. Now that he was well inside, there seemed to be no one keeping watch. It was a sign of how secure they felt, Vengeance take them! I would put some caution in you, he thought grimly. Not everyone was sleeping outside; he could hear snores inside some of the tents, but he passed more families stretched out around their fires, women and children. Many children.

He stopped to look more closely at one pair. A man of middle years, his sword ready at his side even as he slept. And on the other side of the fire, a girl – no, a woman, he corrected himself, his eyes following the swell of breasts under her deerskin dress – with a mass of tangled curls obscuring her face. Her long hair spread like a mantle over her shoulders, luxuriant and soft – he clenched his hands, massaging his fingertips against his palms, aching to touch it. He circled round the sleepers, trying to see her face, and as he came opposite her she sighed and moved in her sleep, her arm brushing back the hair. He smiled slightly; she was lovely, with eyebrows that swept up like the wings of a swallow, and a firm little chin that promised a strong will.

A man might strike sparks from you, he thought, wishing he could see her with her eyes open, could bury his fingers in that cascade of hair and trace with his tongue the enchanting hollow of that slender throat. Was the man her husband? He went back to take another look, but he seemed too old for her, and the way they slept, so far apart – her father, perhaps.

He looked around, committing to memory where he stood in the encampment. Without admitting it to himself, he was already determined to see her again. Then he found his way soundlessly out of the camp. Once he had the fold of the hill shielding him from view, he broke into a dogtrot back toward the fort.

He gave a clear report of the placement and strength of the camp – he guessed that half of those in it were women, or children too young to fight. But his earlier estimate of eight to each campfire was too low: if there were three souls to each tent, which seemed reasonable, they would have to figure fifteen to each fire. Fifteen hundred at least, perhaps eight hundred warriors.

Mazik had more bad news. His patrol had found two more encampments, one next to the river, the other a mile or so east. Each was at least as large as the first camp.

"And they may have more fighting men: the others are closer to our border; they may have gathered all the children in the farthest camp, better to protect them. They may have as many as three or four thousand warriors."

"The Commander should be already on his way; Haldar left yester morn to warn him, and he will make all speed when he gets the message. Dare we wait until he gets here to take action?"

The fort's chief officer at this time was a cousin of Logi's father, a worthy soldier, but not of the first rank of command. Canohando had lost some of his best captains in the last war; he hoped to put Logi in command a few years in the future, but considered his grandson still too green in judgment.

"What action can we take, with a garrison of two hundred?" Logi asked impatiently. "Four thousand of the enemy – we can get word to the other forts to send reinforcements and hold themselves ready to come en masse at short notice. Bring in supplies, and watch every move they make. Beyond that, we will have to wait for Adah."

Unconsciously he used the pet name of his childhood, but it carried authority. They were all of them descendants of Canohando, at whatever remove, but only Logi was close enough to call him Grandpa. The officer nodded agreement.

"Also we must warn the Mayor," he said. "He can prepare the Hobbits to take cover, if it comes to that, and hide their food, in case the enemy cross the border."

"We won't if we can help it, Logi, but look at the odds against us. We will fight them off, but they are very close, in great numbers. I think the Hobbits would do well to move deeper inside the Shire, maybe even to the old delvings in Tookland, until this is all over. But only the Mayor can order that."

"Their fields may be sprouting men's bones instead of wheat, a month from now! They have food enough in store, but what use if they are slain? This much I am certain of: we must warn them to be ready for invasion."

And having made up his own mind in one thing, at least, the captain held firm to his decision. That same morning a letter was carried hotfoot to the Mayor in Hobbiton, and that descendant of Sam Gamgee was a cautious and competent governor. Within a few days Hobbits all across the Shire were packing up grain and pulse and dried meat, heads of cheese and barrels of ale, and carting it all to safety in the ancient tunnels of Michel Delving, Brockenborings, and Tuckborough, where once the Thain held out against the Ruffians, in the days of the Ring War. As much as to anyone, the Hobbits owed their survival to this lackluster captain who, as his one act of military wisdom, sent warning to the Mayor. He fell in the first battle with the barbarians, but his name was never forgotten among the Little People. His name was Horner.

Once they had sent out their messengers, the fort's garrison set to work refurbishing weapons and armor and strengthening the walls as best they might, until the Commander should arrive. But Logi went back again to the barbarian encampments, taking his usual patrol, and scouted all the area between the Brandywine and the Greenway, south to the Old Forest, and north to where the river bent eastward away toward the north.

Ten days they were gone from the Bridge, and they went all the way to Fornost. What they found there dashed their hopes and underlined the magnitude of the threat. The fort was broken open, its gates and the sprawling village around the walls were burned, and bodies lay unburied in the ruins. They gathered the remains in a funeral pyre, and brought away with them what weapons they could find, but there were not many. The barbarians had been thorough in sacking the place.

"That is what the Shire will be, if we do not hold the line," Logi said grimly, and no one contradicted him. In their scouting they had found yet another nest of the enemy, larger than the others, on the very border of the Old Forest.

But on their return, when they came near the first camp they had discovered, where Logi had seen women and children, he sent the patrol on without him. Again that night he made his way inside the defenses and found the tent where he had seen the girl. This time she was sleeping close by the fire, and there was no one else in sight.

He lowered himself to the ground beside her, devouring her with his eyes. The firelight gleamed on her face, her cheek pillowed on her hand, and her hair fell back from an ear as finely shaped as the seashell Malatara had kept in her sewing basket, when Logi was a child. With one cautious finger he traced the delicate curve and let his hand wander to the mass of curls – they were as soft as they looked, utterly irresistible.

She sighed and moved, and hastily he backed off with one hand on his knife. But she did not waken, and after a last, long look he slipped away. He found a fire where a few men sat talking in a clackety language he could make nothing of, but their faces caught his interest.

Bearded and long-haired, unlike the Guardians who wore their hair close-cropped, and many of them sporting chokers of boars' teeth round their necks. They punctuated their speech with sharp, chopping motions of their hands, and their voices were loud and rough. Even lying around the fire in supposed security, there was something ferocious about them.

Logi watched for a long time, until one by one they went to sleep. He had wondered sometimes what Orcs were like – true Orcs, not like his grandfather. He had never dared to ask Adah about it, but he and Haldar had speculated on the question when they were lads.

"Like you on a three-day hunt when you've taken nothing!" Haldar had teased him. "Mad as hornets with their nest torn down, and stinking worse than pigs." He lifted Logi's knife deftly out of its sheath and skinned up a tree with it before the older lad could catch him.

"What I want to know is, can an Orc climb like an Elf?" he'd shouted down, and Logi had swarmed after him, the question of Orc nature forgotten for the moment, except that one Orc could climb fast and high, and a little cousin was not quick enough to elude him.

But Logi had continued to wonder, and more so as he reached maturity. The other Guardians were brave warriors, but he did not think they drank warfare like a draught of wine – they used their weapons well, but they did not revel in every sword-thrust, every arrow that found its mark. Logi was never so alive as on the field of battle, pitting his life, his blood, against the foe.

He thought he saw something of this in the barbarians, and it roused a hunger in him to know them better. These were Men, not Orcs, and yet –

He tore himself away. The next morning he said only that he had wanted to confirm his opinion that there were more women and children than warriors in the camp.

"And what of that?" Mazik demanded. "If the men do not come forth to battle, if they stay behind to defend their brats, with the new camp we found there are still six thousand warriors to beset us – more than enough, I'd say!"

"Have you lost your wits?" Mazik's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "We want to drive them off, not send them mad! What maggot's got inside your head, Logi?"

The following night, Logi went out as usual to reconnaissance, but he did not return with his men to the fort.

"I want to count the horses," he said. "If they all are mounted, they will be able to over-run us at the Gate, but I cannot see to count them in the dark."

They had passed the meadow where horses were corralled, guarded by riders patrolling the perimeter. "They cannot see you in the dark either," Mazik told him. "They outnumber us ten to one, Logi – they need not all be mounted to over-run us! What I want to know is what they're waiting for. Why do they hold off, why not attack? They are giving us time to make ready – "

Logi scowled. "It makes no sense. Well, perhaps I can find an answer to the riddle."

"Listening to the horse-guards. I’ll sleep in hiding when I’ve learned all I can; I'll meet you here at nightfall."

Mazik wished again that Haldar were with them. The Commander had come with all speed from Sarn Ford, but he had sent Haldar to Tower Hills, at the far west of the Shire, to summon Captain Osta. In another day or two they should arrive, and for Mazik that could not be soon enough. More and more his captain's behavior troubled him.

He would have carried his worry to the Commander that very day, could he have seen Logi veer away from the horse pasture, taking off in a different direction entirely. Logi knew the odds against them were overwhelming, and the men guarding the horses would not be discussing strategy. He had come to spy, but not on horses.

He crept downhill to where a spring passed near the camp. The stream bank was a wilderness of brambles and tangled vines, but an overgrown path led to the water. Logi guessed the barbarians would have found the place by now, and he burrowed into the thorny tangle and settled himself to wait and see who came.

Soon after sunrise his patience was rewarded; he heard voices, and a gaggle of young girls pushed past the branches to gather by the spring. They were in high spirits, laughing and slapping each other with their empty waterskins. Among them was one with the cataract of curly hair he remembered, and he swallowed hard.

Her hair was amber-colored, framing a face made tawny by the sun – she will have eyes the color of the stream, with flecks of gold, he thought. She was more beautiful to his sight than any woman he had ever seen, and he was stabbed by regret that she should be one of Them, an enemy.

The girls filled their waterskins with a great deal of splashing and tomfoolery, so much that there was some danger that one of them would be pushed into the water. At last they finished and started back along the path. The auburn-headed one was last to fill her skin, and the others had turned away before she finished. As she paused to tie it shut, Logi whistled softly, a clear bird-like note.

She glanced toward his hiding place, and he gave the call again, letting it trail away in a liquid warble. At that she chuckled and bent to peer inside the bush. But when she met his eyes, her expression changed; she jumped back with a choked exclamation and fled after her companions.

He listened for excited cries, shrieks of alarm, but there was nothing, only the sound of snapping branches as the girls retreated along the narrow path. When all was quiet, he smiled and crawled deeper into the thicket, curling up like a cat to go to sleep. She did not tell them, he thought as he drifted off.

Next morning he was at the spring again and saw how she stared at the bushes, wondering if he were there. Once more she was the last one to draw water, and when the others were out of sight he got up slowly, taking in her dismay as she recognized him for a foe. He held her with his eyes, willing her not to run, to stay and speak to him.

"I am one of those who guard the Shire. I saw you in the camp, while you were sleeping."

Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement; she was altogether adorable. "You could not have. The camp is protected; no stranger could get in. Why are you hiding here beside the water?"

"I came to see by daylight the woman whose hair I touched by night, soft as a nestling bird. I wanted to know the color of her eyes. Who is the man that sleeps beside your fire – not your husband?"

Self-consciously she put a hand to her hair. "You touched – oh! No, he is my father."

He took a step toward her. "Good. If he were your husband, I would have to slay him, but your father I will spare."

"Will you? But how if he does not spare you, braggart? What if I run back now and tell my people, there is an enemy by the spring – come quick and kill him?"

"I would be gone before they laid eyes on me, like a hawk flying into the sun. But the next day I would come again, and the next, until your warriors wearied of following you to fetch water. And then –"

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Then – what? You would force yourself on me, carry me off, cut out my heart?"

He took her hand, and she permitted it; she let him hold her hand against his cheek and run his lips along her fingers.

"Nothing evil. Yes, I think I might carry you away – I will bring a horse tomorrow and carry you before me, into the Western land of woods and sea. We will leave our people to their war-faring, and fly to where no man nor woman lives, except us two, and I will teach you what love is." As he said it, it became possible in his mind, more than possible, inevitable.

She tittered nervously. "You do not speak like any of our men, nor even look like them. Are you certain you are not a spirit of the woods?"

"What do you think?" He drew her close, her body against his, sliding his fingers into her hair. She resisted only a little, but she grew still when he bowed his head and kissed the hollow of her throat, and then he bent her back against his arm and covered her mouth with his.

He grinned, teasing her. "There is no one else like me, or only one. I am an Orc, and my brother is an Elf. Have you heard of Orcs?"

But no, she had never heard of them, and she shook her head. "You are different from other men," she said again, "but I cannot leave my Tribe. And now I must go back, or they will miss me."

He let her go, and went back to the fort to stride in late for morning council, earning a reprimand from his grandfather.

"Where have you been? Have you learned anything useful, with all your creeping round their camps?"

Logi prated glibly of numbers of horses, the arrangement of the tents, the type of weapons and gear he had observed. "No armor, only corselets of leather," he finished.

"Well, you've used your eyes," said Canohando. "Haldar is back. Tonight show him the camps, and cast about, the pair of you, make sure there are no others. We must be watchful, for we cannot tell when they will move, nor where."

Canohando went to stare out the window, as if his gaze could pry out the purposes of the enemies who lurked beyond his sight. "Where do they come from, I wonder? If I wanted to invade the Shire, I would follow the Greenway past the Barrow Downs, and come up from the south. Easier to bring cavalry through Sarn Ford, than over a narrow bridge." He tapped his teeth absently with his knife handle. "Let Mazik's people watch the camps tonight. You and Haldar go into the Forest; make sure they're not slipping through – "

"Through the Old Forest?" Logi bit his tongue; one did not laugh at the Commander, but the idea was preposterous.

"The Trees would not let them through, you think? We can tame them, but they do not love us, Logi. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' We’ll spare a night or two, to know for certain. They are not sneaking down the Road to Sarn; we have a daily courier on that route."

"Right, Adah; the Old Forest tonight." Logi saluted and went out to find his cousin.

Haldar greeted him by coming up suddenly from behind and throwing a hip against him, trying to knock him down. Logi took a half turn backward and dropped his cousin in the dust.

Haldar laughed at him from the floor, making no effort to rise. "Oh, I imagine we'll play with them before we're done! What have you been up to, Orc? Mazik was bending my ear before I broke my fast this morning; I'm not certain he wasn't waiting outside the door for me to wake. You've got him all a-fidget, whatever you've been doing."

Logi reached down and hauled him to his feet. "He'd do better to fret about those barbarians. Mazik is an old woman; never mind him. Did you hear Adah's orders?"

"I have rations for us. You sleep and I'll keep watch; we'll spend a full circuit of the sun inside the Forest. It's the only way to be sure that no-one's coming in."

Logi raised no further objection. They went out through the courtyard, Haldar joking nonstop with the guards at the gate, till one of them exclaimed,

"The Commander'd best put you on the gate when the enemy comes: they'll be laughing too hard to shoot, listening at you, and we'll mow them down like grass."

"But will they make good hay? My Brethil gets the colic from poor fodder – it's not worth sickening the horses, just to use up our dead barbarians," Haldar pointed out sensibly, and the man guffawed.

"Get on with you! I'm glad to see you back, Elf; it's dull here when you're gone."

Haldar grinned and feigned blowing a kiss; then he broke into a trot to catch up with Logi. The Orc had not stopped to talk, merely nodding acknowledgement of the guards' salutes.

"Probably," said the Elf. "But we'd need you to plan our strategy. You're like the Commander, and not just in looks."

Haldar laid an arm across his neck; he was a head taller than Logi, with a sinewy grace that belied his broad shoulders, but the Orc was all muscle, like a bull.

"Not ugly – fearsome! My best and dearest brother, someday to take his place with Adah and Osta, the Keepers of the Shire. But you will make me your second-in-command, or I'll put slugs in your bed."

Logi bit back a laugh; it never took Haldar long to wrap him round his fingers. "There'll be no competition for the post; no one else would have it."

"Don't be too sure; I'm not the only soldier knows a born general when I see one. What's happened to make you cross-grained as a bear? I made sure I'd find you dancing with impatience, trying to prod the Commander into action – you love a battle as the Hobbits love beer!"

Logi made no answer, and Haldar let him be; he was accustomed to the Orc's sullen turns. When they came under the eaves of the Forest, he loosened the string on a narrow bag at his belt and shook out a pair of wooden flutes.

They separated, whistling softly into the instruments, a sound faint as dewfall on trembling leaves. Gradually they blew louder as they spread farther apart, until they lost sight of one another among the Trees, but their music blended: birdsong, frogsong, a whisper of wind along the ground. Deep and deeper they penetrated into the Forest, and calm followed on their footsteps as if the Trees sighed, and stretched their limbs, and went to sleep. After a while they drew together once again and let silence fold around them. Haldar held out a hand for Logi's flute, but the Orc reached back over his shoulder and dropped it in his quiver.

"No, I'll sit," the Elf teased him. "Oh, I'll be here, brother; I'll not leave you unprotected! Go on to sleep, and try to wake more cheerful."

Logi chose a level place away from any Tree, and lay down on the ground. "You took your sweet time getting back," he complained. He waved his hand impatiently when Haldar would have spoken. "No, never mind; I know you came as quickly as you could hurry old Osta along. But I have something to show you."

They stayed in the Forest until the second dawn, exploring down the Withywindle and up the other side, finding no sign of intrusion. Only at the eastern edge, where the barbarian encampment pushed up against the Trees, they saw fresh stumps and the marks of logs skidded out.

Haldar whistled under his breath. "They'll wish they hadn't done that, if they live so long."

But Logi shrugged and hustled him away, and they were both hidden in the brambles by the spring when the girls came to fill their waterskins.

Haldar had questioned him relentlessly, but Logi had told him nothing. He could not explain; he did not understand why she drew him so, this soft-haired vixen. But whatever mattered deeply to him, as this enemy girl mattered, he must share with Haldar. Two creatures only on the green earth he loved, his cousin and Adah; but he feared his grandfather as much as loved him. Haldar was his other self.

The woman was with the others, hanging back again, letting them leave without her. When they were gone, Logi went to her, but Haldar remained in hiding.

He took possession of her hands, not waiting for permission. "I am called Logi, but I do not know your name."

She searched his face as if she hoped to find the truth of him written there. "I am Freiga. What do you want of me?"

He chuckled deep in his throat, throbbingly aware of her nearness. "You, I want you. Freiga, come with me!"

She took a step backward, but he followed and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. "Soft, so soft," he murmured. "My Freiga."

After a moment, her arms came up around him. "My father would burn you alive; you are the enemy."

"Not enemy to you! Let them fight, your father and my grandfather. You come away with me."

They stood for a long time entwined, not saying any more, but at last a bird cried noisily in the bushes and they sprang apart. She caught up her waterskin.

But a twig snapped somewhere nearby, a voice called, "Freiga?" She hastened down the path, and Logi faded silently into the thicket.

"You've run stark mad, you know that, don't you?" Haldar had not moved from where he'd been concealed. "Of every woman alive, did you have to pick one of Them?"

Haldar clicked his tongue. "You're apt to give your head, if Adah gets wind of it! Orc, wake up – they've come to kill the Hobbits, steal the Shire – you cannot make alliance with such people! Find you a wife among the Guardians."

"I do not want a wife; I want this woman, Freiga, and none other! And I will have her, Haldar – wait and see. By heaven, I will have her, come death, come blood, come fire!"

He got up, heedless of caution, and plunged across the stream into the woods beyond. Haldar went after him more carefully, looking back to be certain they were not followed.

Warning: this chapter rated R for disturbing scenes. You can skip it if you want - the rest of the story will still flow.

Haldar kept the secret. He was deeply troubled at Logi's folly, even tempted to be jealous – for no one till now had come between them as this girl had done! Yet to betray Logi to their grandfather was unthinkable, so night after night on patrol he argued with his cousin, but in daytime he played unwilling sentry for the lovers.

Privately he thought the woman must be blind; he loved Logi and was used to him, but he could see the difference between him and the barbarian men. They were handsome giants, and the Orc by comparison was all the more ill-favored, like a man rough-hewn in stone. But Freiga gazed on him adoringly, as if Logi were the very pattern of perfection.

They no longer met by the spring; too apt to be discovered there, she said. She had begged a place for herself among the girls who herded horses - the warriors' mounts were guarded by boys too young for battle, but the older girls, as being more gentle, had care of the suckling mares. So she was in the pasture from early morn till dusk, and Logi joined her as soon as he woke each afternoon. They sat with arms entwined behind an ancient oak, its trunk broad enough to hide them, and Haldar perched in the branches high above. If anyone came near, he mimicked the warning cry of a jay, and Freiga strolled nonchalantly into the open while Logi dove for cover.

The Elf never spoke to Freiga. He could not like her; in truth, he wished she never had been born, before she so ensnared his cousin! And she on her part stared at him in awe, as if she doubted whether he could be real; indeed, she asked Logi in all seriousness if his friend were of mortal kind, and pouted when he laughed.

"But he's so fair and shining – if you told me his father was the Sun, I would believe you," she protested, and she was not certain Haldar wasn't a minor god, even when Logi reassured her.

"He's just my little brother – fair as an Elf, that's how he got his nickname, but nothing more."

Perhaps it made no difference in the end, that the Commander needed a message brought to the Mayor, and settled on Haldar for his emissary. If it had not been that, it would have been something else; the situation was ripe for tragedy.

"See you stay out of trouble while I'm gone! Can you live without the sight of her three days?" Haldar scolded, but in his heart he agonized, When have I seen him so happy, so full of life? Hang the girl that she will not leave her Tribe – she'd be so good for him, if only -

Logi chuckled and shoved him teasingly. "Make it two days, brother, and I'll try."

But the Mayor was not at home, and Haldar had to seek him out in Meadford, where he was overseeing the removal of Hobbits to Tuckborough. It was five nights before the Elf returned to Bridge Fort, and Osta caught him as he rode in the gate and rushed him away to Canohando without giving him time to put his horse in stable.

"Logi is missing." The Commander's voice was clipped, but his eyes gave him away: the grandson who most resembled him was very near his heart. "Captured and slain, probably, but – you know his ways better than anyone. Try and find him, Haldar, in case he is wounded and hiding, unable to get back."

Haldar stood at attention, feeling that if he relaxed a single muscle, he might fall over. "I will find him, Adah. Dead or living, I will find him."

Without warning his commander turned into his great-grandfather, massive arms crushing him against the barrel chest. "Be cautious, Haldar! It gnaws at me, fearing he is alone somewhere, in pain – but take no needless chances. I want you back safe, lad, more than I want his body."

"No, I'll go at once. I couldn't sleep right now for worrying – when I can't stay awake, I'll curl up somewhere. Only make certain they care for my poor Brethil; she had a long run today."

He lost no time in random searching; he made a straight line for the pasture where Logi had been meeting his barbarian.

*****
"No," Freiga repeated, running her forefinger along Logi's browline, from his nose out to his temple. She started again in the middle, noticing how his eyebrows grew together, a single ridge as thick and soft as sable.

"How if I give you this?" He reached back impulsively to unclasp the Queen's Jewel he wore, and fastened it round her neck. "There is no greater treasure in all the Shire."

She held it in her hand, marveling, turning it this way and that to catch the light. "How beautiful! But Logi, truly, I cannot leave my Tribe. We are one blood; we are like the bees of one hive – I would die apart from them." She touched his cheek, her fingers light as a butterfly on his skin. "You are different from your people; you are not like your sun-friend who keeps watch for us. Can you not join the Tribe and be my husband? "

He had not been able to stay away from her. For three days he had kept a rein on himself, had slept in the barracks and spent his afternoons shooting arrows at the practice butts, glowering on anyone who came near. But on the fourth day when Haldar did not return, he could bear it no longer. He went to the pasture and she was watching for him, she ran to him with an eagerness that told him more than words how she had missed him – he was giddy with elation and ready to dare anything to bind her to him.

"It is what a man gives the maiden's father, to buy her from him. Much game for feasting, or – an enemy." She faltered. "It must be paid in blood."

"There's precious little game left in these parts, with all your men out hunting! And your Tribe's enemies are my friends and comrades. Already I am traitor for giving you the Jewel – what would Adah do to me, if he knew?"

His voice was fierce, and she drew back, alarmed. "No, no, my love, my heart – we cannot be enemies, not you and I! Come away with me, Freiga – now, tonight!"

But all his persuasion, his arms around her and his earnest pleading, failed to move her. He was her love, her darling, she would have him for her husband – but among her own people. She was a daughter of the Tent Dwellers; their blood ran in her veins, her children would be of the Tribe –

He stopped her mouth with kisses, pressing her back against the ground. She didn't fight him, not till he lay atop her; then she struggled, but he was too strong. He knew he was unadept with words; his sword, his bow, spoke for him. Between her legs he would make his argument; he would prove she was no longer of the Tribe, she belonged to him…

It was dawn when he woke, and at first he was befuddled. He lay half under a bush on the naked ground, his garments all askew; it was several minutes before he remembered and looked around for Freiga, but she was gone.

He dragged himself upright, straightening his clothes. It had been afternoon when he came here, near dark when he took their quarrel into his own hands. How long since she had left him? He thought he remembered covering her with his cloak. He had taken her more than once.

It was not his first time. There had been women, when he went to Annuminas for the Summer Races, who for a few coins would let him do as he pleased, but never before had he forced himself on anyone. The memory of her resistance woke something dark in him that had been sleeping. He fingered his shoulder. She had bitten him, not teasing but in earnest; his flesh was ripped and smarting. He smiled, wetting his hand in the dewy grass to wipe the blood away.

His blood was a raging torrent; he was bursting with life, ferocious as a wild boar charging. He must have this woman; he would have her! He loved her as he had never loved before; he would die if he did not take her to wife, to bite and claw him through the wild dark hours, to bear him sons. If he must kill, so be it – involuntarily he felt his throat. The Jewel was gone; without it he felt bereft. Adah would not fail to note its absence when he came to morning council.

He had burnt his bridge behind him. There was no hope of lying to the Commander. When he was questioned he would have to tell the truth: he had given the treasure to a woman, a barbarian. If he could bring her to the fort with him, make Adah see – his grandfather might forgive him; his own love for Malatara was the stuff of legend.

If he could bring her. If she would leave the Tribe to cast her lot with him – but she would not. Why should she come to a beleaguered fortress, why leave the winning side? What hope was there to barricade the Shire against ten thousand enemies?

He had never understood Canohando's devotion to the Hobbits. He knew Adah would sacrifice every man of the Guardians, and his own life and even Malatara's, to hold the Shire secure, but it made no sense to Logi. They were such cabbage-headed creatures, poking about with their pumpkins and potatoes, filling the inns with smoke and beery laughter – he had visited the inn at Hobbiton, when Adah was at Bag End conferring with the Mayor. The Hobbits had gone silent when he entered, but after he sat quiet in his corner a while, drinking his ale, they forgot about him. They had gone back to burying their noses in their flagons, cracking jokes that seemed more silly than humorous, and shouting out drinking songs that were memorable only for their stupefying number of verses.

He had asked Adah later why the Shire was so important. Canohando had answered with a long tale of Mordor and some Hobbit he had met there – Frodo, who had meant to cast a magic ring into a volcano but had his finger bitten off instead, and for some reason was a great hero because of it. At the end of the story Logi had been as much in the dark as ever, but too awed by his grandfather to ask more questions. Protecting the Shire was the Guardians' sacred charge, and had been for a thousand years. Logi was content with his life, his training in weapons and woodsmanship with Adah, his fellowship with Haldar. If he didn't entirely grasp the point of it all, it didn't seem to matter.

She will not come to Bridge Fort, and why should she? If I want her, I will have to join them.

Uncouth, uncivilized, clothed in skins and living in wretched little tents - I would sleep outside, even in winter! he thought disgustedly. But the warriors fascinated him; savage as wolves they seemed, and remembering the muted ferocity he had sensed as he spied on them from the dark, he felt the blood thrumming in his veins. Even the leathern helmets with antlers set in the sides – he wouldn't mind having one of those, and a bearskin over his shoulder for a cloak.

It doesn't matter. Only Freiga matters. He tipped back his head to stare into the vault of heaven, and thrust up his arm defiantly. "I will have her! Whatever it cost, even my right arm – as the sky hears me!"

But they would not demand his arm; even as he hurled his challenge, he was sure of that. He was a powerful warrior in his own right; he would be worth having. He turned his back on Bridge Fort and the Shire, striking out for the wilds. Blood, she said the price was. Let him start with a fat deer over his shoulder to carry into their camp. That would be a fair beginning.

*****

It took two days. The barbarians had hunted out the nearby territory; it came to Logi that the attack could not be postponed much longer, for how much provision could they be carrying with them? But this was his own country; he knew coverts that a stranger would never find, and he killed his deer at last, a fine doe. His grandfather would have lashed him with contempt, to take a doe this time of year when she likely had a fawn in the bush, but Logi closed his ears to the imagined scolding. The fawn would starve, and that was not his problem.

It was dusk when he came to the camp, and even his great strength was taxed at carrying the deer so far. Sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes, stinging them with salt, and he set one foot before the other doggedly, taking no trouble to walk silently or to slip past their watchmen. He strode unhindered right into the camp, and so amazed the sentries that he had an instant to stare around him, before they fell on him and knocked him to the ground, taking away his weapons.

They brought him to a chieftain lounging before his tent, surrounded by warriors with parlous faces; it appeared that Logi's coming had interrupted a council. But the chieftain smiled on him with seeming pleasure, although his eyes were hard as river pebbles.

"A guest!" he said. "From the fortress that lies across the Road – have I got that right?"

The voice was guttural, the accent hard to understand, but Logi inclined his head. Both his arms were pinioned, a warrior on either side of him, but he stood erect and met the chief's eyes boldly. He wanted entrance to this Tribe; he wanted one of its women – he must show himself worthy.

"I bring you a gift, O Chief. Doubtless even now your men prepare it for the fire."

The chieftain laughed gratingly. "A gift, is it?" He nodded at Logi's captors to loose his arms. "Sit down, Greyface, and tell me why you honor me with gifts."

Logi sat cross-legged on the ground, his back very straight. "Game is scarce," he said.

The man smiled all the wider. "And so you bring us meat, that we do not hunger! You have a great sense of hospitality, soldier of the fort, more than all your comrades. Is it a free gift, or do you desire some return?"

Logi schooled his face to friendliness, returning smile for smile, while his heart bumped coldly in his chest. He did not like this man; something about the chieftain turned his stomach, like a fish left dead and white at river's edge after spring thaw. Dead and stinking. With an effort he fought down his revulsion.

"The women of your Tribe are very fair."

The men standing behind the chief began to grin, but the headman nodded solemnly. "Our women are fair and strong, mothers of many sons. Do you not have such women among your own people?"

"There is one more fair than all the rest," said Logi.

"There is always one more fair, to a man's eye. Do you see her here, soldier?"

Logi had been glancing about surreptitiously; now he looked openly. "I do not see her," he said at last. "Her name is Freiga."

"You have had speech with her."

When Logi nodded, the man leaned forward so his fetid breath was warm in the Orc's face. "I think you have had more than words with that filly. She returned two nights ago long after her companions, with a strange ornament around her neck. We guard the honor of our women, Greyface."

"Her honor is safe with me, Grandfather. I would have her to wife. I brought you the deer for bride price."

The man laughed full in his face, and those around him roared their mirth, slapping each other's backs.

"You do not value our women high enough. A man does not hunt alone to pay the bride-price; he takes all his brothers and his father's brothers with him, to kill meat for the whole camp. For the price of one deer you may kiss the tip of her little finger – but I take oath you have done more than that already."

Logi raised his chin arrogantly. "I have no brothers to hunt with me, O Chief. Name what price you will accept." He thought, or I will steal her out from underneath your nose, but had wisdom enough not to say it.

"I think you know the price," the chieftain said. "Will you ride with us, bleed and die with us, against your kinsmen? We do not give our women away to strangers; you must be one of us."

"Give me Freiga, and I will be one with you, against the Guardians." The words came cold as iron from Logi's mouth; grief snatched at his breath, to swear away Haldar and his grandfather, but his voice was steady.

"You must seal that vow with death, this very night, to one of your own people." The chief got to his feet; standing, he was a head taller than Logi. "When you have killed, I myself will bind you to the girl."

"I will bring you his head in proof." Logi turned away, anxious to return to the fort and do it, to have the terrible deed behind him. And then she would be his. Once the price was paid, he would be free to enjoy the love for which he would desecrate every other loyalty. But before he could take a step, his arms were caught and forced behind his back.

"Not so fast," the chieftain purred. "There is no need for you to go; we have a captive here already, taken this morning creeping round our camp. His death is the bride price."

Logi's mouth went dry. Captured here? Someone come searching for him when he did not return? He let them pull him through the camp to its very center, where an open space had been left with tent circles all around it. Torches mounted on tall poles surrounded the area. There should by rights have been a campfire in the middle; instead there was a wooden stake, and someone bound to it.

The Elf struggled weakly, trying to break free, when he caught sight of Logi. "I did not betray you!" he cried. He was naked, and even in the torchlight Logi could see the marks of the whip. His eyes were blacked and there was caked blood on his forehead.

"He speaks the truth," the chieftain said. "We thought to have him lead us to you, but he is very stubborn. Yet in the end there was no need, was there, Greyface? You got the taste of honey in your mouth and came to ask for more. Now you must pay for your pleasure."

Logi was silent, his throat squeezed shut as he saw how Haldar sagged against his bonds, as if without their support he would have fallen. A great heap of dry brush was piled around him, nearly to the hips. A pile of cut logs stood ready to one side.

The chieftain bared his teeth, wolf-like. "He is bound and ready. You would have the woman? You have but to light the fire and dance around it."

"And what if I will not?"

The chieftain laughed as if it were a good joke. "Then we will cut him loose, and we will strip you bare as he is. If you can fight your way out of the camp without garment or weapon, you may go; we will not pursue you."

"Water, give me water," Haldar rasped. Logi saw how he braced himself against the stake, trying to stand firm on trembling legs, readying himself to fight when Logi said the word. He was near collapse; he would never fight his way clear. If they loosed him he would be cut down before he took three steps.

There was a cry, quickly muffled, outside the ring of torches, and Logi looked that way. Freiga stood with her hands pressed up against her mouth, an older woman gripping her by the shoulders as if to hold her back. Across the space between them he met her eyes, huge and dark with fear.

He heard his own words from afar, as if someone else had spoken.

"I will pay." He stepped forward, averting his gaze from the stake, and someone thrust a burning brand at him.

"Logi!" That was Haldar, shrill with horror.

"You would die anyway! Why should we both perish?" Logi made himself look into Haldar's bloodless face as he plunged the fire deep into the kindling. "Die bravely, brother!"

The flame caught and spread. Haldar writhed away, but the fire followed him, and the men nearby caught up pieces of wood and piled them on the blaze, which grew in intensity and leaped around him. He screamed.

The chieftain had taken Logi by the arm as soon as he dropped the torch, dragging him into a slow shuffle around the stake, warriors carrying spears and swords falling in line behind them. They had started a low, rumbling chant that made the hairs rise on the back of the Orc's neck. Then Haldar screamed, and Logi broke away, snatching a sword from the hand of the man behind him.

"Die!" he shrieked, and plunged into the fire, driving his blade home under his cousin's ribs. Haldar gave a groaning cry, falling against his ropes, and Logi dodged back, his front hair singed and an angry burn running the length of his arm. Men charged at him from every side, but he held them off.

"Light the fire and dance – that was the price!" His sword whirled in a deadly arc, now before him, now on either side, and the warriors drew back. "Dance with me, if you dare!"

Alone, twisting this way and that lest anyone come behind him, he pranced around the fire. It leaped higher and higher, those nearby feeding it from the heap of wood, but there were no more cries of anguish. Only the roar of flames disturbed the silence, and the tramp of feet on hard ground as one man after another joined Logi, stamping and turning, thrusting with their weapons at invisible foes. When the flames began to slacken, when the pile of logs was gone, Logi left the circle and went to stand by Freiga.

"Dance with me," he ordered.

She raised her hands and with quick fingers unplaited her hair, shaking it out over her shoulders like a veil. Then she drew a short dagger and held it in her hand, linking her other arm with his. He led her back into the circle, and together they danced around the dying fire, the sword in his right hand and the dagger in her left, their free arms intertwined.

The warriors backed away, and the chieftain began a steady pounding with the butt of his spear against the ground. Others took up the rhythm, and a wordless chant swelled in the darkness.

For long and long they danced, until even the coals of the death-fire had darkened and the only light came from a pallid moon. Then Freiga led Logi away to the edge of the circle, and the warriors let them through. She brought him to a tent on the far side of the camp, not the one where he had seen her first, and after they were inside, she let fall the flap that covered the entrance.

But when morning came, while Logi was yet sleeping, the chieftain had Haldar's clothes and weapons retrieved from the warriors who had taken them in plunder, and he gave them to a messenger to be carried to the Bridge.

"Keep your distance – throw them down and shout. Tell them how the Grey One lit the fire. His own people will hunt him down, if they are men."

Osta was on the gate when the barbarian came. He ought to have been with the Commander, poring over maps, planning the defenses; he was chief officer under Canohando. It was twenty-eight days since they discovered the presence of the barbarians, and in that time the enemy had made no move. They were close, but they came no closer; they sent neither demand for surrender nor invitation to battle. Osta had slept only fitfully and had risen when the dawn trumpets called the garrison to duty. He had gone to the guardhouse well to douse his aching head in cold water, before he mounted the steps to the lookout above the gate.

The men who had been reconnoitering the enemy camps the night before made their report: the barbarians had them hemmed in on two sides. There had been some commotion during the night in the encampment farthest to the rear, where they thought the command center lay. Osta chafed at the absence of Logi and Haldar. This was no time to lose two of his best scouts, and besides that Haldar was his own grandson, the apple of his eye. He had been uneasy at sending him out alone to search for Logi, but Canohando had thought he would be safer alone than with companions. Logi was missing for three days now, Haldar for a day and a night. If they had not returned by evening, he would mount a double patrol to beat the bushes for them.

They were more like brothers than – second cousins, was it, or third? It took a Hobbit to keep track of such fine shades of relationship. As nearly inseparable as made no difference. Osta wondered in passing if their bond would survive the marriage of one or both of them. Haldar seemed young, but he was full old enough to be mated; his grandfather was a little surprised that no lass had snared him yet. Logi was a different matter. Sullen and hot-tempered by turns – the Orc had no charm to draw a damsel's interest.

Osta's eye was caught by something moving at the edge of the forest. He squinted to see clearly, then with an oath he clattered down the stone staircase to the gate.

"Open up!"

"Captain, it's a barbarian – even though he carries a white flag, do you want to trust him?"

Osta pushed the guardsman aside and himself threw back the heavy bolts that secured the gate. "Ho, you! What have you got there?" he shouted.

The messenger threw down what he carried and backed away. He was still out of bowshot from the walls. Osta held out his hands, weaponless.

"Can you understand me? Don't run. Tell me where you got those." He was walking forward slowly as he spoke; he reached the little heap of clothes on the ground and bent to pick them up. The shirt, blue as a summer sky – that was what had drawn his attention. Haldar's shirt – and his knife sheath, with its design of ivy leaves – the weapons and deerskin breeches wrapped in Haldar's cloak.

"Where is he? Is he alive?"

The barbarian gave a mocking laugh. "Alive as the logs that fueled your supper fires! He is burned, and it was his comrade lit the flame, to buy the girl he wanted! My chieftain bade me tell you. I have done so." He stepped back a few steps more, wary of any attempt to catch him, but Osta stood turned to stone, a breath of air fluttering the blue shirt that hung forgotten in his hand.

"Logi? Of his own will?"

"Is that his name? Greyface, grey as ashes – may he choke on them! Give me a fine, high day to fight in, and the blood flowing crimson – that's how a man should die, not burnt to charcoal against a stake. Aye, he did it willingly; he wanted the girl. The youngster was brave enough; he would not tell us where to find this Logi, and he died without begging."

Osta did not see the man go. Blindly he turned back to the fortress; by the time he reached the gate he was jogging, Haldar's clothes and carved bow cradled against his heart.

"Commander! Afar!"*

His cry rang against the stone walls, and Canohando knocked his chair over, jumping up from where he had been poring over maps of the North Kingdom, to race down to the gate. Osta met him on the stairs and thrust the sad little bundle into his arms.

"The Orc, the Orc has slain him! We sent him to be burned!" He broke into sobs, beating his fists against the wall until Canohando caught his wrists and held them, to stop him from doing himself an injury.

The Commander was still trying to get a coherent story from him when Malawen reached them. She picked up the scrap of tell-tale blue from the stair where it had fallen, spread it out to examine it. Back and front were shredded, the edges of the torn fabric crusted black. She moaned and shook her head.

"Whipped, and – held to ransom? Osta, where is he?"

Osta had gotten control of himself; he took deep, slow breaths and pushed past his parents up the stairs. They followed him into the sunny tower room that served as the fort's command post. Osta went to a side table and poured out three cups of wine, dark as blood.

"To Haldar," he said, raising his cup. "More shining than mithril, true as fine gold tested in the fire – " He choked, recovered himself, and drained his cup.

They drank, watching his face. Canohando set down his cup with a click against the table.

"He is dead. How?"

Osta told them.

Malawen hunched over Haldar's shirt, weeping and rubbing it against her cheek, kissing it as though she kissed the beloved flesh instead of torn linen. She whimpered, calling his name. She had no favorites among her grandchildren, she would not play favorites, but – he was her favorite. His fervent spirit, his unquenchable joy – his mercy, his kindness to Logi most of all, whom few would befriend –

"Logi. Where is Logi? He murdered him – and remains with the barbarians? For a woman he did this?"

She did not question - none of them questioned - whether the report was true. Now that the blow had fallen, it seemed inevitable, a doom written in the stars from the day of Logi's birth. They should have known, always they should have known, that the Orc would prove a traitor.

It was long before Canohando could calm his mate. She ranted, pacing up and down, shrieking what vengeance she would wreak on Logi, on the woman who had bewitched him to this crime, on the whole barbarian nation – Canohando was reminded of the fierce little outcast he had met in the Golden Wood, when Queen Arwen yet lived and walked beneath the mallorns. Not in an Age of the world had he seen Malawen so torn with grief and rage.

At last she wept herself to quietude. He poured more wine for her and made her lie down on the narrow bed in the corner, where he rested when he was up all night in this tower, plotting strategy.

"Sleep, melethril. He is out of his pain, poor lad, and no one who knew him will ever be able to forget him. May Frodo and Arwen take him by the hand, wherever he is, and lead him into peace."

He stayed stroking her forehead and trailing his fingers over her eyelids, making her close her eyes, until she fell asleep. Then he rose and went quietly down from the tower, with Osta at his heels. At the foot of the stairs he entered his own bedchamber and shut the door behind them.

"Send out a foray at sundown. I want the front ranks of the enemy well harried, but not enough to draw them out of that camp to the rear. Can you do that?"

Osta frowned. "Surely. What are you planning, Afar?"

Canohando was pulling on a mail shirt over his tunic of soft leather. He slid the sword down his belt and threaded on a knife sheath before he buckled it around his waist.

"I am going in to kill that murderer. I will bring back his head and mount it over our gate."

Osta gripped the doorframe with both hands. "You will do what? At the border of the Shire! You would not."

His father sighed. "No. But I will slay him, Osta – of a certainty I will do that!"

"You cannot."

Canohando glared, but Osta stood his ground, blocking the doorway. "We need you here, Commander. You cannot put yourself at jeopardy in that camp. There are how many thousands of them to our nine hundred? Even if we armed our women, we would be hard pressed to hold the line. You cannot step aside for private vengeance, while the Shire hangs in the balance."

"Osta, he burned him! For his lust he betrayed him to the fire – will you let him go unpunished?"

"He will not go unpunished. Why did their chieftain send back Haldar's things? That man was ordered to tell us who lit the fire. They are savages, but they do not love a traitor, and the day is coming that we meet in battle. Do you think any of them will guard Logi's back?"

"So you will leave him to the chance of warfare?"

Osta's teeth glittered suddenly in the shadows. "There will be no 'chance' about it, Afar. Haldar was my grandson."

*Afar: Father

Three more weeks passed slowly. Bridge Fort was packed to the old stone walls, for the other fortresses had been cut to skeleton garrisons, all except Sarn Ford. Canohando was still uneasy about the South Road, and he left that stronghold fully manned.

Hourly they expected attack, but nothing happened. There were a few skirmishes, when a patrol met with an enemy hunting party, but the barbarians fought on the run as they raced back to the security of their camps, and the Guardians were not strong enough to challenge them there. Of Logi there was no sign, though everyone was watching for him: the traitor would not survive an encounter with his former comrades. Presumably he realized that and stayed clear.

"What are they waiting for?" Osta demanded at morning council. "They are not planning to live on our doorstep!" Grief and suspense were taking their toll on him; his voice was querulous, his eyes red from lack of sleep.

Canohando tapped his front teeth with the handle of his knife, a habit he had picked up when he no longer had Arwen's Jewel to rub between his fingers.

"Trying to goad us into action, from sheer nerves? Waiting for reinforcements?" He grimaced. "We will be in sore straits if that's the case. Or – what's the date, Osta? We're nearly at the solstice, aren't we?"

"Two days to Mid-summer's Eve. The Mayor sent out word there'll be no Fair this year, nor any merry-making. Caused some complaint, I'm told."

Canohando shrugged. "They've lived so long in safety, they have no conception of danger."

"Not all of them," said Osta. "The Mayor is nobody's fool. He's got stocks of food at Tuckborough and Delving, and he's had the Bounders visiting every household within a day's journey of the river, telling them to leave, go stay with relatives farther from the border." From childhood, Osta had had a close rapport with the Hobbits. The Commander over-awed them at times, but Osta kept a finger on the pulse of the Shire.

"For the most part. I sent a few of our lads to chivvy them along. They spread the story of what happened to Haldar, to give them an idea what sort of Men we're dealing with. The far bank of the river is nearly empty now."

Before nightfall he had the greater part of his army moved across the river. Only a few score men he left inside the fort, with orders to light campfires and make as much noise as they could, to conceal how few of them there were.

"It cannot be much longer before they come down on us. The river is a natural barrier; it will slow them down, at least. When you see them coming, get out! Make for the Ferry; the Bridge will not be passable."

And he set men that same day to tearing out the middle of the Bridge, to stop the barbarians from passing over it.

"And we will be waiting for them. Shoot every warrior we can, but spare the horses – with any luck they'll panic in the water, block the way for those who come behind. Some will get to shore, but we'll cut their force in half before they reach us."

The Commander gnawed at the tip of his thumb. "Send a message to the Mayor. Tell him to get everyone he can to some place of safety. You mentioned Tuckborough and Michel Delving – aren't there some old tunnels in the North as well, near Scary? We may be fighting all across the Shire before we're done. I want Hobbits clean out of sight until it's over."

"They aren't going to like that," said Osta. "Some of them have weapons; they'll want to defend their homes."

"Let them guard the entrance to their hiding places. Their delvings are sized for Halflings, not for Men – they will have the advantage there. When the war is over, then we can rebuild."

But his confidence was feigned for Osta's sake; Canohando's mind was troubled, and Haldar's dreadful end weighed heavy on him. The savagery of setting one friend to burn another to death – from Orcs he would have expected it, but not from humankind. He grew cold at the thought of such Men turned loose upon the Shire.

Midsummer's Eve ran its course peacefully, unmarked by celebration. The day was stifling hot, a swarm of cicadas making an unearthly din in the tall grass by the river. The sun went down at last, on this longest evening of the year, falling blood-red like an omen of ill fortune. Dusk thickened into darkness, but the night was as breathless as the day had been, and then across the river the trumpet of the Fort shrieked like the voice of doom.

The sound shivered across the water and men leaped to their feet – then the defiant peal broke off mid-note. There was an instant's hush before a roaring inferno erupted around the fortress. Against the flames they could see dark silhouettes of the attackers and burning arrows flying over the walls, and soon fire leaped up inside the fort as well.

Those on the Shire side surged to the water's edge as if moved by a single will; they pressed together, shouting and cursing their frustration at being cut off from the battle, while their comrades died within the walls of flame. But there came movement through the confusion like a ship cutting through high seas, and the Commander was among them, pushing them away from the river, giving low-voiced orders.

"Back, get back! Space yourselves out, cover as much of the shoreline as you can. The fortress has a tunnel out to the Forest – our lads may get away in spite of them. But they'll be trying to cross the river at first light; let's be ready for them!"

The men obeyed him. A very few had known of the tunnel; in whispers they reassured those near them as they spread out along the riverbank, but Canohando stood staring across at his burning fortress, wondering if anyone had gotten out alive. The renegade Logi had known the tunnel's secret.

When the sky began to lighten, the Guardians lay concealed along the river, from the confluence where The Water flowed into the Brandywine, all the way to Buckleberry Ferry. The boat there was drawn up on the Shire side; a handful of men had crossed over during the night: the only survivors from the fort.

Canohando was wroth. "Why did you try to fight it out with them? There were not enough of you for that; I ordered you out of there. We're outnumbered ten to one – we need every man we've got!"

"Sit down," snapped Canohando. "Here, lad, pass this around." He unhooked a silver vial from his belt and tossed it to the soldier nearest him; it held a reviving cordial brewed by Malawen. "What was it, then? Was the mouth of the tunnel watched? Did Logi bring them there?"

"No, Commander. There was no one, only the Trees." He gulped convulsively. "You know where it comes out, deep inside the Forest. And the Trees –"

Another man cut in. "It was as if they'd come alive; we had to fight our way, the branches whipping in our faces – we couldn't stay together; the Trees kept coming between us. When we got to the river's edge, there was only Darrin with me, and then he slipped, fell in and sank like a stone not a yard from shore –"

"Why didn't you pull him out?" Canohando demanded, but the soldier was staring at the ground, shaking his head back and forth as if he'd forgotten to stop.

"The Trees…" he muttered, and Canohando looked on him with pity and forbore to question further. For centuries the Forest had been unmolested; he'd hoped his men could slip from tunnel's mouth to the old Ferry without arousing it, but plainly the Trees were as malignant as they had ever been.

"All right. Fall back to Stock; our base camp's there, and the horses. Catch a few hours' sleep, but come morning you must be ready for battle."

But knowing the Old Forest was alive against intruders gave him to think, and he went in search of Osta. He found him at the end of the ruined Bridge, placing his best marksmen on the broken span out over the water, where they could shoot from cover.

"Those on the riverbank will send a hail of arrows as the enemy comes in range, but they can't aim properly at that distance. Watch for the chieftains and try to take them out: those on the best horses, or wearing helmet or ornament that sets them apart. We cannot stop them all, but we may leave them headless."

"I'll take out Logi if I see him," one man said vengefully; Benar, who had been Haldar's friend, and Logi's also.

"Unless I see him first," growled Canohando. "Osta, come walk with me; I want your counsel."

Dimly now they could make out men and horses on the opposite bank. A column of smoke still ascended from the fort, then suddenly the sun broke over the horizon, shooting golden darts in the eyes of the Guardians, making them duck and shield their faces with their arms. A roar like thunder broke from a thousand throats across the river, and the barbarians on their horses plunged in the water.

"Wait till they're in the middle; make them wonder!" shouted Osta, then turned back to his father. "Is that our strategy? Drive them south –"

"Hold them to the river as tight as we can, all the way to Sarn if we have to, and the garrison there can join us. But better if we can push them back across, into the Forest. The Trees will fight for us whether they will or no, and any who escape will come out on the Barrow Downs –"

"And from there none of them will come out," concluded Osta. "Very well; it's a good plan, I think. I will be on the bridge, where I can see what's going on and keep an eye out for your foster son." He bared his teeth in grim semblance of a smile. "Where can I find you at need?"

"Stock first, to bring the horsemen up. After that I'll be up and down the line. Have the wounded brought to Stock; we'll have wagons to take them to Malatara in Woodhall."
"Is that where she is? All right, good hunting to you, Afar. The Valar speed your arrows true this day."

"And yours as well." Impulsively Canohando locked his eldest son in a quick embrace before he turned away. He was glad, later, that he had done that.

The war-cries of the barbarians were raucous in his ears as he left the bridge; already there were bodies floating, horses swimming riderless. He met a group of men coming in from Stock and commandeered one of the horses, swinging himself up awkwardly. He would rather be afoot when he had the choice, but speed was essential and he could ride when he had to.

He had kept the horses back from the river, reasoning that they would only add to the confusion, when what he wanted were marksmen picking off as many enemies as they could. But to push a mounted foe across the water he needed horsemen, armed with spears as well as bows.

It will be a shoving match as much as anything, he thought, and the one with the sharpest elbows wins. He smiled inwardly, warming to the day's work. He had been in enough shoving matches in his youth, against his brothers. He had always had sharp elbows.

The sun climbed up the sky and still they came. The river was clogged with bodies, and riderless horses scrambled up the banks on both sides of the river. But however many barbarians were picked off, more came behind, and even as they rode, their arrows sped toward riverbank and bridge, a deadly rainbow flashing in the sun. The Guardians kept hidden as best they could, but the hail of death from above needed no eyes. Not a few of the defenders were transfixed where they lay, pinned dying to the ground.

A trumpet blared, and Osta craned his neck to see behind him. A phalanx of horsemen was thundering toward the river – the Guardians' cavalry, as he'd planned with Canohando hours ago. A lifetime ago. He arched his back, trying to stretch away the stiffness of hunching all morning behind the parapet.

"There he is, there's Logi!" he howled, and the tip of his arrow followed one figure in the river for an instant, two instants, before he let fly.

"Damn! I missed – but I'll have you, traitor, just stand one moment, Logi, and I'll have you –"

Osta rushed to the railing, heedless of concealment, nocking an arrow to his string. "Where? Where is he – wait, I see –" Before he could fire, an enemy arrow found him, took him in the right breast and spun him round to sprawl across the bridge.

"Captain!" The archer who a moment before had been sure he would have Logi, fell to his knees by Osta. "Captain –"

Gently he turned him, fearing, but Osta was alive and furious. "Kill me that traitor!" he gasped. He pressed a hand where the arrow stood out from his chest. "This will keep. Get Logi!"

The archer hurled himself at the railing, careful to stay under cover, but Logi by now had passed beyond his range. The Orc had not once looked up, and he rode with both hands on the reins, his bow unstrung and strapped across his back.

Soon after, they had to abandon the bridge. Too many enemies had fought their way to shore; the Guardians were forced to give ground, and those on the bridge must retreat or be cut off. They could not even bring away the dead with them, but the wounded they half dragged, half carried as they fled.

Osta walked, one hand clamped against his wound to slow the bleeding. He refused any help, holding his sword left-handed, but his men surrounded him protectively. In that way, fending off the barbarians clustered at the end of the bridge, they fought their way across to their own side.

Guardian horsemen were pushing hard against the invaders, holding them to the river, heading off any who threatened to break away. The air rang with steel, with battle cries and dying screams, the squeals of horses with their harness dangling, plunging through the melee. In the thick of it all Canohando fought on his two feet, hacking this way and that with a great two-handed sword and shouting like a madman.

Once he spotted Logi and roared at him to stand. Logi heard – their glances inter-locked for the space of a heartbeat, but then he spurred away. A chieftain in a helmet rimmed with fur drove down on Canohando, demanding his attention – by the time the barbarian was dispatched, Logi had disappeared.

Slowly they herded the invaders southward. The enemy had been decimated crossing the river; the Guardians were no longer as outnumbered as they had been. Their hopes rose as the sun inched toward the west.

Evening found them in the rich bottomlands of the Marish, fields of corn dotted with barns and houses, not far from Rushy. The country was deserted, the inhabitants all fled, and the opposing armies tramped down the Hobbits' crops and churned up a slurry of mud and gore beneath the horses' hoofs. As the light faded, the barbarians drew off closer to the water, and the Guardians let them go. It was too dark any longer to distinguish friend from foe.

"At dawn we will finish; drive them back across. The Forest is thick on the other side of the river." Canohando was weary, but satisfied with the day's work. "Post sentries and get the supper fires going. Where is Osta, has anybody seen him?"

The men around him shrugged, and he went to search, taking a horse and riding back toward Bridgefields, asking as he went. When at length he found an answer, they told him Osta had been taken to Malatara at Woodhall.

"Complaining all the way, Commander. He was bound to stay and fight – 'Just get this blasted stick out of me!' he said. Wouldn't ride in the wagon. We got him on a horse, finally, and begged him, as a favor, to go along as escort – and while he was there, just let the Lady look at him."

Canohando gave a hoot of laughter – that sounded like his son, indeed! Osta had ridden before he could walk, and he rode like the centaurs in the ancient tales, one body with his horse. Small wonder he refused the wagon.

He handed his own steed over to the horse-lads, and started back on foot. He would have to be at the front when morning came, to lead the onslaught that should thrust the invaders out, but there was no hurry. Walking rested him better than sleep after a battle.

Campfires winked here and there across the fields, men heating water to soak parched grain and meat, and bandaging up small injuries that did not warrant going to Woodhall. Passing through a little grove of trees, Canohando found a burial party working, and the slain laid out in rows. He walked among them, looking at each in turn, and sorrow smote him. There were no unfamiliar faces; he was father to them all, however many generations stood between them. He clenched his teeth, refusing tears. When the enemy was driven off, there would be time to mourn.

He moved on with his head sunk to his chest, picking his way among the campfires and soldiers wrapped in their cloaks, sleeping on bare ground. Haldar gone and Logi renegade – how many others fallen, and the war not finished yet. But the Hobbits were sheltered from it. Hodfast would have had gotten his people to safety when the warning came. He was a good Mayor.

Death had been part of the bargain from the beginning, but in spite of that they had been happy here. Fragments of bright memory slid into his mind: Haldar and Logi as young cubs, following at his heels as they learned to track, running ahead of him along the trail and dropping on him out of trees, trying to surprise him. He had trained them in the Old Forest, showing them how to calm the Trees as Malawen had taught him. If those two had led the escape from the fort last night, he would wager his head there had been no man lost to the Trees.

If he had arranged a marriage for his grandson, would he have been turncoat? He should not have left Logi to find his own mate, knowing how rough he was, how little grace he had to please the fair ones. Then Haldar would be alive tonight.

He shut his eyes and groaned, for a moment standing still. Better if he had drowned Logi in infancy, when he knew him for what he was – as Malawen drowned her misbegotten Orc in the days of the Ring War. If he had not deluded himself that he could tame the lad, as Frodo had tamed him –

There was a shout and hoofbeats hard behind him. He sprang out of the way, trying to see through the dark who it might be.

"Commander!" The horseman reined, and Canohando gaped at him. It was a Hobbit, clinging like a burr to the back of a full-sized horse, without a saddle. "Commander, I come from Dwaling – the barbarians fired Kingstown two days ago at dawn – I don't know if any of the Guardians survived! I came to warn you."

His voice was cracked with fear, and the Commander reached up quickly to lift him down, setting him on his feet and holding him steady.

"Easy, lad. Let's get something warm inside you and let you catch your breath; then you shall tell me all you can. Come on." He took his hand to lead him, but the Hobbit was exhausted; after a few steps Canohando picked him up and carried him like a child. He paid no attention to the horse, but the animal followed them.

"Not caught. Three wounded, and one killed. We were bringing milk and meat to the fortress; they buy from us, you know – "

Canohando nodded; it was a good arrangement, providing the Guardians with fresh food while it gave the Shirefolk a reliable market. "This is no time for trade, though; this is war," he said.

"Even in wartime men must eat!" the Hobbit retorted, and Canohando repressed a smile; there spoke the Shire, indeed!

"No. We were on the road and they came barreling down the hill. We cut the pack ponies loose and ran – scattering, you know, to make it hard for them to follow. But Hamish tried to race ahead, to warn the fort – " there was a sob in his voice, and Canohando realized for the first time how young he was, hardly more than a lad.

"They used him for target, him and his pony both! They were like pincushions –"

"You are a brave fellow to come and bring us word," Canohando said bracingly. "All right, now down you go." They had come to a campfire, a few men sitting around it still awake, and a savory smell of stew. "Here's a small messenger with a hearty appetite; give him some of what you have in the pot there."

The Hobbit talked while he ate, but he had little to add to what he'd said already. Canohando asked a few questions and then sat whetting his sword.

He would have to divide his forces. He hated doing it, for both companies would be woefully overmatched, but –

The Hobbits might have over-estimated the number of barbarians on the road, but there should have been none at all. There’d been no report of enemies up there. If Kingstown was destroyed, the nearest stronghold to Scary was twenty miles west, and that was undermanned. The entire Shire lay open to the north, and here he sat defending the river! Did his foemen have a spy among his counselors, that they could so outwit him?

Of course they did; they had Logi. He swore under his breath. Let me only catch that Spider-spawn!

So, then. He would go north himself, for there the greater danger lay. A captain must finish things here, hound this lot into the Forest. He tested his sword blade against his thumb and slid it back in its sheath. Once he would have picked Logi for such duty; the Orc would not have rested until every man of them was harried out or slain. Who now did he have on hand that he could trust?

In the end he put his son Tulco in command. Tulco was popular; the men would follow him. He would throw his whole heart into any mission he was given, but – not stupid, but not quick enough on his feet. He might not notice if conditions changed, if some other strategy were called for.

It can't be helped, and he needs only to push them in the water. The river can have them, or the Trees; it makes no difference.

And there was no one else, so Tulco would have to do. The best captains he had left in charge of the half-manned fortresses; all the more need of strong commanders, where men were in short supply.

While it was still dark he took the half of his army and started north. The Hobbit lad from Dwaling rode with them; Canohando thought he would send him as messenger to Malawen, when they got near Woodhall. She would have to get her wounded to some place more secure – all the way to Tuckborough if she could.

But Logi had not known about the army on the northern frontier. When daylight came he saw in amazement how the ranks of the Guardians had shrunk, and realized afresh how little his new companions trusted him, when they made sport of his surprise.

"They've gone haring after the lads as took the northern route – we had to split up, didn't we? There wasn't forage enough to feed the horses. Now we've got 'em in between mortar and pestle, and we'll grind them into meal! Still game for it, Greyface? "

Logi bared his teeth and spat, saving his words. It was no use to answer them, he'd found that out already. His only friend among these men was his own strong right arm, and his safety lay in the fear he could inspire. He kept one eye constantly over his shoulder, lest someone come behind him.

Yet Freiga loved him! He had fallen into nightmare – surrounded by malice and wracked by dreams that made him dread the dark. In Freiga's arms was respite, yet even her devotion tortured him. He was befouled; he had no claim on loyalty. He loved her and he loathed himself for loving; his tenderness curdled to a passion to give hurt. Haldar screamed through nights of fire, and Logi groaned, and Freiga ran caressing fingers across his eyelids until he quieted, lulled for a while to peace.

But Freiga was beyond the river now, safe in the camp behind the broken bridge. The barbarian women could handle arms, but they did not march to war, their task to guard the encampment and the children, until the men returned.

Logi looked across the river and understood at a glance what the Guardians intended; not for nothing was he trained by Canohando. Had Adah forgotten that he could tame the Trees? Or did he risk it, hoping he was dead in yesterday's battle?

He pulled a strip of dried meat from his pocket and chewed it while he went to find his horse. Oh, he had one friend; he had Cambar, the chestnut mare he'd been given for bridal gift by Freiga's father. It was a measure of his loneliness that he counted the mare as friend; he had ridden all his life, and given no more care to his mounts than the least that was required, that they might carry him. Animals had been prey for the hunt or objects for cruel play; his horses he had treated better for his convenience only. Yet Cambar had warmed to him from the moment his father-in-law put the reins in his hand.

She came now at his whistle, arching her neck and sidestepping coyly when she reached him.

"Get on with you. Here, I saved some corn for you." He held it out on his palm, parched grain from last night's supper. She took it daintily and mouthed his tunic, asking for more. "That's all there is, Greedy. This is a battlefield, not a king's stable."

He drew a cloth from his pouch and started rubbing her down, feeling the smooth skin ripple under his hand, warm and alive. "No time for much this morning," he told her. "Very soon now we'll be going for a swim, or I don't know my grandfather." He lifted her feet in turn, looking for stones.

"You'll do, my lady. Don't wait for me, if I get knocked off your back. Straight through the water and out the other side – the Trees don't care for horses. It's human blood they want."

She bumped her head against him and he fingered the whorl of hair between her eyes. The Trees could slake their thirst today, for all he cared. He'd not calm them, not for this rabble, not even for himself. He swung onto Cambar's back and looked around. All over the field the barbarians were mounting up, and across the empty space between them, so were the Guardians. Logi did not wonder if Canohando were there; he knew without telling that his grandfather would have led the foray north. He did wonder who was commanding in his place.

Whoever it was, he was not equal to it. The barbarians broke through the line as if it were made of daisy chains, and charged north along the road with the Guardians yelping at their heels.

Tulco fell in the first onslaught, and without a commander the Guardians gave pursuit, knowing they must stop the invaders somehow, and unable to do so. Practically together the two armies reached Stock, and the barbarians raced down the main street and at the end divided into two columns, as if they had planned it so, veering off to right and left and doubling back to circle round the village. There was not a Hobbit left in the place; they had all fled when Canohando rode through that morning, but the Guardians were surrounded.

Before they could fight free, a dozen barbarians dashed into the outmost houses, emerging with flaming sticks of wood, or in one case a broom, which they'd kindled at the deserted hearths. Gleefully they set the thatched roofs ablaze. Inside the ring of fire, the Guardians shouted frantically and tried to rally; finally they formed a rough phalanx and charged, as the houses on either side caught and blazed up like torches.

The men in the vanguard were cut down by arrows, making those behind them stumble and run against each other, trapped in the narrow street. Some were thrust against the fire, and the air was filled with screams and the reek of burning. Horses reared in terror, spilling their riders on the ground to be trampled by slashing hooves. And through the hideous, fiery maelstrom came arrows like black hail, piercing man and beast impartially.

Yet some of them broke free. Smoke filled their eyes and nostrils, the attackers as much as their hapless victims, and some of the Guardians blundered through gaps in the encirclement to the clean air beyond. Those who had been unhorsed ran while they could, but the men who were still mounted clustered on a knoll beyond the village and charged from behind, trying to force an escape for their comrades within the cordon.

At first it seemed they might succeed, and a few more of the Guardians slipped out through the opening they made. Then the barbarians closed ranks and rode them down; those who got away fled toward the horizon, where black trees reared against the sky. When there was no more sound but the fire's roar, when no more panicked horses plunged out of the inferno, the barbarians resumed their advance along the road. They had wiped out Tulco's company in less than an hour.

Logi's apathy of the morning had burned away in battle. The flames, the smell of blood, the screams, the sweating, charging horse between his thighs, all maddened him to frenzy. Fire filled his brain and his bow throbbed in his hand, arrows flying from the string as if they leaped out of the quiver and propelled themselves away, without help or hindrance from his will. He was in the forefront when they rode down the would-be rescuers, and when it was over his sword was bloody to the hilt. He fell in at the tail-end of the column, slowly coming to himself again, the berserker fury ebbing and leaving him cold and sick.

He was no battle virgin. With the Guardians, under Osta's generalship, he had ridden years before against tribes attacking along the southern border. Canohando had led a diversionary force deep inside enemy lines, while Osta followed with the main army. The Guardians had suffered heavy losses, but Logi had ridden home unhurt and cocky, well pleased with his own performance.

Now he felt hollow, as if a knife had emptied out his vitals and let the north wind whistle through his bones. He shivered and drew up his hood, pulling his cloak around him. There was blood on Cambar's withers, and he spat on his hand and tried to wipe her clean, but it was crusted dry. It would take more than spit to cleanse his horse. As for washing the blood off himself...

Woodhall was like a beehive prodded with a stick. The Hobbit messenger galloped in clinging to a horse twice too large for him –

"They're coming! The Commander says get out, the enemy is coming!" He yanked his horse around at the street's end, pebbles flying underneath the hooves, and rode back to plunge to a halt before Malawen, who had run out of one of the houses.

She asked no more, turning at once to begin issuing orders. Hobbits ran to drag wagons out of sheds and harness ponies to them. Healers rushed about preparing the wounded to be moved, and making pallets in the wagon beds for men who could not walk. Village women scooped up clothes and provisions into bundles, and then turned to packing up bandages and salves for the healers, filling saddlebags and every available corner of the wagons.

Osta was everywhere, the bulge of a bandage visible under his shirt, saddling horses, carrying the bed-ridden, and finding mounts and gear for those of the men who could still ride and fight.

Malawen tried in vain to make him rest. "You will tear it open, Osta! You will have wound fever, and what good will you be to anyone?"

But he laughed at her concern. "You've got me bound up tight enough to hold a raging bull! I'm a soldier, little Mother, tough as an old boot. Here, give your favorite son a kiss and let me do my work. I ought to have been back at the front today, but instead I will try to get you away from it."

She kissed him and stood aside, and in a shorter time than seemed possible a string of wagons was taking the road toward Tuckborough.

They traveled all that day, sheltered by the trees, forced by the lumbering wagons to go at snail's pace as their racing hearts cried out for speed, more speed! Osta had every man who was fit to ride in saddle, and even those in the wagons had their weapons to hand, ready to defend themselves if need arose. The Hobbit healers sat in the wagons with them, tending them as best they might, and Malawen rode up and down the line, with swallows of her cordial for those who looked wan, and a smile of encouragement for everyone she passed. Her mind was heavy and slow, half-frozen with anxiety for her mate, but she forced her countenance to serenity.

The Hobbit who brought them warning had traded his horse for a pony more suited to his stature, and he rode first by one wagon and then by another, exchanging jests and jibes with the wounded men. He was a dauntless little fellow, and his cheerful badinage did them fully as much good as Malawen's cordial.

Often and often they imagined hoofbeats, a swarm of enemies bearing down on them, but the miles slipped by without event. No rumor of war had reached these verdant woods; birds flitted above their heads from branch to branch, and at twilight they heard the sleepy quacking of ducks on a hidden pond.

They would have preferred to keep moving until they reached Tuckborough and its deep smials, but there was no help for it: they had to rest. Even Osta was worn, his enormous vitality sapped by his injury, and many of the others were swaying in the saddle. They drove the wagons off the road and camouflaged them with leafy branches. The Hobbits went deeper into the forest to kindle tiny, smokeless fires, making hot possets for the most grievous-wounded, and a thick soup for those who had appetite for it.

They set no guard, for on the morrow they must ride again and they had no men who did not require sleep. But Malawen kept watch, perched on a wagon watching the moon come up, for she was Elven and the starry night eased her more than sleep.

The second day brought them out in the open and magnified their fear, traveling exposed and vulnerable under the naked sky. As best they could, they hurried, but no enemy appeared; only the land was strange and foreign-seeming, no Hobbits working their gardens in the sunshine, wiping their brows and waving at the travelers. The road passed through several little hamlets, all silent and deserted.

At sunset they reached Tuckborough, the wagons rattling into the cobbled Yard, and then they saw Hobbits, peering cautiously from cracks in shuttered windows, then rushing out to greet them and carry in the wounded. Osta and Malawen were escorted to the depths of the Smials, to meet the Took.

The title of Thain had faded into memory, but the Family still kept governance of its lands. Feldibar Took was head of the clan, a power to reckon with in his own domain. He met them in the Great Hall, for there the ceiling was high enough for Osta, though Malawen was so tiny, she could have walked any of the main passages without ducking her head.

"So, after an Age being shielded by the Guardians, it comes our turn to succor you," Feldibar said when they were seated by the fire. "Nay, sir, I pray you not to take it ill! I meant no discourtesy. For countless generations Hobbits have sheltered behind your swords, and I know not how many of your warriors sleep under the sod at Hobbiton, fallen in our defense. Our debt to you is past all reckoning. Do not begrudge me a little satisfaction, that I may make some small repayment. How may we serve you, Lady Mab?"

"Give me a place to tend our wounded, and what we need for them. Do you have room for our horses? Your stables are built for ponies, but my sons will need their mounts when they are able to fight once more."

"We have provision for full-sized horses, Lady. They shall be cared for like our own ponies – and we are famous for our stables! This Hall I will turn over to you for your infirmary, for I think most of your men will be able to stand upright here. Call on our kitchen and dispensary for anything you need."

"Thank you." Malawen touched his hand. "You are very good. Have you a place outside, even an empty stable, to house our men who are not in need of bed rest? They are soldiers, you know, and accustomed to rough quarters. They will regain strength all the quicker in open air and sunshine – and be on hand to help defend the Smials, if that be needed."

The Hobbit rose and bowed solemnly to her. "The Tooks are redoubtable archers, Lady Mab. Ever we keep watch on the Tookland, although for many lifetimes there has been no need, with the Guardians at the borders. But these are perilous days, and having your warriors here at our very door gives me better hope than I did have. I will order a barracks prepared for them."

Canohando found the barbarians south of Scary, and the Hobbit lad had not exaggerated their numbers. The Guardians fought like heroes out of legend, like Hứrin and Huor on the banks of Rivil, but they could not prevail against this mighty host. They were a plague of locusts out of the very ground, and the best Canohando could do was turn them away from the Road that ran to the heart of the Shire. Stubbornly the Guardians beat them back, until suddenly the enemy gave way and thundered away toward the North Farthing.

"Let them go!" Canohando roared. He spurred ahead to call back those who were taking off in pursuit. "Let them go; the day is nearly over. Less action now, and more thought."

"Where are the Hobbits?" he demanded of his council. It was night, and they were stretched out on the ground without a fire; no need to draw enemies, if any were about: the dark was restful after such a day.

He continued, "We cannot best them now in open battle; there are too many. We must position ourselves near where the Hobbits are, make certain they're protected. The Mayor was stocking Tuckborough and Michel Delving – where else would they be?"

"There's caves and tunnels all through the Green Hill Country," said one man. "Poor place for cavalry, rough ground and thickly wooded. Likely a lot of the Little Folk are there, and none so badly off."

Canohando gnawed at his thumb. "So long as the barbarians keep to their horses. There may be some Hobbits in Brockenborings, but the enemy was in that neighborhood already. Did they all ride south? We'd best send scouts and find out. Tuckborough – deep tunnels all connected, and the Tooks are sturdy fighters. Delving is good shelter but it isn't fortified; we need some men there."

One after another, they considered the most defensible places in the Shire and made their plans. Four men Canohando sent out as messengers.

"Get the Hobbits to safety. If there's no hiding place near-by, bring them inside the nearest fortress. Tell the captains – empty the forts that are not needed, and the Guardians move to a stronghold where they'll be some use. Better half the forts deserted and the others stronger manned. Bring word to me where the Hobbits are."

He tapped his front teeth, considering. At length he said, "I would like to follow and hinder them all we can, but we cannot afford more such losses as we've had. I will be at Delving; I think we can make it a refuge to repel whatever they throw at us. Any Hobbits who can reach it, bring them there."

He reached Michel Delving two days later, and at last he found some cause for hope. Mayor Hodfast came out to meet him, looking as military as a comfortable middle-aged Hobbit well could, in a Gondorean helmet and the Ring-bearer's mithril shirt, brought out of the Museum for this emergency. The main entrance of the Delving had been rebuilt and cleverly hidden, and the side doors rendered impassable by deliberate cave-ins.

"They'll not force their way in here in any hurry," said Hodfast. "We've tightened the doorway so only one at a time can use it, and it was low already for a Man, you see."

Canohando saw that very well; it was no easy matter for him to get in, bent over nearly double and scraping his elbows against the walls. The new entrance was a narrow tunnel nine paces long, and he did not envy the general who tried to stage an attack here.

"Very effective," he complimented the Mayor. "But have you left yourselves some way of escape? Best be prepared for the worst."

"Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Commander!" Hodfast was so pleased with his own astuteness, he positively twinkled. "Of course we have escape routes – three, in fact – but hidden away, and there's no one but yours truly who knows them all. Nor I won't show them to you – not that I don't trust you," he added hastily, "but someone might notice me doing it, you see. Folk like to talk, and Shirefolk more than most. I don't want anyone popping out those tunnels at the wrong moment, and giving away the secret."

"You are wise," Canohando said solemnly, and in truth he was impressed, although conferring with Hodfast always tickled his sense of humor. "And you're well supplied with food? What about water?"

"There's a well dug in the lower level, from nigh a century ago when the Boffins were making cheese here. We can stand a long siege if we have to, though I hope it won't come to that. I suppose you know your men have been coming in from the fortresses north and west of here. They're planting trees and bushes all over the hill, to camouflage it.

Canohando clapped him on the back, careful not to bowl him over, and crawled back out to find the Guardians and learn who was in charge. It turned out to be Arato, his fifth son, and he felt better than he had any time since he learned of Haldar's death. After Osta, Arato was the most reliable captain he had, cool in battle and armed with more tricks than a hunted fox.

"Just seeing your mug here gives me better cheer," he said, greeting his son with an embrace to bruise his ribs.

"We'll keep this stronghold, if all the Shire goes begging," Arato promised. "But I disobeyed your orders. I left men at Tower Hills."

Arato took time to light his pipe; he had tried smoking in his youth, like many of his brothers, but he had never stopped. "I cannot tell you why, exactly, Afar. I like having an eye on all that country – from the topmost point you can see the Gulf of Lhun! I know, I know – " he held up a hand, forestalling objection. "It makes no sense, yet I thought we should keep the Tower. I only left a token garrison; they'll be in trouble if anyone attacks."

Canohando stretched, massaging the back of his neck; he felt twisted out of shape after two trips through the Hobbits' defense tunnel. "Very well, if you think it worthwhile. A dozen men up there won't make much difference."

Arato gave a snort of amusement. "They're safer there than we are. Have you heard anything from those you left in the Marish?"

"A Hobbit from Woodhall. When he got the word to flee, he fled indeed – all the way here! He told me Mother got to Tuckborough safely, with her wagons."

Canohando gave a great sigh and grinned. "The Valar give you blessing for that, my son – I think I've been holding my breath for the last se'enight! Well, then, it's time I hunted out Tulco and his company, and found some work for them. They should have moved up the East Road when they finished at the river, but you haven't heard anything at all." His look was questioning, and Arato shook his head.

"We'll head east in the morning, then, and look for them. Have you enough men here?"

"Enough for what?" Arato asked dryly. "If the whole barbarian nation falls on us, we won't survive – but I doubt they'll get in the Delving, even then. Yes, we have enough, for any reasonable contingency."

The barbarians burned Whitfurrows, but there was little killing there. Some Hobbits shot at them from a hayfield just before they entered the town, but a barrage of arrows put a stop to that. The houses and shops, the two pubs at opposite ends of the main street, were all deserted. They did liberate a quantity of ale before they fired the pubs. They were rowdy and boisterous when they rode out of the burning town, racing each other along the road, bellowing tuneless songs in a clackety language Logi couldn't follow.

"It is the Men's Tongue," she told him, "for talking with the ancestors. Women do not learn it."

He'd gone to his father-in-law and asked to be taught the language, now he was a man of the Tribe, but Gwanuc laughed in his face. "Your ancestors, whoever they were, would not understand our speech. Give me a grandson, and I will teach him."

Logi knew the strange tongue was used for more than ancestor worship; he heard it at the council fire and anytime the men did not want him to know what was being said. It sharpened his uneasiness among them.

The third day after they destroyed Tulco's company, they passed the Three Farthing Stone, the center of the Shire. That afternoon they came to a split in the road, the main route going on toward Delving, the byway angling north to Hobbiton. For the first time they called on Logi's knowledge of the country.

He did not bother arguing that they were no longer his people. Silently he pointed west toward Michel Delving. The leader gave a hoot of laughter and turned his horse onto the northern road.

"If you want the truth from a liar, do just the opposite!" He added something in the Men's Tongue, and the others grinned maliciously at Logi as they rode past. He let them go and followed at the rear, his face like stone. By now he suspected he stood in as much danger from his companions as from the Guardians he had betrayed, and he took care that no one rode behind him. He wondered if any of them had an eye on Freiga, to take his place with her.

They got drunk again in Bywater, rolling the barrels of ale out in the street before they fired the village. The flames leaped hungrily at the starry heavens and cast an orange reflection on the Water. Logi led Cambar into a darkened orchard and dozed against a tree while she cropped the grass. He was not so foolish as to drink with them. If he were wary enough, he might survive.

Hobbiton was in ashes by mid-day. Then their attention shifted to the Hill, and the leader rode his horse right up the stairs to the door. For the most part the barbarians had left the earth-dug smials alone; their habit was to burn, and Hobbit-holes did not lend themselves to that. But Bag End was a jewel among smials, and not to be ignored. With a mighty heave of the shoulder, he burst the round door open.

Logi had no interest in despoiling houses, and at first he remained outside. But he had not been inside the Mayor's dwelling since he was a child; after he'd been waiting a quarter of an hour, curiosity overcame him. He left Cambar standing in the roadway and followed the others in.

They had found ample scope for destruction in the polished furniture and chandeliers, the cabinets of fine china and crystal goblets. Broken glass crunched under Logi's boots, and in the study he found several men emptying the bookshelves, breaking books over their knees and throwing them in a heap.

"We'll burn it after all, from the inside out!" one of them crowed. He ripped a framed portrait off the wall and added it to the pile.

"What's this?" another asked. He held up a crystal dome with something dangling inside; unable to see it clearly, he hurled the glass to the floor and bent to pick up the treasure it had housed. "A tooth –?" he said in tones of disbelief.

Logi reached him in two steps and lifted the thing out of his hand before he could protest.

"That's mine, a piece of family history. Take this instead." He picked up a silver bowl from a table and tossed it to the man.

He brought the tooth outside to look at it in daylight. It was like ivory, yellowed with time and polished to a soft patina, the crude portraits of Orc and Hobbit emphasized by some dark matter that had been rubbed into the etching.

My grandfather and his friend. So it began. He slid the ornament off its silver hook and strung it on a spare bowstring from his quiver; then he knotted it round his neck.

If he ever saw Adah again, he would return it. Right before he tears out my heart, he thought ironically. Anyway, it was better around his neck than trampled and burnt in the ruin of Bag End.

There was a shriek from within the smial, and something darted out and down the stairs. Without thinking Logi threw himself forward and caught it, the creature writhing and squirming in his grasp. He clenched it tight against his chest, closing his free hand on its throat.

Half a dozen barbarians burst through the doorway and stopped, seeing their quarry already captured.

The Orc looked down at what he held, quiet now and staring in blank terror: a young Hobbit with eyes as blue as periwinkle. He took his hand away from the lad's throat.

One of the barbarians was coming down the stairs. "Give the brat to me; I'll see to him. Seeing you don't have the stomach for burning live ones." His smile was taunting.

"Wait, let's see what Logi wants with him. Have you got some other use for him, Greyface? Something we hadn't thought of?" The man nearest the door made a suggestive gesture, and the others brayed with laughter. They started down the steps.

Logi went still as death, hardly believing they could mean what they plainly meant. Then he sprang for his horse, flinging the Hobbit across her back as he threw himself in the saddle.

He spurred savagely, and Cambar leaped forward. One man tried to grab her by the bridle, and Logi stabbed down with his sword, riding the body down and galloping back along the road toward Bywater. Behind him the warriors ran for their horses and came howling after him.

Logi raced away from Hobbiton knowing he could not outrun the barbarians; any second they would be on him and tear him limb from limb, and the Hobbit with him. He rounded a sharp turn banked by a tall hedgerow and yanked back on the reins. Almost before Cambar stopped he had dropped to the ground and pulled the Hobbit down. He slapped the mare on the flank.

She pawed the ground, ducking her head at him, and he hauled her out to the middle of the road.

"Go! Lead them away!" He hit her with the flat of his sword. He could hear the others coming, and he smacked her again with all his strength. The horse leaped away, tearing down the road toward Bywater, and Logi rolled under a hedge barely in time.

As the hoofbeats receded in the distance, he jumped to his feet. "Come on, before they see she's riderless."

The Hobbit crawled out of the bushes, looking wildly in all directions. They were in an orchard, the grass cleanly scythed between the rows of the trees. Logi grabbed the lad by the wrist and ran, dragging him to a shed at the end of the row. Around the side of the building he fell to his knees, scrabbling at a wooden cover lying on the ground. He shoved it aside to reveal a dark hole a couple of feet across, rimmed round with stone.

"It's dry," he gasped, and lowered himself inside, bracing his back and feet against the walls. "Climb over my shoulder, arms around my neck. Quickly! They'll be back!"

The Hobbit obeyed him, agile as a monkey, and Logi dragged the cover over their heads till all but a sliver of light disappeared. Then he began inching his way down inside the old well, hands and feet feeling for holds on the rough stonework, until at last he reached the bottom and set the Hobbit down.

"How did you know -?" the lad began, but Logi gripped his shoulder with iron fingers.

He sank down with his knees against his chest, and the Hobbit leaned against him. There was not space enough for both to sit; so narrow that Logi felt stifled, buried alive, and he forced himself to steady, even breaths. There was air enough, but the well was blacker than the darkest night, and the rim of daylight far above, at the edge of the wooden cover, was like an elongated moon.

He answered the Hobbit's question in his mind. I know because I played here long ago. Here Haldar hid, one autumn day, when Adah was with the Mayor and I was charged to watch my little cousin.

How he had searched, that day, in irritation and then in growing fear, terrified what had become of the golden imp who plagued his days and was the darling of his heart. And up he climbed at last, where I sat defeated on the stony edge – I nearly tumbled in from shock.

And very nearly pitched him back head-first – ye gods, but he'd been wroth! Haldar had passed in a moment from impudent mischief to genuine remorse, twining his arms around his cousin's neck, his dirty face to Logi's cheek, smelling of earth and the apples he'd stolen that morning in the orchard.

Oh great heaven, Haldar. Bound helpless, staring at him unbelieving – his Logi would never give him to the fire – his cousin, brother, his most dearly loved –

Logi pressed his arm against his mouth, forcing back a wail of despair. I did not let you burn, he told the remembered eyes, but they did not soften. He twisted his head from side to side as if he sought escape; at last he sank his teeth into his arm and tasted blood, metallic, like running his tongue across a knife. Something twisted in his chest, loss and betrayal, his loathsome treachery. Haldar!

"Are you all right?" The voice was hardly a breath next to his ear; the Hobbit lad had taken his warning to heart. Logi nodded, and the Hobbit's hand closed round his fingers. Involuntarily the Orc clung to the warm little paw, so like Haldar's when he was a child – he rested his forehead on his bloodied arm, convulsed with grief but tearless, his eyes like coals.

Hour after hour they crouched in the empty well, chill and dank with the odor of underground. Not till the last hint of light had vanished up above, would Logi risk climbing up and peering out. When he was convinced no enemies lay in wait, he descended once more and brought the Hobbit up.

He dropped him on the grass with some relief – the lad was no lightweight, despite his diminutive size – but to the Orc's astonishment, the Hobbit bounced to his feet and bowed formally from the waist.

"I have not thanked you for saving my life. My gratitude! If ever I may do you any service – or any of my family – you have only to name it."

Logi allowed himself a wry smile, hidden by the darkness. "I will remember. And who shall I look for when I come to claim this service? What is your name?"

The Hobbit's voice was rueful. "Yes, like him. My mother loves reading the old stories; too much so for my comfort. I take a lot of teasing for that name."

"Hmph. No pleasure, is it, inheriting a legend? Well, come on, young hero. The nearest place of safety for you is Tuckborough, and night is the time for travel. At dawn we'll find another hiding place."

"Have you got anything to eat? I'm so empty, it feels as if my insides might cave in."

Logi dug in his pouch for a strip of dried meat. "Here. Make it last; I only have a little." He took none himself. His stomach had clenched to a tight knot against his heart, and the thought of food sickened him.

They walked all night, stopping twice to drink, once at a farmyard well and again at a little streamlet running through a field. Logi would not stop to rest.

"When morning comes we must be under cover; you'll have all day to sleep. With luck I'll get you to friends tomorrow night."

"You'd better hope I'm not! Be quiet," he added, when the lad would have said more. "The wise bird doesn't call while it flees the hawk."

Dawn found them well south of the Road, coming into the broken uplands of Tookland. While Logi was trying to think where they could hide, Frodo touched his hand.

He led him to a copse of trees at the bottom of a hill. There was a sound of water, then suddenly before them was a little waterfall, splashing in a stream. Frodo climbed up the stony edge of the fall and disappeared.

"In here," he said, poking out his head. "Behind the water." Logi followed, clutching at a thorny bush in a crevice of the rock, to save himself from slipping.

The ledge behind the fall was barely wide enough to hold them, but at the back it was nearly dry. The roar drowned out their voices and Frodo mouthed, "All right?"

They settled back against the wall. Frodo nodded off, but after an hour he wakened, shivering. Logi drew the lad onto his lap and wrapped his cloak around them both; the Hobbit nestled against him and fell asleep again.

When it was dark they set out once more. Now that he was rested, Frodo had a string of questions he wanted to ask, but Logi cut him off.

"I am not a Guardian. No, nor one of Them, either! My name is no concern of yours. Don't talk."

Around midnight he halted, lifting his chin and turning this way and that to smell the air. Frodo licked a finger and moistened his nostrils, sniffing vigorously.

"Smoke," he said. "But we shouldn't be smelling Tuckborough's chimneys this far off."

"It isn't chimneys; they are here before us." Logi thought for a moment. "How quiet can you be? We must give the alarm in Delving; the Commander will be there, I think, but that's two or three days on foot. The Tooks may be burned out by then. We'll have to steal a horse."

The Orc grinned suddenly, clapping the Hobbit's back. "Come on then; I'll make a thief of you, if they don't make corpses of us both. We'll play for all or nothing."

He loped away down the hill, and Frodo followed. A few miles farther they topped a rise and saw the campfires spread down the hill before them, and on the other side of the valley a blacker mass against the dark grey sky: Tuckborough's Great Smials. They felt their way among the trees, staying as far as they could from the barbarians' camp and still observe the place, looking for the tell-tale absence of fires that would show where the horses were picketed. When they had located that, they drew back once more.

"I cannot take you with me. I'll try not to raise any dust, but – I want you to climb a tree." Logi pointed. "That one will do. I'll come back and get you if they aren't chasing me. If they are, I'll lead them off and try to lose them. Either way, stay hid and wait for me. When the moon sets, if I haven't come, climb down and get away – go back the way we came. They've been there already; they won't go back. They're after fresh fuel for their fires."

Frodo climbed the tree and waited – endlessly, it seemed, but in truth it was well before moonset when he heard a whisper and saw that Logi had returned.

"Not just any nag – I got my own mare back!" the Orc exulted softly. "Come down, little hero, let's be out of here."

They crept away, Cambar setting her feet down as gingerly as if she caught their fear, their need of stealthiness. When they were well out of hearing, Logi urged her to a canter, but at dawn he sought another hiding place.

"There are two armies of them. One in the Tookland, but where's the other one? We dare not ride by day."

The second night they saw the Downs pushing against the sky, a patch of star-less dark. Long before they came to Michel Delving, Logi slowed Cambar to a walk, picking his way as through he passed through crowds of enemies.

"Who's there?" came a challenge a little way ahead. Logi reined in one-handed, covering Frodo's mouth.

"Answer; give your name," he muttered. He slid to the ground noiselessly, keeping a grip on the bridle.

"Frodo Miner of Hobbiton, at your service. Are you a Guardian? Hobbiton is destroyed, and now they are at Tuckborough!"

"The devils!" swore their unseen questioner. "All right, sir Hobbit, come and tell the Captain." They heard him moving closer, and Logi pushed Frodo forward.

He swung onto Cambar's back and dragged the mare's head around, kicking urgently. She sprang away, not silent now, and the sentry roared, "Who goes there? What's this trickery?"

"No trickery!" Logi shouted over his shoulder. "Take him to the Commander!" He heard a whoosh of air – an arrow – and flattened himself along the horse's neck. "Run, my lady, run! Or we both are dead!"

He escaped without being hit. Other than two or three arrows, there was no pursuit.

I hope it's someone with the sense to listen. He felt a qualm at dumping Frodo and running, but he did not fear for the lad. There was not a Guardian alive who would ill-treat a Hobbit.

Not even wicked Logi. Pity the poor Guardians! It seems I'm one of you in spite of everything. But Adah's bit off more than he can chew this time – there'll be no turning back this tide that's flooding over the Shire.

He had been once with his grandfather to the Old Havens, where the Elvenfolk used to sail away. Away from Middle Earth to the golden-hearted West – Logi had watched in wonderment as the tide washed up the estuary, and Canohando told him the water would flow back the other way, a few short hours later.

"I thought to go myself, one time. But I stayed to guard the Shire." His tone was matter-of-fact, without regret.

There was no saving Logi this time. He'd thrown away his new life, such as it was, when he rescued Frodo.

They would have slain me anyway. He shrugged. With all sides in this conflict after his blood, he'd not come home alive – but he had no home, no people, anymore. Freiga belonged to the Tribe; she was lost to him now, and someone else would claim her. For himself, he had his weapons and his horse, and the carved tooth round his neck. By rights he should have given the tooth to Frodo, but he couldn't bring himself to let it go. It nestled in the hollow of his throat, soothing, as Adah's Jewel had never been.

Because I'm an Orc, he mocked himself. A bear's tooth suits me – and I've saved my own Frodo now. The wrong one, naturally. The thought brought Canohando very near, and it came to him that he wanted his grandfather.

He'd kill me the moment he laid eyes on me! But perhaps that was what he wanted after all – to be judged, and pay the penalty. Anything to close his ears to Haldar's scream.

And one other thing he wanted. He reined up, taking his bearings. Why, he had no idea, but he wanted to see Bag End once more. He wanted to stand by the lichened stone that marked the Ring-bearer's grave, and next to it the grave of Old Sam, that paragon of loyalty.

He himself had not been loyal. In some obscure way he felt he owed them an apology.

In the camp beyond the Bridge, Freiga was having a bad time of it. In the short time Logi had been with the Tribe, he had made himself universally hated, as much for his arrogance as for his treachery. While he was with her, Freiga had been too wrapped up in him to notice, but now, with the camp reduced to women and those males too young or too old to fight, she found folk she had known all her life grown cold to her.

Besides that, she was ill. With both men and horses gone, the women spent their days foraging for food. They hunted berries and edible roots, and set snares for small animals; they fished in the river and dug up turtle eggs. They left the camp as soon as it was light, the old women rousting everyone out of the tents, making certain that no one shirked. When Logi had been gone a week, the woman who came to get Freiga found her throwing up outside her tent.

"What's wrong, girl, get the wrong mushroom, did you? You'd better take some purging medicine."

"No," Freiga gasped. "I haven't had any mushrooms. I'm all right." She rinsed her mouth with water and spat it out. "I'm coming." She followed the older woman, but all day long her stomach churned and she could not bear the thought of food.

In the days that followed, she felt no better. She ate sparingly, trying to avoid the nausea, and then one day her aunt, who was bosom friend to the chieftain's woman, came to her while she was digging cattail roots.

"You're white as a fishbelly, girl, and getting skinny. How long since you had your moon-sickness?"

Freiga sat back on her heels, counting on her fingers. Her aunt watched and nodded.

"No! Why? Logi will be glad of it, as I am!" Freiga was disturbed that she had not realized on her own what was wrong with her. But it's my first, she reasoned. Next time I'll know.

"The greyskin will have no chance of being glad." Her aunt's voice broke harshly on her thoughts. "We've seen the last of him, and no other man is going to raise his whelp. Come, I'll help you find the herbs you need."

Freiga jumped up. "What are you saying? Logi is a strong warrior; there's no one quicker with the sword! Why should he not come back?"

The woman grunted in disgust. "He is no part of the Tribe, girl! He has no clan, he has no brothers here, however many of his own he burns. The Chief has passed the word: he will not return." Her hand closed like a shackle on Freiga's wrist.

"What were you thinking of, to give yourself to such? You're my dead sister's only child, or I'd have naught to do with you. Now show some sense; we're rid of the father, let's be rid of the brat."

"No!" Freiga tore herself free, not looking where she was going, the soft mud sucking at her feet. Her aunt's voice rang behind her, pitiless.

"Bring that babe to birth, and no true man will have you! And don't think you'll be allowed to keep it – the Tribe won't suffer that misbegotten cur to run with our own pups! Take warning, Freiga; the child will be exposed and your life ruined. You'd better let me help you."

She blundered away, her aunt ranting behind her until she was past hearing. Blindly she found her way back to the camp, to the empty tent that she had shared with Logi, and rolled up some dried meat and her spare garment in a cloak, tying it to her back.

They would not let her leave; she belonged to them, as they belonged to her – but now no longer. The Chief had passed the word – that was Logi's death sentence, unless she could find and warn him. And the babe's death sentence as well, the child that an hour ago she had not known existed.

Her mother, who had died in Freiga's childhood, in the morning complaining of bellyache and dead by night. Freiga had been bereft, child of a father who took small count of females. When she began to blossom into womanhood, young warriors had watched from the corners of their eyes, and come to pass the evenings at her father's fire. Her father was a man with influence. A young man of ambition could do worse for himself than courting Gwanuc's daughter.

Gwanuc had encouraged them all and made promises to none, and many gifts of precious furs and black obsidian arrowheads had found their way to his tent. At last he settled on a tall blond named Marog, with ice blue eyes that ran over Freiga appraisingly before he shifted his attention back to her father. With flattering respect he hung on the old man's words and laughed at all his jokes, and Freiga hugged herself in the shadows, feeling violated without understanding why. Marog would have been her husband, if Logi had not come.

The Orc's ugly countenance had lighted when he saw her, reminding Freiga strangely of her mother, whose gentle face had worn the same tender expression. Even now – since Haldar's burning Logi had turned brutal, but whether he used her well or ill, she mattered to him; he was not indifferent. Logi's eyes were never cold.

Sometimes he frightened her. He handled her roughly, until she suspected half his pleasure came from hurting her. Once he grabbed the Jewel she still wore round her neck, twisting the chain so tight around her throat that it bit into her flesh and she began to choke.

"I should take it back," he growled, but then he let go. "No, keep it. Perhaps it will bring you peace, as Adah promised. It never brought me any." Then he'd kissed her, long and deep, and for a moment she felt loved again, in spite of his ferocity.

They would slay him, him and the babe alike. But this was her child, and Logi was her mate – they were all she had, and she would not suffer the Tribe to take them from her. She peered out cautiously from behind the tent-flap, but no one was watching. Softly she crept away into the forest, and it never crossed her mind that she was doing what Logi had asked of her in the beginning. If she had gone with him then, there had been no call for him to burn his friend.

She stayed off the path in case anyone came along. When she came to the blackened hulk of Bridge Fort she did not look inside, but among the trees she nearly fell over what remained of a man, an arrow in his back. The scavengers had been busy, and she pressed her hand to her mouth and hurried past; a few yards farther she was sick again.

The broken bridge was a setback. She slipped and skidded down the bank to the water, hoping to find that she could swim across, but the current was too swift, swirling around the footings of the bridge, and when she tried the depth with a branch, she could not touch the bottom. She climbed the bank again and walked along it, watching for a place where she could cross.

Something moved among the trees off to her left, and she dropped to the ground, motionless but for her eyes darting back and forth. A stick cracked and there was a blowing sound. She stared into the woods, and then she pushed up slowly to her knees.

"Don't be afraid." She made her voice clear and winsome, and kissed the back of her hand noisily. "Come, pretty one, it's only me. Freiga wouldn't hurt you." She got to her feet carefully and moved toward the place where she had heard the sounds, slow, fluid steps, nothing quick or sudden. "Come on, then, petty; I'll take care of you."

She waited, and after several minutes a long head pushed out between the bushes; the neck and body followed, and the horse came to her outstretched hand. It was so caked with mud and – something else – that she could hardly tell its color.

"Poor thing, did you lose your master?" Freiga ran her hand along the animal's neck, and it shuddered. "You can be my horse, then, for I need one badly. What shall I call you?" The mare still wore a leather bridle trimmed with bronze. Freiga slid her hand under it and stroked the long face, crooning endearments and soothing nonsense. Gradually the animal calmed, until she would accept a handful of grass from Freiga's palm.

"I'll call you Hrasfa. You need a bath, and I need to cross the river. Come." She tugged gently at the harness, and after a slight hesitation the mare let her lead the way to a place where the riverbank was low. Freiga waited till the animal drank her fill, then she gave a running jump onto the horse's back. She kicked and chirruped encouragement, and they waded into the river.

All her life she had listened to warrior tales. From a distance (for women were not permitted round the war-fires) she had heard the drumming, men boasting of their deeds in battle – blood and burning, the shrieks of the dying. It was nothing to her; it was what men did when they were absent from the camp, when they were not out hunting. Her work was finding food and herding horses, scraping the hair from skins to make their clothes, hers and her father's. She had never seen a burning until Logi paid her bride-price, and that had been quickly over – too quickly for some of the Tribe, who grumbled afterward.

But once she came out on the Shire side of the river, she learned the truth of war. All along the way the dead sprawled where they'd fallen, unburied, ravaged by weather and scavengers. Most of them were not her people, but by the time she reached the Road she'd seen more than enough of death, and her pity had grown to encompass every corpse she saw. More than once she had to dismount and go aside to vomit.

She had wondered how she would know which way to go, but the trail was ghastly clear. A day's journey from the river, reluctantly she entered a village to look for water, reasoning that they must have had a well. The place still stank of fire, but to her relief there were no bodies – the inhabitants must have run away in time.

The gardens were trampled mud, but outside the village the fields stretched green and golden, the early wheat rippling under a gentle breeze. The sky was startling blue, spacious and deep, and she held the reins loosely, letting Hrasfa choose her own way along the road. But her hurrying thoughts would not leave her long in peace.

What will we do when I find him? We'll have to flee, but where? She gazed around the sunny countryside, a row of trees standing tall along the horizon, a sparkling brook meandering across a field. This is so peaceful – I wish that we could stay. But this was the land the Tribe had come to take; there would be no peace here for her and Logi, or for their child.

She slept in the open, a stone's throw from the road; it was warm enough not to need a fire, and she kindled none. The dried meat needed no cooking, and she had helped herself from berry patches when she passed them. But on the third day she felt more than heard a troop of horses coming, and seized with panic she dashed toward a grove of trees on the far side of the field. There she hid trembling, waiting in dread to see who came and ready to fly again if they had seen her.

The army that presently appeared was not her own. The men rode in ordered ranks, their polished shields white-flashing in the sun, their raiment so shining they seemed to be clothed in light. Like Logi's metal shirt, she thought in wonder; the warriors of the Tribe did not have chainmail.

They did not see her. Along the road they passed, a numerous company, but not so many as the Tribe, not near so many. These were the Guardians, and they were going to die; they would lie unburied in field and forest, like the others she had seen.Tears stung her eyes. They were so beautiful, as the Shining One had been, and riding to their slaughter.

They passed and the road was empty, but she did not return to it. It seemed too open to be safe, and she could follow its course from a distance, watching for the smoke of burning villages. That would be sign enough that she had found the Tribe.

In Tuckborough, Malawen went from bed to bed, giving medicines and changing bandages, and sometimes cradling in her arms a man who died for all her ministrations. She heard the last farewells, the stammering messages for wife or sweetheart. There were not many who died; most of the gravely hurt had not lasted so long, but each death tore her heart.

Osta meanwhile had taken charge outside, helping the Hobbits strengthen their defenses. He made them put tubs of water all round the enclosed courtyard; too well he remembered the flames engulfing Bridge Fort. But Feldibar had arrow-slots cut in the upper level, right through the hill; his archers would command the gates from there, without leaving the security of the Smials.

One cloudless summer day followed another and nothing disturbed their peace. Almost the invasion seemed unreal, an evil dream from which they soon must wake, were it not for the wounded lying in the Hall, the fresh mounds in the graveyard. And questions hung unspoken which nobody could answer: where was the Commander? Had he turned back the marauders in the north? And what of the Guardians left by the Brandywine?

They planted sharpened stakes outside the wall and braced the gates with iron. They brought in food and water, piling up supplies until the storerooms overflowed, and casks and barrels lined the narrow passages. The Hobbits of Tuckborough village moved inside the Smials, till every room was filled, families doubling up with one another, and all the while they hoped that their preparations would be prove to be unneeded, that the war would pass them by. But on a bright, hot morning when they would have been a-haying, in any other year, the barbarians fell upon them like a whirlwind, surrounding Great Smials in a flood of screeching demons.

It was mercy that the town was deserted. The invaders spent the forenoon rioting through the streets, stealing what they wanted and despoiling the rest. They brought up ale and wine and brandy from the cellars of the inn, and soon most of them were drunk. As the sun passed from its zenith, the fires began, houses and barns and shops, the inn, the blacksmith – even the earth-built smials were put to the torch, the destroyers heaping up straw and raiding the tidy woodsheds for wood to throw inside. They tore down the doors and chopped them into pieces, adding them to the pile, and the round doorways glowed like the maws of furnaces. The very hills seemed to be melting.

From behind their barricade, the Hobbits and their Guardians watched aghast. There were no people in the village, but there were animals, chickens and cows, a few ponies – there had not been space enough to bring them all inside. A small brown dog ran yelping through the maelstrom, its tail between its legs. One of the barbarians made a grab for it, but it dodged away and escaped into the woods. For several minutes they could hear its frantic howling in the distance, and a child inside the walls began to wail.

The order came to take the children in, and all the women: inside the relative safety of the Smials. Outside, the killing had begun, as the marauders slaughtered what animals they could catch, building cook-fires to companion the inferno of burning buildings. They seemed intent on devouring every living creature left in the village.

Osta had been at the gate throughout the day, ready to throw back the assault whenever it came. But as evening fell, the barbarians settled down to drunken feasting, and Osta went inside to rest. He left a captain in charge with orders to call him at the least alarm, and sought out his little corner of the Hall, screened off to give him a bit of privacy, throwing himself on the bed and scratching under his bandage.

"Leave that wound alone; you'll have it open." His mother poured a glass of wine and handed it to him. "I've sent to the kitchen for some supper for you; then you'd better sleep."

He stopped scratching and sipped the wine. "It itches like the sandflies of Mordor. You'd better get some sleep yourself. Tomorrow will be worse, or I'm no prophet."

"Send for help, before tomorrow comes. We must have reinforcements; we cannot hold so many off alone."

"How would anyone get through?" Osta's broad face was lined and haggard; he coughed and took another drink, and coughed again.

"It's only the smoke," he answered her worried glance. "I'll be all right. They have us well surrounded, Malatara. There is no way to send for help." He felt stirrings of disquiet; she was wearing her stubborn look. "There is nothing you can do, dearest; only care for the wounded."

"And you will keep me well supplied with those, until they break in and everyone is slain!" Her voice snapped like a whip. "You are a better commander than that, my son. None of the Guardians can get through, perhaps. But I can."

"Get me a pony, one of the Hobbit steeds. Black, the very swiftest one they have. Think – where will he be?"

Osta had no need to ask who he was. "He rode into the North; he may be anywhere. Can't you ask the birds? Didn't the Elvenkind befriend them, in the old days?"

Malawen smiled faintly. "That is ages ago, and well before my time. Yet once I knew a man... Get me the pony, Osta, while I think on it."

She swept out, as regal as the queen the Hobbits named her, and he groaned, massaging his forehead with his fingers, as if he could rub away the pain of his aching head. "Afar, why do you leave me to take care of her? You'll not forgive me if she comes to harm!" But he knew better than to balk her will, and he sent one of the Hobbits to find a pony, the swiftest and the blackest there might be. Meanwhile he ate his supper stolidly, knowing he would need the strength it gave him, for all it tasted like sawdust in his mouth.

In the darkest hour of the night, a slender figure emerged from a crevice near the back of the mound. Cloaked in black, her pony's hooves muffled in cloth, all but invisible she drifted past two sleepy sentinels, the only men the barbarians had posted here, so far from all the action.

By sun-up, she was well away from Tuckborough, whistling and chirping at every bird she saw, trying to coax one to her. Her voice grew sweeter as she grew more desperate, and at last a bunting alighted on her hand.

She had prepared a note for Canohando on a scrap of muslin, tightly rolled. But the bird struggled and squawked when she tried to attach the message, and finally pecked her hand and flew away. She nearly wept in chagrin. Not till the following afternoon did another bird flit to her shoulder, and she had no better success with that one.

I should have had Radagast teach me long ago. But it's too late for that, so what's to be done? Osta was right; Canohando might be anywhere. But the Mayor is at Delving; he may know where to find him – and anyway the fort at Towers can send aid.

She pulled her pony round to face the west. The sun hung at tree level like a fiery dragon, making her squint against its radiance. She had lost time wandering; now she knew where she must go, but was it too late already? How long could Osta hold them off at Tuckborough?

She turned onto a narrow sheep track, pursued by anxious thoughts. She had little worry for herself; her contempt for the barbarians precluded being afraid of them. To the Hobbits they were deadly, but how should she fear these bellowing After-comers, she who by birth was of the Galadhrim? Then she remembered Haldar, so Elf-like that he might have been born himself in the Golden Wood. For a moment her confidence wavered – yet surely she could outwit these savages. She would lead them like a fox over hill and dale, if she encountered them, till she left them tripping over each other's heels while she slipped safe away.

But Osta and his men were trapped inside the Smials, and as for Canohando, who could say where he might be? Except he would be in the forefront of any battle, and an arrow was an arrow, however coarse the hand that bent the bow.

Melethron, where are you? The war was not going well, else that mob had never got to Tuckborough, and unless reinforcements reached them in short order, they were doomed. If Osta were slain – no, not Osta, please! Haldar's death had left them desolate, but Osta – he was the firstborn; he had been hand in glove with his father from babyhood. Though the Commander eluded every other danger, the loss of his firstborn son might bring him down.

"Please, oh please, not Osta,"she said aloud, and trembled at how her voice shattered the silence.

Rough pasture spread around her, shallow hills rising and falling against the sky, with here and there a stone shanty for shepherds to huddle in from the wind and rain. But the day was clear and bright with never a cloud – no shepherds to be seen, nor any sheep. She wondered where they'd gone.

Familiar, too familiar, this golden sunlight on an empty land. So, too, Lothlorien when they all departed, the sad-faced Elves on dappled horses, silken trappings fluttering in the breeze, riding away and leaving her behind. The sun had glittered on the grassy carpet, spangled with niphredil and elanor, and the silence had pressed on her like something tangible, a weight on her chest that made it hard to breathe. As it did now again: no sound, no motion, not a sign of life – then in the far distance she saw a vulture circling. A sign of death, not life: she put her head down and refused to look, letting the pony pick his way unguided.

The voice shrilled from her left and her head jerked up; her pony stumbled, betraying his own surprise. A Hobbit child, hair tangled to her waist, dirty, unkempt – she threw herself in Malawen's path, trying to catch the reins.

"Get back before you're trampled!" Malawen pulled up sharply and slid to the ground, snatching the child away from the pony's hooves.

"Who – ? No, never mind; take me to him." She let the girl drag her by one hand, leading her pony with the other.

A quarter mile, no more, to one of the shepherd cots. Malawen hobbled the pony hastily before she stooped to enter. She would do what she could here, but quickly, quickly – she must reach Michel Delving, she must not be delayed.

Within was darkness. It was a moment before her eyes adjusted enough to see the Hobbit lying on a heap of straw, his head thrown back in pain, hands clutching the straw. The child crouched at his side, stroking his cheek and forehead in helpless tenderness.

Malawen knelt beside them, noting the clumsy bandage across the Hobbit's shoulder. "What caused the wound? How long ago?" Her hands were busy as she spoke, unwinding the linen, stiffened with dried blood.

"An arrow, Lady." His voice was clearer than she expected; weak and in pain, but not at his last gasp. "Four days ago – we was hiding up a tree when they fired the house. One shot into the branches and I fell; broke my leg, belike. It knocked me silly; guess they thought they finished me."

"And they didn't even see me," the child piped up, "but I got you away, Da, didn't I? I got you here and I took care of you."

"Oh aye, you're a grand lassie. She dragged me here on a sheepskin, Lady! You wouldn't think she'd have the strength, a little thing like her." He closed his eyes and lay back, visibly exhausted.

"What's your name?" Malawen asked the girl. "Have you got water here? I'll need to wash the wound."

The injury was badly torn, puffy and suppurating. It must have been Daisy who got the arrow out and bandaged it up; she'd done well for her age, but – Malawen ducked outside to untie the bundle from her saddle. She never traveled without her healer's packet: bandages tightly rolled, a collection of dried herbs, some vials of medicine, and a small copper pot with a bail to hang over a fire. She'd packed it even fuller than usual this time, thinking her skill would be required when she found the Commander's men.

The Hobbit swallowed some of her cordial and was asleep by the time she finished with his shoulder, cleansed and spread with a salve of lady's-mantle, bound in fresh bandages.

"Dump that dirty water, and wash the kettle well before you fill it again. And wash out that soiled bandage, telella*, and spread it on the grass – the sun will purify it."

She turned her attention to the broken leg, unbinding the brychan wrapped around it. Daisy had tried to keep it straight with a stick bound inside the cloth, but of course she had not been able to set the bone. Malawen bit her lips, running her hands over the fractured limb. At least the bone had stayed inside the skin; it wasn't as bad as she'd feared it might be. But she could not leave them here, alone and helpless; she'd have to take them along with her to Delving, though she had no idea how that was possible.

But the bone must be set and made immobile somehow; she dared not move the Hobbit till that was done. She roused him gently, making him take a strong dose of poppy juice in some more cordial, and waited, fretting with impatience, until he lapsed unconscious. Then she pressed Daisy into service to help her get the bone repositioned and securely splinted.

The girl was quick to obey and steady-handed; Malawen thanked the Powers silently for that. How she could have managed, if the child had been given to tears or hysterics – but they would not have survived this long, either of them, in that case.

And Daisy had an answer to the problem of transporting her father. "We have a travois, Lady – sometimes we have an injured sheep, you know, to bring down to the house –" She swallowed convulsively; there was no house any more.

"What became of your sheep?" The words were hardly out of Malawen's mouth before she could have bitten her tongue off short. Fool! What do you think became of them? she berated herself, and the child's face confirmed her guess.

"Never mind, melyanna*," she said softly. "You're alive, you and your father, and we'll get you to safety soon. There was none of your family lost, was there? It was only the two of you?" She thought it must have been; neither of them had mentioned anyone else.

"Yes, just the two of us." Daisy offered no explanation of her mother's absence, and Malawen forbore to ask. They had enough to deal with in the present, without digging up past heartaches.

"Come, then, let us see if we can harness my pony to your travois, and fix it to carry your father as comfortably as may be. I have no time to spare; I must reach Delving."

*Telella (young elf) and melyanna (dear gift) are endearments Malawen remembers from her own childhood – perhaps her earlier musings on the Golden Wood brought them back into her mind

Anxiety gnawed at Canohando. If he could have split himself in two, one to search for Tulco, the other to follow the barbarians who had ridden into the North...

He lacked the strength to meet them in open battle, yet he ought to be shadowing the enemy, harrying them all he might, at the very least turning them away from Tuckborough and the Delving, where the Hobbits had fled for shelter. But he was hamstrung by the division of his forces, so instead he was combing the Shire for Tulco, torn between fear and fury – for he ought long since to have had some word from his son, and as one day followed another with no message, his dread increased.

If Logi had been commanding, Canohando would have suspected that he had given pursuit, followed the enemy home and burned his camp! Logi was too impulsive, apt to run beyond his orders –

He pulled his thoughts up short. Tulco was not Logi, and he need not concern himself about his grandson – only to slay him when he got the chance.

He drove his men without mercy. At the turn-off to Bywater they passed the first burnt-out village, and he sent a scouting party back toward Hobbiton, but went on himself with the main army. When he heard that both Hobbiton and Bywater were destroyed, he guessed the barbarians had pushed down from the north and were somewhere up ahead.

The Valar grant Tulco is coming the other way, and we will have them between the hammer and the anvil. Tuckborough will be well out of the way, and Delving also.

Although if the Mayor were right and there were Hobbits still at Woody End – there were some natural caves there, but nothing large, and not defensible. More trap than refuge, those hiding places.

The next two days they met neither friend nor foe, not till they came near Stock – what had been Stock. A ruin now, and in the blackened streets and in the fields, they found their missing army. They saw and looked away, and some of the younger men, or those with weaker stomachs, turned aside, shuddering. Canohando's second-in-command rode up with a handkerchief tied across his face.

The Orc himself helped gather in the dead, forcing himself to look carefully at each man, searching for his son. But he did not find Tulco, or else he was beyond recognition.

"The rest are scattered, if any are left alive. But the enemy is at large and must be found, and if there are Hobbits still remaining in the Hills, they must be rescued." So the Commander led them west again, on the track through the Green Hill Country into Tookland.

The Yale they found deserted but unharmed; seemingly the barbarians had not followed this byway. They passed a number of small hamlets that were likewise empty, but at one farm a Hobbit stepped out suddenly from behind a tree.

They reined up, and Canohando answered gently, "No, Goodman, it is not safe. How many are here with you?"

"My wife and children, her parents and her sister – ten of us altogether. We could not leave when the rest did; the little ones were ill –"

Canohando took them up to ride each one behind a man of his company. The Hobbit would rather have loaded up his family in his farm wagon to rumble along in their midst, but the Commander would not permit it; there was no time.

Twice more they were accosted by folk who had stayed behind when their neighbors left, one family because the goodwife had been in childbed when the warning came, the others merely stubborn and determined to see out the storm on their own ground – but having second thoughts, now they were alone in an empty countryside. All of them Canohando mounted behind his soldiers, a shepherd rounding up his straying flock, to carry them to safety.

They stopped for the night in another deserted village, putting the Hobbits all in one large dwelling, where they could be protected if danger threatened. While supper was cooking, two half-grown lads wandered away unnoticed, "exploring," as they said. Of a sudden a horse bolted out of an alley-way, and the boys ran shrieking after – a dozen of the Guardians gave pursuit, and came back leading the strange mare and a red-haired woman thrown across its back, bound hand and foot.

Canohando gazed at her blankly for a moment before he realized who she was; then fury rose in his throat till he nearly choked.

"Bring her in here." He held open the door of an empty house, and ducked under the low doorway to follow them in. "Leave us," he told his men.

But when he was alone with her, he had no words. Like a cornered animal she stared at him from where they’d dropped her on the floor, and he felt his hatred freezing his blood to ice. After a long while he bent and fingered the Jewel she wore, trying not to touch her skin. He jerked it, breaking the chain, and took it from her, and the tears sprang to her eyes, whether from pain or because she was robbed of her treasure.

He let the chain fall to the floor and stepped on it, grinding it under his heel, but the Jewel he rubbed all over with a fold of his cloak, as if he wiped away uncleanness. At last he took a bit of rawhide from his pocket and threaded the Jewel on it, knotting it round his neck, and all the while she watched him.

He laughed, and Freiga cringed; there was no mirth in him and his eyes were hard as basalt. "You, too? Half Middle Earth is searching for my grandson – how long can he elude us? Now you shall come with me, and when we find him, you may watch what I do to traitors."

"Guard her," he snapped at the men loitering round the door. "If she escapes, go after her, don't let her get away."

Canohando looked for a moment as if he had not understood; then he bared his teeth in a smile that made the man take a step backward.

He stalked down the street and out of the village. In the pastureland outside, he flung himself to the ground. The Darkness was with him still, after all these years – another moment, and I would have strangled her! This witch, this whore who so bedazzled Logi – oh, she was beautiful, he'd not deny it: a brazen, poisoned beauty, to rob a man of honor.

He pressed the Jewel against his forehead, but instead of peace his heart was swept by grief, for Haldar but also for Logi, for the Shire, and for himself.

The Darkness never rested. Again and again it returned to wear him down, and he was grown weary.

In Hobbiton, Logi staggered up at dawn from where he had slept between their graves, the Ring-bearer and the friend who would not leave him. A fine, soft rain was falling; his clothes were soaked. He shivered and squatted by one of the granite slabs, trying to puzzle out the carved inscription.

There was more, but the letters were badly weathered, too faint for him to read in the faltering light. It didn't matter; he knew what Sam had done. It won't be long, Old Sam, but while I live I'll be a faithful Guardian. Only ask the Holy Ones, let me find Adah–

He shrugged his quiver of arrows across his back and stood a moment by the second grave. Farewell, Frodo Baggins. Look after the little hero who bears your name.

He realized suddenly that he'd forgotten to picket his mare when he arrived, but before he could curse his folly, he saw her grazing a short way off. She came at his whistle, and he rubbed her nose and fed her a handful of clover.

"All right, my lady, off we go and raise the siege of Tuckborough." He smiled grimly at his own jest and swung onto her back.

It was well that the Commander had posted outriders far ahead. The foremost of them caught a glimpse of the barbarians surrounding Tuckborough and backed off hastily, carrying warning to those behind. Canohando thought first of his Hobbit refugees.

"Take them roundabout to Michel Delving; bring back as many men as my son can spare. And lads, go softly! The Delving's best defense is secrecy. Cover your tracks, and tell Arato, hide the place as best he can."

When the little squad had borne away the Hobbits, the Commander called his captains into council.

"I've sent out scouts; we should have word soon how many they are, and how disposed. But we were overmatched to start with, and we've seen no evidence that they've had heavy losses, not since they crossed the River. We have to assume that we're outnumbered – twenty to one, perhaps."

There was a moment's silence; it was grim hearing, although they'd guessed as much. Then the youngest captain present quirked an ironic eyebrow.

"They don't have you to lead them! I'll take my chances on the odds, with Afar* in command."

He was no son of Canohando's. Fourteen generations divided him from the Orc, but the title struck them all as apt. All around the circle they were nodding, and an older man, a veteran of many battles, spoke for them.

Canohando blinked, finding it difficult of a sudden to see their faces. He stretched out his hand, and one after another the captains took hold of it, till their arms were like the spokes of a living wheel, and their clasped hands were the hub.

"For the Shire: we will not give it over!" the young man said, as if he took an oath, and the others murmured agreement. After a moment they sat down, knit closer in spirit than they were before, and began planning strategy.

There were not enough of them to stage a full assault. The barbarians surrounded the hill into which the Smials were dug – Malawen had been lucky to get away when she did, for that gap in the encirclement was closed now. The Guardians would have to strike from hiding, now here, now there, killing a score or so and melting back among the trees before their foes could gather a response.

Canohando knew there was little more he could do with so few men; knew too that it was not enough. He sent word to the nearest fortresses, "Abandon all the forts and come to Tuckborough!" And even then he would not spare more than a couple of men as messengers: the forts would pass the word from each to each.

It was a desperate move, for it left the wives and children unprotected, in the strongholds that had been their homes. The women strapped on swords over their dresses, and shut tight the gates as the last men rode away. Even to Sarn Ford the order went, but from there the women withdrew as well, and rode with the men till they came to a fortress more defensible, for Sarn was too exposed to hold, without a proper garrison.

Canohando left it to his captains to lead the harassment of the enemy. In the dark hours he prowled around the hill, outside the enemy lines, searching for some way in. The barbarians kept closer watch now than they used to; the ease with which Logi had penetrated the camp beyond the river had put them on their guard. But the last report Canohando had had of Malawen said she was at Tuckborough, and terror for her drove him nearly frantic. He had seen what the enemy did in the towns they captured. If they broke into the Smials, he had not nearly enough men to stop the carnage, and his love, his light, was here!

On the third night he came on a small campfire, all by itself where he thought that no one was. He approached it cautiously, wondering which men of his company had set themselves so apart, and sucked in his breath abruptly when he saw.

He had not sent Logi's woman to safety with the Hobbits; indeed, since they reached Tuckborough he had given her scarcely a thought. But here she was, unbound, un-guarded, kneeling before the fire cooking something – and sitting back against a tree, eyes closed as if he slept, was Logi.

It was unnerving to come on him so sudden; Canohando had to stop and take it in. So often in his mind he'd planned this meeting: what he would say as he drove in his blade to stop that perfidious heart – nothing could have prepared him for this scene, so peaceful, so domestic. And neither of them heard him! The woman turned the stick on which she was grilling a small, plucked bird, and the fire hissed.

Canohando loosened his sword in its scabbard. He would not take the traitor unaware, to die before he knew who struck the blow. Logi must see his face, must know that retribution had come at last –

"Osta would not let me go and seek you, but there was no need for that, was there, murderer? Vengeance herself throws you in my path."

The woman gave a cry and sprang to her feet, the meat falling forgotten in the fire, but Logi opened his eyes without moving from where he sat.

"Be quiet, Freiga. Go back now; this is no concern of yours. I have some little business with my grandfather."

Before she could obey, Canohando was behind her, thrusting down on her shoulders, forcing her to the ground. "Sit down and be silent." He glowered at Logi. "Is one betrayal not enough for you, that you send her to bring her savages upon me? You would give the Shire to them entirely, the Hobbits all to slaughter!"

"No!" Logi got up stiffly, as if it hurt to move. "Here – I saved this for you when they pillaged Hobbiton." He struggled to unfasten the string around his neck; finally he drew his knife and cut it free. "Here," he said again.

Canohando took the bear tooth, staring at his grandson. He was stunned at the change in him. Logi was thin to gauntness, a red scar, barely healed, running the length of his arm and another on his forehead, but it was more than that. His face was hollow-eyed, like one who stands at the foot of his own grave looking in.

"I came to face your judgment. Send me after him, and in the world of shades I will search him out; I will bow down and kiss his feet."

"Lose yourself in your barbarian, murderer! You will forget." Too late for this remorse, he thought. Too late for Haldar of the laughing eyes, for Malawen crying herself to sleep –

"It was not like that! We loved each other." Logi sank to his knees as if he had no more strength to stand. "I think she still loves me; I don't know why. It doesn't matter. Make an end, Adah! I was born black-hearted, and there is no cure. Cut it out of me."

Canohando could not look on him without pity, and he steeled his soul against it. He glanced at the fire, picked up a stick absent-mindedly from the ground, and dropped it in.

Logi made no answer and Canohando drew his sword, wondering at his own reluctance. Was this not the vengeance he had sworn? Hardly enough, in truth – quick, not the long agony of fire. But it was not so easy, while Logi knelt waiting, to raise the blade and thrust. He had expected to meet him on a battlefield, with the bloodlust hot in his eyes.

He lifted the sword at last, holding it upright in salute. "Die then, as you have killed. Seek his forgiveness, if he will give it to you." But as he moved to strike, the woman threw herself against his arm, deflecting the blow so it went wide and knocking him off-balance.

She flung herself across Logi, shielding him, locking her arms around him and fighting his efforts to throw her off, her mass of hair blinding him.

"You swore yourself my husband; you shall not throw away your life! Will you have him die for nothing, that one you killed?"

Canohando rammed the sword back in its sheath and dragged her off. He backed her against a tree and held her there, looking her over as he might examine a horse for defect. "What spell did you lay on him, to so betray a friend who ran at his heels from childhood? And burned to death! The Holy Ones themselves must have wept to see it!"

"It makes no difference." Logi's voice was flat. "I could not bear his screaming; I made it quick. He was my brother and I delivered him to death. Adah, please –"

Freiga crept over to him where he still knelt, touched his arm pleadingly, but her eyes besought Canohando. "Spare us a little time, only a little. He may be slain tomorrow; there is not one man in all this war who does not want him dead! My people hate him more than you do. The Shining One is gone, you cannot bring him back – " Distractedly she kept talking; the grandfather would not kill while she kept talking.

"No! You say I bewitched him – then I should die as well. Both or neither, Adah!"

She rested her cheek on Logi's back and wrapped her arms around him. "He came, he rescued me – he saw where I was bound, and set me free."

"It was no fault of hers that Haldar died," said Logi. "Don't lay it at her door; the crime was mine."

"Indeed. And she will hold to you? So be it, then. Logi, stretch out your arms to either side. Woman, if you do not stand back, I will run him through!"

Logi spread out his arms, and she backed away two steps. Canohando raised the sword and swung it down in a mighty arc, severing Logi's right arm above the elbow. Freiga shrieked and threw herself on him, tearing at her garment to staunch the blood, but Canohando caught her around the waist and dragged her back.

"Thrust it in fire, if you would not bleed to death," he ordered sharply. "Taste the flames yourself, as you made Haldar taste them!"

Logi scrambled over to the fire, plunging the bloody stump of his arm into the heart of it. He cried out and tried to jerk away, but his grandfather was there, holding him to the flame, until the bleeding stopped. He drew him away then, in a dead faint.

"Now it is up to you," he told Freiga. "If you take care of him, he may live. If you abandon him -" He shrugged.

She was ashen. "They will slay him – I cannot nurse him here, on a field of battle! Have pity on us; give us a place where I may tend to him!"

Canohando met her plea with stony silence, but she was importunate; she would not be denied. At length he stooped and slung Logi over his back. "Come."

He led her downhill, a quarter mile away, and pushed aside some vines to reveal a small, dry cave.

"The shepherds use it," he said, "but not this summer." He laid Logi down on a musty pallet in the corner.

"There's a spring a few yards farther down the hill. I'll bring you food and bandages, but I will not nurse him. I spared his life; that is enough. Now he will live or die by your faithfulness."

Never in her life had Malawen's patience been so tried, as it was during the long trek to Delving. With the pony straining to drag the loaded travois, they could go no faster than a walk, and even then the jostling was hard on the injured Hobbit. His daughter hovered close at hand, comforting him as best she might, and every few hours they had to stop and rest.

It took them two days to reach the place, and then they nearly passed it by. Where the village had been was no more than a low hill grown over with brambles and young saplings, with no sign of houses or streets, still less of Hobbits. The surrounding countryside was familiar, and in the distance a shining pinnacle marked the Tower Hills - Malawen knew they must be near and halted the pony to look about more closely.

"Good morrow, Malatara! I almost didn't see you. What are you doing abroad in such desperate times?" Of a sudden there was a tall man standing beside her, and she startled. Where had he sprung from, that she had not noticed his approach?

"Not now, Lady; he led his men away more than a week ago. Your son Arato is commanding here, under the Mayor."

She bit back her chagrin. Against all reason she had hoped that he would be here – but at least the long journey was over; she was glad of that. "You have the town well-hidden! Will you lead us in? And of your kindness, bring this goodman to the healers, while I see my son."

She saw Daisy and her father led away to what comfort the crowded Delving could provide, returning the child's fierce hug and bidding her be good. But over breakfast with Hodfast and Arato, she found that the town was more than simply hidden.

"We razed it," the Mayor said cheerfully, buttering a muffin. "Better us than the savages, you know, and not difficult to build again, once we're rid of them! But we couldn't hide it, as we can the hill – and that's well-camouflaged, I think you'll grant."

"You might have spared yourself the journey, Mother, although I'm glad to see you," Arato said gently. "We had a call already for aid to Tuckborough – a Hobbit came to say it was under siege, and half our garrison left four nights ago."

"One of the Tooks? I thought them all safe inside – or we believed it safe, until we saw the host that came against us."

Arato cut a piece of ham and spread it with mustard, folded a piece of bread around it. "No, not a Took. Frodo Miner, from Hobbiton. More to the point is how he got to Delving." He took a bite of his sandwich, and Malawen waited impatiently, tapping her foot against the rung of her chair.

"Well?' she demanded at last. Arato, she remembered, had irritated her from childhood with his plodding, methodical ways – so different from her lightning impulses. Time was when she'd questioned in all sincerity if he was not a bit stupid. Canohando had scoffed at that, but now she wondered again. "Well?"

"Someone brought him here, dropped him and fled before the guards could catch him. I think it was Logi."

He knew what Logi had done; they all knew. The story had spread like fire among the Guardians, and it lost nothing in the telling. The Orc had trussed Haldar up while he slept, went the most popular version, and carried him bound into the enemy camp, to barter for the slut he wanted.

"Logi? Here? Name of Luthien, what would he be doing here, carting Hobbits about? The scum is with the barbarians, murdering his kin!"

"Or perhaps not. Don't be wroth with me, Mother; I had no chance to ask his name. Can you think of anyone else the spitting image of the Commander? None of us saw him in the dark, but Frodo is very clear in his description. He says – whoever it was – rescued him from Men who were ransacking Bag End."

"Well, it cannot have been Logi – he would have been ransacking right along with them! It was dark, you said, and the Hobbit was afraid..."

Arato offered no more argument, finishing his meal and wiping his hands on a linen napkin.

"In any event, we have already sent reinforcements to Tuckborough. I'll leave you now, Mother; I have duties waiting. Hodfast will make you comfortable, I know."

And the Mayor himself saw Malawen bestowed in the best bedchamber the Delving had to offer – standing vacant now because he considered himself on active duty as chief civilian authority, and was sleeping in a guardroom close by the front gate.

"You're in the safest place in all the Shire, Lady Mab, and thanks in large part to the efforts of your son. We'd have been hard put to get all these bushes planted, without the Guardians! I'll wish you a good rest from your journey now, for I have duties also, like the Captain."

He bowed and kissed her hand, and she smiled her thanks, but when he was gone she sank down on the bed with her hands over her face.

Logi here? Let him come near me, only once, great Manwe – I'll give him the welcome that his deeds deserve! Oh, Haldar, Haldar... She fell forward on the pillows, weeping.

But after she'd slept, when she came forth from the bedroom, she found Arato and the Mayor in troubled consultation. A messenger had come with orders from Canohando, to send all the force possible to Tuckborough. It was written in the Orc's unmistakable hand, the letters crudely formed, pressed deep into the parchment – he had not learned to write till late in life.

Arato was pacing back and forth distractedly, his hands thrust in his pockets. "We are short-garrisoned now! If they come here next, what then?"

"What would they see, if they did come? A brushy hillock close beside the Road – why should that interest them?" The Mayor patted Arato's arm encouragingly. "Go to your father, lad; we'll stay inside and keep our gates well barred. Better for the Tooks if they could hide Great Smials, but it's too late for that."

Arato made a face. "I can't see them razing Tuckborough, whatever the danger. The Tooks are too proud for wisdom, sometimes. But in truth, the Delving may be all the safer if we're not here – where there are Guardians, there's something worth the guarding. I'll send the men to him– "

Malawen had been listening from the doorway; now she said sharply, "Send? What is this 'send'? You'll lead your men, however few, like a Captain of the Guardians as you are!"

Arato turned his gaze on her. "Proud and valiant, Mother, to the last?" He took his pipe from his pocket and filled it carefully. "He calls for my men, but he does not bid me come. I must suppose he leaves it to my judgment."

Malawen glared, speechless, but her infuriating son seemed not to notice, setting a coal to his pipe and puffing until it drew.

"He wagers high, that he can turn them back in one great effort. If it pays out, it will make no difference whether I was there. But if it doesn't – all his sons are at Tuckborough, save only me. There had better be someone who survives the slaughter, to pick up the pieces if the battle's lost."

"Are you certain you are not merely fainthearted?" she demanded. "Even as a child, you hung back always, while your brothers and sisters threw themselves on life."

He gave a bitter laugh. "The Valar grant he comes in victory, to chide me as fainthearted! No, Mother, I did not grow up a coward – but courage and skill in arms may not avail against this deluge. You overrate my value, if you think my presence there will make the difference, if Tuckborough stand or fall."

"And if Great Smials is over-run, as our men were at the river? There are stragglers of the Guardians here and there, I deem, and Valar save us, some must come out alive, however bad it gets! How long can Hodfast hide? Can you last the winter on the supplies you have?"

"Yes," said the Mayor, but his eyebrows drew together; plainly he had not thought of making the food last so long.

"And how long after that? What if they put up houses, plow your fields – what if you cannot plant next year?"

"Could you lead them, Hodfast? If you had to leave the Shire and find your way, search out a place of refuge in the hills?"

"I am not sure," Arato said. "I can find my way where no path is; I can kill game enough for my own need. Whether I could bring the Hobbits now in Delving to some place of safety... I do not know. But between us we might do it, even if neither could manage it alone."

"You are assuming that Tuckborough will be lost, your father slain –!" Malawen was shrill with outrage. "How dare you? You're as bad as Logi!"

Arato sighed. "A traitor, am I? Because I admit a battle may be lost – even with Canohando in command. The greatest heroes of another age were not invincible. Gil-galad was lost, Mother, though the cause he fought for was victorious. I would honor my father by carrying on his task, if he should fall."

She gave a strangled cry and turned away, feeling for the door, but Hodfast went and took her by the arm.

"Come, Lady Mab, sit down. Pour your mother some wine, Arato." He led her to a chair and helped her sit, brought a soft worsted shawl and draped it round her. Arato brought a glass of wine, brim-full, and she sipped from it while the Mayor stood patting her shoulder.

"Now, Lady, we must face it bravely, all of us. Of course we hope that Tuckborough will be saved – I have friends there, too, and relatives – and the Powers send that the Commander remain with us another thousand years, and the Shire prosper in peace as it has done! Yet battles may be lost, despite our hopes – it is wisdom, not cowardice, to admit it and plan accordingly. Will it turn the tide, if Arato goes to the Tookland?"

"Then I say with him: send the men, send the whole garrison, but let the Captain stay. For I tell you truly, I would not know how to care for them outside the Shire, and I believe the Commander would have our folk survive, whatever fate awaits him in this battle. Am I mistaken?"

She set down the wineglass then and hid her eyes. Arato knelt and put his arms around her, and she leaned on his shoulder and wept.

A few nights after he encountered Logi, Canohando at last found a way past the barbarians, all the way to the foot of the hill. It was very steep at this point, and above him were some of the arrow-slits Feldibar had ordered cut into the sod. The Orc clambered up as if he were climbing a wall; when he was high enough, he drew his knife and held it by the tip, extending it slowly into one of the slits, hilt first.

There was a startled exclamation inside, the knife was taken from him, and someone asked softly, "Who's there?"

"Commander! Is it really you?" A Hobbit voice, but it was unfamiliar. "Wait, I'll fetch him for you."

He waited, leaning his weight against the hill and digging in his toes, to keep from sliding down. It was only a few minutes until he heard Osta's greeting.

"She found you, Afar! I feared to let her go, but you see how far I got, trying to change her mind –"

"No one found me; I was hunting for the jackals. Do you mean to tell me Malatara's gone?"

Osta's chuckle whispered through the slit. "And well that she is – Tuckborough's not such a refuge as we hoped! More like a trap – have you come to spring us from it?"

For a quarter hour they held murmured consultation. "Agreed," said Canohando finally. "Take them to Delving, but not by any direct route – be certain you're not followed."

He climbed back down the mound. At the bottom he sat and massaged his legs before he crawled away. The muscles were sore and knotted from keeping his precarious balance on the hill.

At least we have a plan. A suicide mission for his diminished company, and hardly less so for the Smials' defenders, but they had not been able to think of anything better. A full-on charge at nightfall, to draw the enemy from all around the hill – the Guardians inside would send a rain of arrows, while Canohando fell on the barbarians from behind.

If we had the men that Tulco squandered –! But no, that was unjust. Tulco had done his best, no doubt, and fallen in the effort. They still might save the Hobbits, if only the back of the hill were left unguarded. While the attack progressed in front, Osta would bring them out with a score of men, through the little hidden door that Malawen used.

"Yes, you!" Canohando had hissed into the hill, when his son protested that someone else could lead them, his place was at the front. "It will take sharp wits to bring them safe to Delving, and all the Shire a-crawl with enemies. I need a living captain who can think on the run, not a dead hero at the gate. Do as you're told, Osta!"

And Osta must survive, if possible, to command the men in future, those whoremained. The reinforcements from Michel Delving had arrived that morning. There'd been no time for conversation, but the Commander had noted with approval that Arato was not among them. He knows my mind as well as I do myself. He'll make a good second for Osta. He allowed himself a pang of grief that he would not see his melethril again – and thought, But wait, where is she?

Roaming the countryside on a Hobbit pony, alone and unprotected! There was yet one thing for him to do, before the attack this evening. He sought out the best scout in his company, a man called Owain.

"Find Malatara and bring her safe to Delving. And give her this." He handed over a small, wrapped bundle; inside were a letter of farewell and Arwen's Jewel.He walked with Owain out beyond the pickets and watched him ride away.

The barbarians that Canohando had hounded into the North rode all the way to Oakbarton, destroying as they went. But when in the distance they glimpsed the Evendim Hills, they made up their minds they had gone far enough. Southward they turned again, until they came like their fellows to the East Road, but they did not follow it. They rode down the wheat that stood ripening for a harvest that would never come. They climbed into the hills, dotted with tidy farmsteads here and there, no villages, but smials dug into the hillsides, with maybe a stake fence round the garden, and foxgloves by the door.

Only a few of these smallholders remained; most had already fled. The barbarians fell like wolves on the ones who were left, and only those Hobbits survived who took warning from clouds of dust on the horizon, and shinnied up a tree where they escaped notice. Those who did not hide themselves in time were slain in their own dooryards.

As the sun dropped toward the west, on the day that Owain departed to look for Malawen, the northern army of Tribesmen came to the Tuckborough road.

Afterward it was all a jumble in Canohando's memory. Wanting to create the greatest confusion possible, he held off attacking until it was fully dark. Then he sent his men in squads of four, each one carrying a long stick of pine with pitch daubed on the end; when they broke from cover, spurring their mounts between the enemy watch-fires, they thrust their sticks into the flames, and rushed the barbarians with swords in one hand and blazing torches in the other. From every side they charged, weaving back and forth in seeming wild abandon, though in reality each squad was following a pre-set path, planned to keep them out of each other's way while spreading them as widely as possible through the camp, giving the illusion of greater numbers than they truly had.

From inside Tuckborough came arrows tipped with fire, and throwing spears, and even knives flipped skillfully, end over end, to wound any enemy rash enough to venture near the walls.

The barbarians rallied quickly, trying to mass together but hindered by the flaming shafts continually raining down. And the Guardians were quick to take advantage, thundering into every gap that opened, breaking lines of battle all to pieces. Canohando seemed everywhere at once, thrusting with torch and spear, but he roared no battle cry this night, nor did any of the Guardians.

"We are too few to make a mighty din, and they would drown us out. Flame and blade and speed, and silent as the grave: so we may unnerve them –" for a while, he thought. Long enough to catch them off their guard, to make them leave the rear, till the Hobbits have escaped.

He thought the ploy was working, and then he heard – Great bloody death! He'd heard no sound like that since Mordor! A Troll had broken its chains on the Morannon, an Age ago in his vanished other life; it had picked up the Orc who'd been whipping it and snapped him like a toothpick. The horror of it had stayed with Canohando all his life, the sound of that furious bellow, and for an instant he dreaded to see another Troll.

But it was not Trolls; it was more barbarians, a thousand more, five thousand more barbarians, mouths wide open, roaring. The northern half of their army had arrived, and they held the Guardians trapped between two fires.

Inexorably the northerners moved in. When they were so near that Canohando could see their teeth, grinning like death's heads in their shadowed faces, without warning the gates of Tuckborough burst open. The closest warriors shouted and pressed forward, but they were driven back by a phalanx of mounted Hobbits, their arrows flying as they charged ahead, and Feldibar in the lead. He alone, of all of them, wore armor, and above his head he brandished a naked sword. Twice the blade flashed down, and rose again; then it rose no more, and Canohando lost sight of the Hobbit paladin.

He spurred for the gateway, screaming his rage and sorrow, and the scene dissolved in a swirl of blood and flame. His next clear awareness found him on the ground, where he lay unhorsed with his leg bent up beneath him. His sword was gone, and a wound was pumping blood from somewhere near his knee.

"Holy Ones, save them!" Here was death at last, and his guardianship was over – now must the Valar take a hand, or all was lost.

A horse leaped over him and doubled back. "Afar!" cried a voice, and someone caught him underneath the arms and heaved him up, over the horse's back. He had just wits enough to twist his hand through the chest strap of the harness; then the beast plunged down and the blood rushed to his head, and everything went black.

He came to in a space of blessed quiet, the clash of battle echoing in the distance, like thunder far away.

"He's still alive, I think – he was, when I picked him up. We have to stop the bleeding."

A tiny flame appeared, and Canohando shut his eyes against it. A weight pressed on his leg, and he winced away.

"Sorry, Afar. Hold on; we'll have you trussed up in a minute, enough to get you out of here."

"Leave me." His voice was a croak and he tried again. "Go after Osta, help him save the Hobbits –"

"How would he, at the gate? They're in the woods, Commander – safe for the moment."

"Get them away! You fool, there isn't time – I'm done; give over! Tell Osta get them out– "

Another voice: "Osta held off half their stinking army – he gave us time to run. You can be proud of your eldest son, Commander."

"He died a hero, Afar." That was the first voice, the man who had plucked him off the battlefield.

The bleeding had nearly stopped; the bandage was a tourniquet round his leg, painful, but the sensation of sliding into darkness – that was gone. Osta, dead?

One of them held the candle beside his face; it was the young captain who had spoken up in council, the day they found the barbarians at Tuckborough.

"The others were inside; they led the Hobbits out. The whore-sons timed it well – the rearguard was still in sight; another moment, and they'd have got away. These men got the Hobbits under cover, but when they came back to help their comrades, everyone was slain."

The man would have argued, but the young captain said quietly, "There is no time. Where is he?"

And he led the horse to the place where Osta lay and hoisted him across the animal's back, before he helped Canohando on. "There, Afar – hold on tight! You're hardly fit to ride, but even less to walk, with your leg broken and half sawed off besides."

Canohando sprawled across Osta's body, clinging to the horse's mane. The captain guided the beast, one hand gripping the Commander's belt, helping him stay on, and slowly they moved deeper among the trees. The Orc was only half aware when a crowd of Hobbits joined them, walking behind and ahead – one of them led the way, and the two Guardians who had been of Osta's company brought up the rear. There was smoke in the air, stinging his eyes.

He tried to rouse himself, to lead them, but it was beyond his strength. Even riding was too much for him; his wound kept breaking open, and they could not stop the bleeding while he rode. At length they fashioned a makeshift litter and laid him down. They put the littlest children on the horse.

Two girls and a boy – they shied away at first, not wanting to share the horse with Osta's body. It took an old gaffer to persuade them, riding with his back against the corpse, soothing them in whispers.

"Now duckies, steady on, no need to be afraid. It's only the 'Kickshaw Man', and you know him. Don't tell me you never had some trinket from him! Eh? A whistle, or some sweets? Aye, then, I thought so. Never without a trifle in his pocket, carved dollies for the lasses, or knucklebones – I got a fox cub from him when I was a lad, made from a river stone. Carved all curled up, you know, like it was sleeping. I wonder what ever come of that," he interrupted himself, distracted by the thought.

"Well anyway, ye needn't mind Captain Osta. He's been friend to Hobbit childer time out of mind, and your grannies and gaffers back when they were young. There never was a Big'un like the Captain! Why, I mind the time – "

He spun them tales until they fell asleep, and he kept muttering to himself for a long while after. Now and then his voice would rise a little – "Best friend we ever had, you was," and "What'll we come to now, with you gone and the Commander like to go?"

By the time they reached the Delving four nights later, taking a circuitous route and traveling by night, Canohando was delirious. Malawen's cries of joy at seeing him, turned to fear that he'd been rescued only to die in bed. The Mayor sent a call for healers through the Hill, and they ransacked their stores of medicine while Malawen hung over her melethron night and day, plying him with remedies and, when she could no longer stay awake, curling up beside him on the bed, to sleep against his shoulder.

Meanwhile more and more Hobbits trickled in. From the Four Farthings they came: a rumor seemed to run along the ground, that in the Delving there was sanctuary. The Mayor assigned them places in the warren, but his face grew long with worry, dreading the coming winter and food stores running short. Already supplies were rationed. He had been afraid that might cause trouble, but it did not: there was not a Hobbit in all the crowded tunnels who did not count himself lucky to be alive, while fire and sword raged up and down the Shire.

One day refugees came who were not Hobbits: women and children from a fort to the southwest. Hodfast went outside to talk with them.

"We have no space for horses. Yourselves we will make room for with goodwill; the Guardians have been our shield and fortress! But the horses you must strip of their gear and turn them loose, and far from here, lest they draw the enemy to our hiding place."

The women conferred among themselves, but in the end they were unwilling to do that. "We'll go to Tower Hills, then. That were better refuge, maybe, for us taller folk. Are any of our men there, do you know?"

"There are a few," said Hodfast. "The Commander we have here, but not fit to command – we hope that he may live."

That brought smiles to their faces, weary though they were. "That's better tidings than we'd heard; we thought him lost at Tuckborough." They begged a little food and Hodfast gave it; then they rode off toward the west.

The autumn chilled to winter. Arato dug himself in at Tower Hills, with a few survivors of Tulco's army and men from other garrisons, who had set out to the aid of Tuckborough and arrived too late. He sent out scouts, to search in secret for other straying Guardians and bring them to the fortress.

"For what, a final stand, before the darkness falls?" demanded Malawen. Too well she remembered the fading of the Golden Wood. Another Age had passed, and ended again in sorrow.

"What good would that do, Mother?" he asked her gently. He had come to Delving hoping to see his father. "No, we must get away, and take the Hobbits with us. How should they fend, to plow their fields next spring? We will not let them starve, or starve ourselves."

But she had no heart to make plans for tomorrow. Canohando had recognized her the day before, for the first time since the battle; that was all her thought, and trying to make him eat, to get his strength again.

"Don't wear him out, Arato. You've taken the command. Don't shift it to his shoulders; he's in no state – "

She lifted the bedroom latch without finishing her sentence, entering the room with pretended cheerfulness. "See, melethron, here's your son to visit you. Let me tuck a cushion behind your back, and fetch some wine."

Arato watched her for a moment; she seemed thinner and somehow shrunken, and the golden of her hair had lost its shine. His gaze moved to his father.

Canohando was greyer-skinned than ever, the color of ashes left out in the rain, but the black eyes were shrewd in his worn face, and he nodded at a chair beside the bed.

Freiga had never been so lonely. Logi was out of his head when he was awake - which wasn't often. Adah had kept his promise: he'd brought them food and bandages, blankets even, and a vial of some strong-smelling medicine.

"Get it down him, a few drops in his water, and sprinkle it on the wound. It aids in healing and it will make him sleep. Your people are all around you in the woods, if you want to leave him and go back to them."

"I'll never leave him! I'm carrying his babe."

He snorted. "More pity you. Don't let it bite your breast off when it's born." But in spite of his angry manner, before he left he stooped over the unconscious Logi. Awkwardly he reached out to touch the ashen cheek, and Logi turned his face into the hand as though it brought him comfort. For a long moment neither of them moved; then Canohando withdrew his hand and ducked out the low doorway of the cave without another word.

The food he'd brought was soldiers' rations, parched meat and grain, enough to last a long while. There was even a cooking pot and a waterskin. Plainly he did not mean for them to starve.

Freiga went out after dark to fetch their water, hearing afar the noise of the besiegers' camp. It was almost relief a few days later when she heard the clang of battle; small chance of discovery while the fight went on, but afterward would be the time of danger. When quiet fell again, she smothered the fire and shook a few drops of Adah's cordial directly on Logi's tongue. Now the warriors would comb the woods for stragglers, to slay any who'd escaped and rob the dead. She dragged Logi's pallet to where it could not be seen from the entrance, and huddled beside him, muffled in a blanket.

It was three days more before she heard a robin, chirring merrily just outside the cave. She got up shakily and peeked outside. A squirrel was burying a nut not far away - peace had returned to the forest. The wild things knew, the wild things always knew.

She was mad with thirst. Since the battle ended she had not dared to leave the cave, and the waterskin was empty. She had given the greater part of the water to Logi, and still he burned with fever. She crept out cautiously –it would only take one enemy to undo her, lagging behind to heal some hurt or sleeping off his drunk – but no one leaped at her as she went down to the spring, and she returned in safety.

She drank, and bathed Logi's arm, and kindled a fire. He must have food, some meat and barley broth. He was so thin, his face was like a skull, the skin stretched over it. She cupped his cheek, and his head turned toward her hand, but his brow was furrowed as if in puzzlement. When she bent to kiss his lips, he jerked away.

The weather was growing cooler when she shook the last drops of medicine out of the vial. A day later, while she was outside getting water, Logi came fully awake for the first time. He stared about at the low, close walls, the dim triangle of the doorway obscured by vines. A shallow pit in the center of the room held glowing coals, but from these he looked quickly away, stricken by a dread he would not let himself wonder about.

What place is this? He tried to push up from where he lay, but fell to one side when only one arm responded. He landed on his shoulder and such pain burst in him, he nearly screamed aloud. Some deep part of his mind warned, silence! and he choked back his cry, rolling to his back again and swallowing the bile that came into his throat.

He fingered the painful shoulder and down his arm, swathed in bandages and – he caught his breath – ending before he reached the elbow. He felt the cloth-wrapped stump, craning his neck to see, and abruptly memory returned.

This was Adah's judgment: not death but maiming. He held out his left arm where he could see it, clenched and unclenched his fist. Weak. The muscles wasted – how long have I been lying here?

The vines at the doorway parted and a woman ducked inside. Freiga. Bitterness filled his mouth and spilled out into words.

"Are you still with me, wanton? What must I do to rid myself of you?"

She stopped half across the cave with the filled waterskin in her arms, caught by surprise at finding him awake and so belligerent. She let her gaze run over him, pausing significantly at the missing arm, and ending at his face.

"Wanton, am I? Then what do you call yourself?" Her voice was tight with outrage. "I've fed and bandaged you, I've tended your every need. Had I been less faithful you would be dead this morn, not hurling insults at me! Is this your gratitude?"

He pushed himself up on his one arm till he was sitting. It took all his strength, and he sat gasping a moment before he answered, "Yes! You waste your care on me; I am a monster."

"No!" She dropped down beside him. "You loved me once. You loved your friend and Adah– "

"Adah! What do you know of my grandfather?"

"He carried you here. He brought us food and medicine, he – Logi, I love you! Do you honor your friend by turning it all to hate?"

Water filled his eyes and he turned his head away so she wouldn't see. "I wish you had known Haldar. He was – like sunlight on the river, more shining than his hair. He called me 'Thunderbrows' when I was angry –"

Freiga put her arms around him but he was wooden, resisting her embrace; only the shaming tears wetted his face like rain.

"Tell me," she whispered. "Make me know him. He was so beautiful, and he would not betray us, not even – he was brave."

"Better he'd dragged me off to the Commander; he might still be alive! And you'd be with your Tribe, and I'd be whole."

"More like you would be dead, the two of you. The woods are empty now; there's been no sound for weeks. I think they all were slain."

"All?" He strained his eyes to search her face in the dimness. "How long since – " He motioned at his empty sleeve.

"Two moons, a little more. It's healing, Logi. I think the skin is coming back."

She reached for his arm, unwinding the bandage and wrapping it round her hand, to keep it from the dirt. "See?"

Puckered and hideous and oh, so well deserved! Perhaps the skin was growing; he couldn't tell. At least it didn't stink. He'd known a man once whose wound had putrefied; he'd never forget the stench.

"So I'm alive. What now?" She didn't answer, and he eyed her sardonically. "Did you have something in mind when you stopped Adah? A one-armed warrior and a woman from the Tribe that seeks my blood - did you know they meant to kill me?"

"Old Catti told me, to make me get rid of the babe, but I would not. That's why I left, to warn you. "

"There is a babe?" He caught a handful of her hair, pulling her face to his. "How long before it's born? You fool, you should have listened to her! Do you still not understand? One is enough like me, one is too many!"

"No!" She made no move to draw away; she ran a gentle finger along his eyebrows. "Logi, come back! You were not always like this, full of hate and anger. It was no monster wooed me in the pasture, it was a man, passionate and strong – and I would I had gone with you, when you asked me to. There is no other choice now."

"To run away? It is too late for that. If all were slain in battle, there's only me, and if any of the Guardians are left and I meet with them, they'll finish what Adah left undone. Yet I must find the Hobbits, if any are still alive, and do what I can for them."

"Why must you? What can you do alone? Your people are destroyed and you – " She stopped; she would not call him cripple.

He struggled to his feet, panting, bracing his shoulders against the rough wall of the cave. "I made a promise on old Frodo's grave. You don't know what I mean, but that's no matter. Where have you put my sword? I'll have to learn to fight left-handed."

A few days later he demanded to see the battlefield. He was still too weak to walk so far alone, but he gave Freiga no peace until she brought him there, leaning on her shoulder so heavily that she feared he would drag her to her knees.

The grass had overgrown it by then, and she was thankful. There were still patches of blackened earth - some would be funeral pyres for the Tribe's own warriors, but even far inside the hill was ankle-deep in ashes and stank of death.

"You see," she told him, "there's nothing for you here. Come away, Logi. You are not strong enough to fight yet, even if some enemy were here to challenge you."

He growled something unintelligible, but he let her lead him back to the cave. The next day he wanted to go again, but she would not bring him. Angry, he sat outside exercising his one arm, brandishing his sword and making practice thrusts, until he fell back exhausted on the ground. She covered him with one of Adah's blankets and let him sleep till sundown. Then she wakened him and coaxed him inside the cave once more.

Day after day he drove himself and slowly he learned to control his sword left-handed. His strength returned and he went back to the Smials - but not alone, for Freiga would not let him go off by himself. She was afraid he would grow dizzy and faint - he had done so several times - but even more she feared he would abandon her.

She was visibly pregnant now, and she would have known it by Logi's reaction even if her dress had not been growing tighter. He glanced at her sideways and quickly looked away, ashamed and fascinated. He stiffened when she touched him, but he could not change his bandage without help, and had perforce to suffer her to do it.

One night in the darkness some movement wakened her, and his pallet beside her was empty.

"Logi?"

There was no answer, but she heard him breathing.

"Where are you going?"

"Go back to sleep. I am well enough; I don't need your nursing."

She felt her way to the entrance where he stood. "No? Now you are healed you'll leave me here alone – heavy with your child! I cared for you, but who will care for me when my time comes?"

"Your Tribe infests the Shire from end to end. Your own folk can take care of you."

She gave a hollow laugh. "Logi, are you blind or only foolish? I ran away, I followed after you! Do you think they would take me back with open arms? The fire waits for me as it does for you, if they capture us. But I would bring this babe to birth, for all its father will take no notice of it. You owe me something for your life."

At first he did not answer, but at last he said, "I must find the Hobbits, wherever they are hidden. I made a promise."

"To me also you made a promise! Find your Hobbits, then, but let me come." She touched him and he moved away, but a moment later she felt his hand smoothing her hair.

"All right, Freiga. Bring the blankets and kettle; I would have left them for you."

From then on they roamed the Shire by night, hiding in daytime to sleep in tangled thickets or heaps of brush along the edge of fields. She had not known where she was to begin with; by the stars she could tell if they were going north or south, but otherwise she was utterly lost. But Logi knew his way; he went unerringly from one village to another, only to find them all alike deserted and destroyed. His face fell into lines of hopelessness, but he would not give over searching.

One evening when she laid bare his maimed arm, she paused to look closely at it, running her fingertips over the stump.

"It is healed, Logi. You don't need the bandage any more; best leave it open to the air." She bent on impulse and pressed her lips against the scars, and he jerked away.

"Leave it, then. Wash out the bandages, in case we need them later."

"When our child is born." She hesitated, but the question had been for a long time in her mind. "Logi, would it please him, if we named the babe for him?"

She doubted she needed to specify who she meant, and she was right. Logi turned on her so suddenly she jumped back, afraid that he would strike her.

"What fool's question is that? He's dead, he's burned!"

"In the Tribe they say – the spirit rides the smoke, into the sky. What if he's up there looking down on us?"

He snorted in disgust. "You're like a child! He is not in the sky. Be silent, woman."

"How do you know?" She kept back out of his reach, but she could not let it go. "I think he is, and says, 'I was the price – don't let it be for nothing.' I'd like to give your son his name. I think he would be glad."

He did not answer, and she did not dare say more. In silence they rolled in their blankets and went to sleep.

She was finding it harder to keep up with him, as the growing babe made her more unwieldy. She thought if she had another vial of Adah's medicine she would empty it all at once into the waterskin. Half for her and half for Logi - a few drops at a time had kept him sleeping for a month, so how long would they sleep if they drank it all? Perhaps she would wake to the child already born, and nuzzling at her breast. She sighed.

She wondered if Logi were going mad, whether from some poison in his wound or merely from evil conscience, it made no difference. She wondered if he would turn one day and kill her. But Logi was all she had, for good or ill.

He hardly spoke, and she had ample time for thought. She knew Haldar had disapproved of her, and yet he had kept watch for them. And the terrible day he was captured, he kept their secret.

The Chief had left the Jewel around her neck – in her flight from Logi she had forgotten it, and it was proof of her shame, that she had been with someone. But they could not prove she'd been with an enemy – that would have meant her death – and Haldar had gazed at her blankly, as at a stranger. Very cruelly they had handled him; twice he cried out, but never a word they got from him.

She had been cold with fear. Her own father would have lit her death-fire – but Haldar kept silence, and she forced her face to impassivity, not showing her pain at the Shining One bloodied and brought low. Then Logi came, and she thought to see them hacked to pieces, both of them. She had stared in disbelief when he slew his friend.

And now his guilt will eat him up –

The sky arched over her, deep and still as water. Help him! she whispered. Forgive him, and we will name the child for you.

At first Frodo Miner had felt he would never again have the courage to leave Michel Delving. After his terror at Bag End and fleeing for his life with his strange, ill-tempered rescuer, his greatest desire was no more than safety and regular meals, however skimpy. But after a while his youthful exuberance reasserted itself, and it was wearisome to keep inside day after day, with nothing to do but stay out of the way, in rooms crowded with frightened elders and querulous children. Rumors of attack swept through the warren at frequent intervals, only to be proved false when morning came.

"Well, let 'em come, then!" groused one exasperated gaffer. "We got the Guardians, don't we, and Hodfast in his silver shirt? Fight the blackguards off and be done with it!"

Frodo opened his mouth to give a scathing answer, then changed his mind. The old grandfather came from the village of Delving itself; he had been underground since the first warning to take shelter. He had never seen a town put to the torch, never heard the barbarians' dreadful war cry.

And Frodo could sympathize in one thing: he too was bored with inactivity, weary to death of waiting to find out, if they all were going to die. His escape seemed less terrifying, more exciting, in retrospect. Hiding behind the waterfall with Logi, blundering through the night in desperate haste and desperate secrecy to summon aid for Tuckborough - Logi was less alarming in memory than he had been in person. He hadn't harmed Frodo, after all, and without question he had saved him from the barbarians.

Frodo had heard the gossip about the Orc, since he arrived at Delving. Arato had questioned him at length, and once he'd been bidden right into the Commander's bedroom, to repeat his tale. Neither of them had told him anything, listening impassively to what he had to say, but the soldier who escorted him had all but smacked his lips, recounting Logi's crimes. Until then Frodo had not known so much as his rescuer's name; afterward he knew more than he wanted to, and far more than he was willing to believe.

"Good." Canohando had sunk back against his pillows, and Queen Mab had hurried to his side with something in a glass.

"Go out now, dear, there's a good lad," she'd said over her shoulder, and that was the last Frodo had seen of the Commander.

That had been soon after harvest-time, or would have if there had been any harvest. There wasn't, with all the land at war. Now winter was nearly over, rations were short, and Frodo felt like a wild bird in a cage. He had not been out of doors since autumn; none of them had. The only place of safety was underground.

One day he was wandering aimlessly in the less-crowded older section of the Delving. He heard muffled giggles and when he went to investigate, he found a half-hidden side tunnel, and four or five small lads inside, huddled together at the far end. The ceiling was so low it brushed their curly heads, and Frodo had to bend over to get in at all. He thought he'd caught a glimpse of light, and he wondered what the children were up to; it sounded like mischief, and he felt it his duty, as almost-grown-up, to keep the younger ones in check.

"Look, it's a little door." One of the lads pressed up against the wall to let him see: a door, indeed, no higher at its top than Frodo's belt. It was not latched, and when he gave it a push it swung outward soundlessly on oiled hinges. It opened into a sort of vestibule that clearly led outside, for the room was full of light, but the door was set at an angle to the outer wall, making it invisible from without.

Frodo motioned the children to silence and crawled through on hands and knees. Once he was past the doorway, he could stand upright and peer around the corner. He was looking through the bare branches of a clump of bushes, and beyond them were some of the trees that had been planted last summer to cover the hill.

"All right, everyone back inside." He crawled back through the miniature door. "Not a good place to play - no, I mean it!" he insisted, as the lads began to voice resistance. "This is part of our defenses; I'm surprised it isn't guarded. Find somewhere else to play - go on now, scat!"

They retreated, muttering complaint, and Frodo watched them out of sight. Then he opened the door again and lay on his stomach in the narrow tunnel, feasting his eyes on daylight and breathing in the clean, cold air. He was sorely tempted to go out. He had heard nothing of any barbarians in the neighborhood; for all he knew, they had gone back to whatever terrible land they came from. (In actual fact, the sentries had seen several war-parties pass along the road in recent weeks, but the Mayor had kept it quiet, not to spread panic through the smial.)

At night it should be all right, Frodo argued with his conscience. Not far, a little stroll among the trees - perhaps I'll see the moon.

And oddly, it was that decided him, the hope of catching a glimpse of the moon after all the months of hiding. In the dead of night he felt his way along the darkened passages back to the little door, and shut it carefully before he stepped outside. He pulled his cloak around him and drew up his hood.

There was no moon. The narrow tree-trunks crowded all around, naked branches fingering a sky that blazed with stars, and he stood open-mouthed with his head flung back, imbibing glory as if it had been wine. After a bit he climbed to the top of the hill - the secret door had been down near the bottom. It was so quiet he could hear twigs rubbing together when a breath of wind stirred the branches. Then an owl hooted right above his head, and made him jump. It was exhilarating, it was unmitigated joy, to be outside alone in the starry darkness, and it was a long time before he began to feel chilly and decided to go back in.

He searched all round the bottom of the hill, without success. He moved a few yards up and went around again, but still he could not find it. Back and forth across the hill he went, in growing frustration, crawling behind every bush that looked at all like the one that had concealed the entrance, but there was only the unblemished hillside and no sign of a door.

At last he began to be afraid. Somewhere, somewhere on this hill must be an entrance; whether the same door he had come out by or some other, he no longer cared. He would be reprimanded for slipping out, punished maybe, locked in a little room and fed on bread and water - he didn't care; he only wanted in, to the warmth and safety that had seemed so tiresome, a few short hours before. He was shivering, from nerves as much as cold. Tired, he sat down and tucked the cloak around his feet; half-frozen, he got up and went back to circling round and round the hill.

The sun came up, and with it hope returned. In daylight surely he would find some way inside; if nothing else, the main gate, however camouflaged, must be apparent to a Hobbit's eyes. He went to where he could see the road and set his course from there; he thought he could remember roughly where the gate had been. But as he eyed the mound appraisingly, to his horror he heard hoofbeats in the distance, and dove panic-stricken under a prickly evergreen.

It was barbarians. Who else would ride so open on the road, bold and unafraid - there was no one who would dare, except barbarians! Frodo cowered against the ground as they went by. It was a long time after they passed before he mustered courage to come out of hiding, and by that time he had come to a decision.

He could not find his way back inside the Delving. He could perhaps run up and down the hill shouting; and somebody might hear him; they must be keeping watch, somewhere. But what if he was doing that when another group of enemies rode by? He would be caught, and there would be no rescue this time.

Far in the distance the hills broke the horizon, and the narrow spire he knew must be the Tower, although he'd never been there. That at least was not hidden, and if he could walk so far he would find shelter. The Guardians still manned it; it was the only fortress left. The Commander was inside the Delving with Queen Mab, but Captain Arato held the Tower, with all the Guardians who yet remained alive.

It would be a long walk, but not impossible. Frodo Baggins walked from here to Mordor, he muttered to himself bracingly.He was hungry, but he was always hungry these days. He wouldn't starve and he wouldn't freeze, not if he kept on moving. All he had to do was stay out of sight, in case more enemies came along the road. He took a moment to belt his cloak secure around his waist; then he set out.

Near forty of the Guardians were at Tower Hills, the last survivors of the battle for the Shire. Canohando would not have them closer to Michel Delving, lest their presence give away the Hobbits' hiding place. Many of the wives and children had found their way there, as well, so the place was packed to bursting. There too, as at the Delving, food was in short supply.

The lookout at the top of the Tower squinted, shading his eyes. Something was moving out there to the west, coming down the hill...

The sun was in his eyes, striking him dazzled; the sky was a war of violent reds and purples. The hill had been denuded of trees at Arato's order, to give them a clear view, but whatever was coming blended all too well with the brown soil and dead grasses of last autumn.

"Get the Captain!" he said sharply over his shoulder. A Hobbit lad standing by the doorway turned and ran down the stairs, and the sentry raised a ram's horn to his lips and sounded the alarm.

But when all was said and done, the gates double-manned and archers ringing the parapet and crouched behind every arrow slit, one lone figure in a brown robe, his face and hands the same color as his garment, walked placidly up to the gate and knocked.

"I am seeking the Orc," he said, when they demanded his business. And Frodo Miner, peering down from the top of the archway, right in the thick of things as he had been from the day he arrived at the Tower, blurted out before anyone else could answer,

The stranger looked up, searching until he found Frodo's face. The Hobbit was lying athwart the stone parapet above the gate, his feet dangling a yard above the floor inside.

"Get down, you imp!" hissed the man nearest him, reaching to pull him out of sight. But the visitor lifted a hand, and the soldier hesitated.

Arato came out on the archway and lifted Frodo down. "I am Captain here, and I will ask the questions. It is a time of war, and we are careful of strangers. You seek the Orc, you say, but who are you?"

The brown man smiled, his teeth very white in his dark face. "How shall I answer that? I am a wanderer and an emissary, a lover of birds and Hobbits and all who desire peace."

"Hope is welcome here," he said at length. "Welcome, and all but despaired of - let him in!" he shouted to the gatekeepers. He clattered down the stone stairway with Frodo leaping behind him, two steps at a time.

Arato would have shut the Hobbit out of their conference, but the visitor caught him up in a great hug as soon as he came within reach, and Frodo was carried along into the Captain's very chamber. While Arato called for wine and lit the candles - for the sun had set, and the room was growing dim - Hope set the lad on his knee.

"It is long since I have seen one of your race, and you are a glad sight, my Hobbit. What is your name?"

But when Frodo told him, the brown man threw back his head and laughed for joy, and the sound of his laughter washed against the walls and seemed to drive the shadows back, into the farthest corners.

"No, is it indeed? Another Frodo! That is a good omen. But tell me, Frodo-lad, which Orc should I be seeking? There was one called Guardian of the Shire."

"One more. His name is Logi, but I don't know where he is." Frodo looked down at his bare feet and wiggled his toes.

"Logi is renegade." Arato handed a goblet of wine to the visitor. "I do not think Hope would come looking for him."

The brown man regarded him thoughtfully. "To your good health, my friends, and better days to come." He drank his wine in two long gulps. "I have been a long journey; I was thirsty," he said apologetically. "So Canohando is at Michel Delving? Tomorrow I must go to him, but for now, Captain, do you tell me what has been going on."

The brown man remained less than a night at the Tower. He listened intently as Arato told him of the barbarians, how they had overwhelmed the Shire's defenses and driven Hobbits and Guardians alike into hiding.

"They have not come here yet; perhaps they don't realize the Tower is still manned. If they attack us, we will fall."

Hope ate the coarse, dark bread which was all their ration now, and drank the glass of wine Arato gave him. It was the last precious bottle the Tower had in store, kept for medicinal use, but something about the visitor impelled Arato to offer the best he had. He drank water himself, and breathed a covert sigh of relief when Hope declined a second glass.

Frodo was sitting on the windowsill, so quiet they'd forgotten he was there. "How will you get into the Delving?" he asked. "I could not find the gate, and I've been there dozens of times before."

Arato smiled thinly. "We used every trick we could think of concealing the gate, but I own I was surprised that a Hobbit could not find it! I'll send a guide with you. We've had no commerce back and forth, lest we give away the hiding place, and I would be relieved to hear how they are managing and how my father is healing from his wound."

When it was dark, therefore, two horses left the Tower. Their riders were muffled in black, and one appeared oddly bulky, if anyone had been watching: young Frodo was tucked inside Hope's mantle, riding before him clinging to the mane. He had not wanted to go, but Arato gave him no choice.

"You're safer in the Delving, but I had no way of sending you before. Give my respects to Hodfast and tell him to go easy on you; you've been a cheerful guest, and we shall miss you." He eyed him sternly. "And stay inside in future!"

They reached the hill by sun-up. Their guide led them to a tangle of thorny briers and reached a long arm inside - a moment later the whole mass was lifted five feet from the ground. It had been resting on a hidden platform that could be raised by pulling on a rope. The gate was set behind, halfway down a narrow, twisting tunnel; small wonder that Frodo had not been able to find it!

They whisked him off at once to face the Mayor, and after that his mother. But when Hope asked to visit the Commander, Hodfast came himself to look him over, welcoming him indeed, as courtesy demanded, but slow to grant his request.

"The Commander was gravely hurt at Tuckborough; he does not receive visitors. I will send a message to Lady Mab; it is for her to say."

Hope allowed himself to be escorted into a well-appointed sitting room and folded himself into one of the low chairs. "Of your goodness, then, let word be taken to her at once. If he is ill, all the more reason I should see him. I am a healer."

Hodfast brightened at that and hastened away. In next to no time he returned to hustle the visitor along narrow corridors into the depths of the hill. He stopped at last before a door that plainly had been built for Men rather than Hobbits.

It opened and there stood Malawen. She looked anxious and careworn, her eyes unnaturally large in her thin face, and for a moment she stared up at Hope without recognition – then she gasped and threw herself upon him.

"Radagast! Lady of Pity be thanked! Did she send you to us from beyond the Sea?"

He caught her like a child, letting her cling to him, smoothing her hair, more silver now than golden. But she recovered quickly, and led him by the hand to a wide bed in the middle of the room.

"Melethron, see what good fortune sends us!" She perched on the edge of the bed, drawing Radagast down beside her. "My love, open your eyes; here is hope at last."

There was movement under the covers, and the figure in the bed rolled over; a hand reached out blindly for her, but it was Radagast who clasped it, and the closed eyes opened suddenly. Canohando gripped tight to the Wizard's hand and struggled to sit up.

"Wait, let me help you! There, lass, put a pillow behind his back – so – all right. Commander, what are you doing here in bed? The battle is not yet over."

The Orc's voice was hoarse with disuse. Malawen made a faint moan of protest, pressing close to him, and he put his free arm around her.

Radagast said gently, "The wheel of Time is coming round again, and another Age is ending. That is no fault of yours. Your Guardianship long out-lasted Elessar's Kingdom, yet all things have their end. Now we must take counsel, you and I, how the Hobbits may be preserved."

Canohando shook his head slowly against his pillow. "Inside here they are safe, until they starve. But food is running out and they are not moles, to live forever underneath the ground. And we have lost too many of them..."

"And many of your own. Arato told me the little force at Tower Hills is all that remains, of thousands of your men."

"Fallen, all fallen," Canohando murmured. "Dead or – " He clamped his teeth and for an instant shut his eyes, as though he steeled himself. "If that were not enough – " He tossed the blankets to one side and Radagast drew his breath between his teeth: the Orc's left leg had been amputated at the knee.

"I do not fight as well from horseback, but I no longer have a choice. If you have wisdom for me, Brown One, how to save my Hobbits, I am all ears. I do not have men enough to guard them, in the Shire or any other place. The tribes are on the move: not this horde only, but the outlanders we were fighting twenty years ago, and more will come next year or the year after. And they cannot protect themselves; they are too small! Nor I would not wish to see them turning warlike – it would be against their nature."

Hodfast had ordered a chair brought in, of suitable size for the visitor, heavy wood ornately carved, fat cushions stuffed with goosedown. Radagast leaned back, wriggling his shoulders until they dug comfortably into the feathers, and began filling his pipe.

"Did the Great Ones let you smoke in Valinor?" Malawen sounded amused, and Canohando thought suddenly how long it had been since he heard her laugh. They had been so deep in gloom, the two of them, they had as well been living at the bottom of a well.

"No," the Wizard answered. "For that alone I am glad to be back, if for no other reason.

"And no, my friend, the Hobbits cannot defend themselves against these warriors, nor should they try to. But I fear the time is past when they have the luxury of a country all their own. Indeed, they would have lost it long ago, if you had not shielded them round about. The earth is filling up, and what land is still wild and empty will not be so much longer."

"What then? Must they be slaves to brutal masters? I will fall on my sword, old man, I swear it, before I see that day!"

The Wizard blew a smoke ring at him. "Not so hasty, as my friend Fangorn used to say. Do rabbits live in slavery? Do the squirrels? Sometimes I grant you they live afar from Men, but not always. When the land is settled they do not disappear, they only grow more furtive; they take their share from the garden and the barn, they shelter in attic and shed. What the wild things do, the Small Folk can do also."

"Here in the Shire? Beggars and thieves in the land that was their own?" It was hardly better than slavery after all, thought Canohando. He wondered what the Ring-bearer would have said to it, and decided he didn't want to know.

"No, not in the Shire. These newcomers are too fierce; even the rabbits may have short lives here for a while. In longer-settled lands, where harvests are plenty and folk more easy-going – the Hobbits have their puckish side, you know! I can see young Frodo helping himself to a jug of milk in the cow-byre at midnight, a basket of apples when the Men have gone home to dinner! Yes, and he'd pay his way – he'd pick off the cabbage worms when he raided the garden, and plug up holes in the henhouse where the weasel could get in. Any farmer with a family of Hobbits sharing in his harvest might well be grateful to them, did he know that they were there."

"Humph. How do we get them to this fruitful country? We have about six hundred here at Delving – I hope others have survived in hidden places elsewhere. Some horses at the Tower, perhaps a score of ponies, not more than fifty Guardian warriors, if that many. Will you call down the Eagles and carry them away?"

Radagast chuckled. "If any of the great Eagles remain in Middle Earth – it's an idea. But there never were enough to carry such a multitude. No, we will have to use our wits, and we will call in Hodfast to our council, and such of his people as he recommends. The Hobbits are no fools, and it is their future we are deciding, after all. But first I want to see you on your feet! Did they not make you a wooden leg to replace the one you lost?"

"They made it; he will not use it," said Malawen, and Radagast looked under his brows at Canohando. The Orc grimaced.

"Very well, I will try! But it rubs me raw, Brown One; can you do aught for that? I will wear it, if you can find a way to save my Hobbits."

Logi led Freiga back and forth across the Shire, from the Green Hills to the River, from Quarry nearly to Bindbole Wood. He was relentless in his search, and impatient with her when she sank exhausted to the ground at each day's end. But they found no Hobbits, and from Bindbole they turned back cautiously when they found signs that the Tribe was in the area. The season was growing late, and the barbarians seemed to have taken the forest for their winter quarters.

At the end of November there came a heavy snow, and Logi took refuge in the Brockenborings. Here at last they encountered Hobbits, by accident, one might have said. The Little Folk were deep within the delvings, and Logi's repeated halloos brought no response. But Freiga lost her way one morning, following the sound of water and hoping to find a spring inside the caverns, to save her going out into the cold. There were so many interlacing tunnels, she grew confused and blundered from one blind turning to another until she was utterly lost and frightened, whimpering softly and rubbing her swollen belly as she walked, as if it were the babe who wanted comforting.

She called for Logi, but he had gone out seeking food; though he could no longer handle a bow, he contrived to set snares using his one hand and his teeth. Freiga was alone, and at last she curled up in despair against the stony wall, watching her torch burn down and wondering how long it would take to starve to death. Small chance that Logi would trouble to search for her, when he returned and found her gone.

And then a quiet voice said, "This way, mistress," and she looked up in amazement at a little woman no taller than her waist, beckoning from down the tunnel. The Hobbit led her back through the labyrinth, to the chamber where she'd begun, where their blankets were piled around their makeshift firepit.

"You've known all along that we were here!” Freiga exclaimed. "Why didn't you answer Logi when he called? He is no enemy to you; he’s one of the Guardians!"

"Can anyone be certain who the enemy is, when all the world’s gone mad?" The Hobbit's hair was white, her face like a withered apple. "From my grandmother’s days – aye, and before that, even! – the Commander's protected the Shire, but now he's turned against us. My sister’s son saw him at Stock village, killing his own children – oh, these are terrible days, mistress! I very nearly didn't stop to help you, till I saw you're big with child." She sighed, and then she smiled. "One mother looks out for another, dearie, even if one's tall as a May-pole."

She would not stay, once Freiga was safe in her own place again. Indeed, the whole time she never came within arm's reach, plainly not trusting a Big Person even when she gave assistance.

"Stay out here near the entrance after this. I wouldn't want you to come to any harm, so near your time you are, and not everyone would take the risk to help you."

"Logi wants to help the Hobbits - he's been searching everywhere for you -" Freiga began, but the old woman shook her head till her snowy braids swung back and forth.

"You tell him not to, then! We'll keep ourselves to ourselves now, mistress, thank you all the same. If we can't even trust the Commander, we're safer on our own."

Freiga was baffled by the woman's reference to Canohando, but Logi understood when she told him. He swore and banged his fist against the wall; then he went back through all the tunnels he had already searched, shouting himself hoarse.

"It was not the Commander at Stock! It was me, his grandson, the traitor – not Canohando, never Canohando! I know you see me – shoot me if you will, it's what I deserve, but don't blame the Commander."

There was no answer. At length he came back to the fire and threw himself down in silence. He had trapped a hare outside, but he would not eat.

Freiga expected that they would travel on at once, when the Hobbits spurned his help, but for the first time Logi seemed to notice how awkward she had grown. She had repeated the little woman's remark about mothers looking out for one another, and she thought perhaps it shamed him. In any event, he made no move to leave the caverns, and from that day forward he went himself to fetch their water, gruffly commanding her to rest.

The babe, when he arrived a month and a half later, was unlike either of his parents. His face was like a rosebud, all crumpled petals waiting to unfold, but his skin was Elven-fair, and his fuzz of hair, when they carried him to the mouth of the cave where there was light, was blonde as the winter sun. The child was two or three days old by then; it was the first time Logi had looked closely at him.

"Haldar..." he whispered. He reached for his son, and Freiga tucked the babe in the crook of his arm, folding his fingers around the little thigh, to hold the child secure. Logi bent over him till their faces nearly touched, and suddenly a strangled cry burst from his throat.

Freiga caught fearfully at her baby to snatch it away, but Logi was weeping, choking on his sobs, and holding Haldar so tight he frightened the child, till he added his baby squalls to his father’s grieving.

From that day on, Logi would hardly be separated from his son. He made Freiga fashion a pouch for him to wear against his chest, to carry Haldar in, and he curled protectively around the child as he slept. He let the little hands curl round his fingers, and Freiga found to her amazement that he could sing, when he began chanting Elvish lullabies under his breath to soothe the baby’s cranky times. She could hardly get the child away from him long enough to feed.

Meanwhile the snow melted and the days grew long, and at last they departed from Brockenborings. It was still cold, and Freiga bundled Haldar in a blanket of rabbit fur. She wanted to push farther north, to avoid the Tribe, but Logi was bound to go to Delving, in case any Hobbits were still there.

It was strange that until now they had never argued. Logi had taken her in passion and turned from her in loathing; she was the cause of his treachery and his revulsion was as violent as his love had been. And she on her part had given him a few sharp retorts, but she had never fought him. She fought him now, furious as a wolf defending her whelp.

"We will not go within a day’s journey of that place, are you listening? The Hobbits want no help from you. Do you hear them calling for your aid? If any Guardians have survived, you say they'll be at Delving – and all the more reason for us to stay away! You keep Haldar strapped across your chest – do you want an arrow in his back?"

"What if no Guardians are left and the Hobbits are abandoned? Freiga, I made a vow! I must save them if I can."

"And how will you do that? A one-armed man against the entire Tribe? You were a great warrior, Logi, but not so great as that!"

"You need not come," he growled, but she ran to plant herself in front of him, holding out her arms.

"Give me my baby! If you are bound to be slain, we'll have to manage without you."

He glowered, his arm tightening on the bundle at his heart as if he feared she would tear Haldar by force away from him, and her tone softened. "The Hobbits do not want you, Logi, but we do. Think how Haldar quiets when you sing, however hard he's crying. I will not let you take him into danger, but we need you, he and I."

"Is there no place but Delving, where Hobbits may be hiding? That was a stronghold, you say, but what of smaller places?"

He walked in silence, thinking. They were nearing the split in the road where they would have to decide, north and out of the Shire, or south to Delving.

"The Tribe was east of the Wood – I wonder how far west they got before the winter stopped them. We might go round the northern edge of Bindbole… If we found someplace secure like Brockenborings, I could leave you and Haldar while I went to check on Delving; it would be due south, two or three days is all."

To that she agreed reluctantly. They turned onto the northern road, and not four days later they found the Hobbits at last, or were found by them.

They could see the Hills of Evendim piling up against the sky, seeming no more than a day's journey away,though in truth it was many miles. It was dusk, and Freiga had fed Haldar and wrapped him up warm and dry while Logi buried the coals of their little campfire. They were just lying down to sleep when a voice spoke from the shadows.

"Here's a riddle worthy of Mad Baggins himself, who posed riddles to dragons! What would he make of the Commander's son, alone in time of war with none but an infant and an enemy woman? Where have you lost the Guardians, Captain, or did they lose you?"

Freiga gasped and tried to rise, but Logi pulled her back beside him on the ground. "You know me, then, somewhat. Come out where I can see you – you need not be afraid."

"All in good time. First tell me what you do here. You are far from the Brandywinewhere I used to see you – you and the golden lad. Where is he, the one they called the Elf?"

"Dead." The word fell heavy, making a space of silence in its wake. "I am seeking Hobbits, if any are left alive, to save them if I can."

"Hmph. Will you fight off the invaders with one hand? It seems they've had the best of you already." Logi stiffened, but the tone was gentler than the words. "You Guardians are a doughty breed, I'll give you that. Where does the woman fit into this picture?"

"I'm his wife," Freiga broke in before Logi could answer. "Are you a Hobbit? A Hobbit rescued me when I got lost in the caverns."

"Did he now. He must have been a brave fellow. Where was your goodman, that you needed rescue?"

"I was hunting." Logi sat up, shifting Haldar to lie along his arm. "Are there Hobbits still in these parts, or are you no more than a ghost of mockery? I am a Guardian, sworn to protect. Show yourself, if you are flesh and bone."

There was a dry chuckle from the darkness. "Oh, that's the Commander's son – well I remember, quick to lose your temper." He heaved a gusty sigh. “So you survived, one-armed, and found yourself wife and child. You're luckier than many. I've seen none of your comrades since last summer, when we fled the Marish. Aye, and fled again, over and over, till we came here, as near outside the Shire as we can get. What's the word from the southland, Captain? Shall we ever go home again?"

Haldar woke suddenly and wailed. Logi bounced him gently, murmuring comfort, and after a moment the Hobbit came to stand beside him.

"You're none so bad a father; better than I’d have thought. How did you come to wed a barbarian?"

Logi made no answer. When the baby quieted, he asked, "How many of you are left? Has the enemy come this far?"

"Not yet. We've talked of planting gardens and digging smials, but I doubt we'll be left in peace. Some of us think better to go into the Hills. It's wilder country there, easy to hide in, if they follow us."

"They won't go into the mountains if they can help it," said Freiga. "They want the settled land, now they're strong enough to defend themselves."

The Hobbit snorted. "Is that the way of it? I'd as soon not see the enemies that can make such Men afraid; like Trolls, I suppose, in stories told to children. Are any more of the Guardians still alive?"

The Hobbit looked from one to the other. "The Commander doesn't think much of your marriage? I don't suppose he would. That's why you're all alone, I take it."

"Let us stay with you," Freiga begged. "Logi can still use his sword, and I can help you. I know my people, I know how you can hide –" She clung to Logi's arm, where he cradled the babe. "You swore to protect the Hobbits, and here they are! You don’t have to go to Delving – there are those right here who need you."

Their visitor cleared his throat. "We would be glad of your protection, Captain. You need not go to Delving."

"Up past Mithlond is nearly uninhabited. There's land for farming, and the mountains are thickly forested. Your men can hunt, can't they? There should be game enough to keep them until they can grow crops."

They were gathered round Canohando's bed, for he wearied if he was up for more than a few hours, and it was no short matter to devise a plan for the Hobbits' future. Hodfast had brought in two of his advisers to their council, and Arato had been sent for from the Tower. Seven of them then, with Malawen, racked their brains to find a way out of the trap that Delving had become.

"My sons are warriors, not gardeners, old man. They hunt, for sport and meat, but most of them would not know a rake from a hoe."

Hodfast grinned. "You wouldn't know yourself, Commander, if I hadn't shown you."

"The Hobbits can till the soil while the Guardians hunt," said Malawen, but Radagast shook his head.

"That will do to start with, but not for long. The land that's empty now will not remain so; the hour is too late to plant another Shire. The Small Folk must learn to be elusive. Invisibility is their best safeguard with any but their sworn friends."

"We will show the Guardians how to farm, and caution will teach Hobbits to be secret." That was Hodfast's cousin, Sweetapple, famous for the orchard he used to have, away in the South Farthing.

"You may have a score of years before a new wave of settlers comes to share the land," said Radagast. "Make your homes underground within the forest, and let the Guardians keep your secret from strangers. I hope when newcomers arrive they will be more peaceable than these wolves who have over-run the Shire."

"That's well and good, but how do we convey the Hobbits to this empty land?" Arato spoke sharper than he'd intended; he tried to soften the effect by explaining. "We have more women and children in the Tower than warriors. Six hundred Hobbits here – "

"There's settled country to the South," said Hodfast. "Big People, but Hobbits might be able to slip in round the edges, as they say. I'd sooner see us scatter out, not cluster all together, however safe it seems."

Radagast nodded. "That's wisdom, Mayor. Find me a couple of dozen who want to try it; I'll go with them and see what we can do. But quickly, mind! We have no time to spare."

Sweetapple spoke diffidently. "Let me take a group to that empty land you spoke of. We can start digging smials, and planting soon as the frost has left the ground. It'll get things started and be fewer mouths to feed in Delving."

Canohando struggled to sit up against the headboard, massaging the stump of his leg. He had put the wooden one aside when he lay down, for it still chafed him in spite of Radagast's ointment. "You've put your finger on the problem, lad. How do we keep those here from starving until we can get them all away?"

"Did you starve with me in Mordor?" Radagast reached inside his sleeve and brought forth a folded square of coarsely-woven fabric. Before their eyes he shook it out – for an instant it hung limp in his hands, an empty sack that nearly reached the floor; the next moment it was bulging with all manner of lumps and protuberances. He reached in and drew out a loaf of bread as long as his arm.

"Would you like butter or cheese with that?" he said courteously to the Mayor. Without waiting for reply, he laid out a slab of cheese. "Wine?" he asked Arato. A skin of wine joined the cheese. "Can you find us some glasses?" he said aside to Sweetapple.

The Hobbits stared at him round-eyed, beginning to back away, but the Commander burst out in a laugh that shook the bed.

"How had I forgotten! Hope you bring indeed, old man, and the Valar rain down blessings on your head! No, my Hobbits, this is wholesome fare; don't be afraid to eat. Now we have time to do what must be done, with no fear of starvation." He took up the stick of bread, breaking off one end and biting into it, before he passed the rest to Malawen. "Eat, melethril, and show them that it's real. Now I can believe a better day will come."

There was no difficulty in finding Hobbits who would go with Sweetapple to break land in the new country, even though the Commander was careful to explain that their settlement would have to be hidden and temporary, the cleared fields given over to the Guardians when they arrived – and further, that Hobbits would have to teach the Men to farm. One old gaffer spoke for all the rest.

"Hidden suits me fine, after what I've seen this year. I don't think I'll ever feel safe again in a house that's open for everyone to see! I'll show your folk the ins and outs of farming, but as for me – I'd sooner gather acorns in the forest, secret-like."

In less than a week Sweetapple had chosen twenty Hobbits to make his expedition. Some of the wives insisted on going along, and several of the children – "None younger than twenty-three," he told them sternly. "This is not a picnic!" Radagast filled their packs with foodstuffs from his sack, and they carried a minimum of garden tools. Hodfast had offered a couple of pack ponies, but the Commander vetoed that.

"You must be ready to melt into the bushes at the least alarm – baggage would slow you down, and ponies are hard to hide. Arato, you'd best send someone with them to scout the way."

"Begging your pardon, but we'll find our own way." Sweetapple seemed to have grown in dignity, for all he stood no taller than Arato's belt buckle. "Hobbits settled the Shire without nobody's help, and I'm thinking it's time we learned to stand on our own again. You've given all you had protecting us, Commander, even to your leg, and don't think we're not grateful, for we are. But there's not many Guardians left, and your folk had better start looking to your own interest and let us look to ours. We'll find the way all right, and be there waiting for you."

Sweetapple's expedition was followed by another only a week later – with an accompanying Guardian family, a widow and her children, not as protectors, but fellow settlers. And Radagast took a dozen Hobbits south, to where he had found a natural cave no more than a mile from a village of Men.

"It will do for shelter, while the Hobbits get to know the country," he told Canohando. "There's a fair amount of woodland between the villages – I want to bring someone there who has experience making these underground houses the Small Folk like so well. Once the corn is up, I think we could dig a few of those, quiet and unobserved."

"Ask Hodfast; he'll find someone for you." Canohando was limping back and forth across his chamber, supporting himself on crutches finely carved and tipped with brass; with every step they rang slightly against the stone floor. "Arato wants to get our folk out of the Tower. He's afraid the barbarians will have an eye on it this summer."

"Arato is probably right. Get them out of there – how's the leg?" Radagast motioned the Orc to sit. "You walk as if it hurts."

"It doesn't heal. I have been too long idle – I have no wish to be the last one left when everyone else departs."

The wizard’s eyebrows drew together. "You know we won't abandon you. Since when does the Commander ask for pity?"

Canohando slammed a crutch against the floor, and the brass tip slid so that it shot out of his hand across the room, slamming against the wall.

"Not pity, counsel! My task is at an end; the Hobbits will need no Guardians following them about, and certainly not on horseback! I don't see myself farming, old man, even if I had two good legs – as it is, I can't walk from here to the main gate without this wound opening up again. Must I sit useless in the chimney corner? I've heard you call death the Gift of the One to Men, and now I understand."

Radagast had unwrapped the bandage and sat examining Canohando's leg. The wound had broken open as he said, oozing a pinkish fluid. The wizard shook his head, sucking on his teeth.

"The skin is too fragile; it cannot take your weight when you walk on it," he said, and Canohando sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"She's with the healers, telling them all she knows. The Hobbits will be scattered; they must carry each one of them the lore of the whole people. They're writing it all down."

"In a moment I'll go and find her – all the better if she has the others with her. I hope one of them knows some way of toughening this skin. There must be something. But as to your other question –" He met Canohando's eyes, so shadowed with pain and weariness. Then something caught his attention and he pulled aside the Orc's tunic to expose his throat.

"You wear the carving that you gave to Frodo? That would make him glad, I think. So Malawen has the Jewel? I had not noticed."

Canohando fingered the tooth as if it gave him strength. "No. I sent it to her, before the battle at Tuckborough... it never reached her. The messenger was lost, the Jewel, the Shire – it has been a year of losses, old man, and each one more grievous than the last."

Radagast let his hands drop to the Orc's shoulders, kneading them with strong, supple fingers. "That is a loss indeed, yet perhaps it is for the best."

Canohando reared back, glaring, but the wizard continued as if he did not notice. "It may be found, in time. The Jewel was fashioned for these lands of sorrow, and surely there will be someone else who needs it. But you were offered passage, long ago, to the Undying Lands. Perhaps it is time to go."

There was a stillness like a long-drawn breath. When the Orc spoke at last, his voice was rough.

"The vessel that brought me here could carry you. It will hold you and Malawen, and the boatman."

"I shall remain. I thought I might, but I had the boatman wait till I was certain." The wizard dug in his pocket and extracted his pipe and pouch. "I have had a long sabbatical; I am ready to work again, and I would like to do my share for Frodo's people. But you need healing, and Malawen is ill."

Radagast had been appalled at the change in her. Her mate was out of danger now, but still her face was pinched, and the once-glorious hair hung lank against her cheeks. Elves did not age, but Malawen looked old. Even as he said it, Radagast wondered if he should have spoken. the Orc had been suffering his own torment; he might not have noticed anything amiss.

But Canohando nodded wearily. "Since Haldar died – you've heard the story? She took his death to heart; she has not recovered."

"Then you must leave, if only for her sake. The Halls of Mandos are for such as he, the Elven-kind who fall. Across the Sea is consolation for her."

Canohando caught the wizard's arm in a grip like iron; his wound and long idleness had not robbed his hand of strength. "If you can give us passage, I do not think she will refuse this time. Only let me get them all to safety, the Hobbits and my children."

And in the end it was surprising how quickly it was accomplished. Men from the Tower and Hobbits from the Delving slipped away in bands of a score or so, making their way quietly north, out of the Shire. Radagast returned to the southern villages with a group of master tunnelers, and took with him – to the open relief of his harried mother – young Frodo Miner.

He had come upon Frodo and another lad one day, locked in furious battle on the floor of the second dining hall.

"Here now, there's trouble enough without, we don't need you waging a private war inside!" The wizard plucked them apart, holding them at arms' length to prevent resumption of hostilities. "What's this all about?"

"He jumped on me! All I said was, we'd better keep watch out for that Logi, in case he catches us when we go outside – "

"You said more than that! You said – " But whatever the other lad had said, Frodo was not prepared to repeat it to a grown-up, still less to the mysterious stranger who had turned hunger and despair to hope. His voice trailed off.

"I said no more than everybody knows! He's a murdering traitor, and he'd burn up Hobbits soon as look at them –"

"Go!" he said sharply, waving the other boy away and waiting until he was out of sight.

"Now Frodo-my-lad, it's time we had some words. I want to hear all you can tell me about Logi."

But when the youngster had finished, the wizard was very thoughtful. He had heard the gossip already, of course, but Frodo's account cast the traitor in a different light entirely. When he asked Canohando what he made of Frodo's story, the Orc's face turned hard.

"Don't ask me, old man. I raised him, and when he asked me for judgment I gave it to him. Most likely he is dead."

"No, but I doubt he is alive, and better so." Harsh words, but Radagast saw the Commander’s eyes before he turned away, grief almost beyond bearing.

He asked no more, but he took young Frodo with him when he left, to keep him out of trouble, so he said. But it was in his mind as well that he did not know Logi, and Frodo did. If he happened on the renegade, the Hobbit was his introduction. For Radagast was unwilling to abandon any creature, however evil other folk might name him, and he had Frodo's testimony that Logi had dealt mercifully with him.

The barbarians came to the Tower at the end of May, but the Guardians were gone. They burned it anyway and those who remained in the Delving crept out to watch the flames on the horizon – the outer walls were stone, of course, but all the wooden-work inside made a mighty blaze. And still Michel Delving continued undiscovered, and the exodus from the Shire went on.

They encountered Logi many miles north of the border, but it was Frodo Miner who spied the Orc under a tree at twilight. Radagast thought Logi would have let them pass by unaware, but Frodo ran to him as to a long-absent friend.

Logi endured the lad's embrace stoically. "Still alive, I see," he said, but he cast a dour look on the wizard when Frodo gave his name. "I've heard of you, old man.”

Radagast had traveled in glacier country once, an age ago, and the Orc's eyes brought to mind crevasses he had seen there, black and narrow, a plunge into the void, but –no, not unless ice can burn, he corrected himself. There was nothing cold about Logi; he seethed like molten iron.

Even bearing in mind that Logi had saved Frodo from death and torture, Radagast was taken aback at the lad's familiarity. Something about Logi made the hair prickle on the back of the wizard's neck –Canohando's grandson this might be, but still a murderer, and not of some stranger, of his bosom friend.

He did the one good deed when he rescued Frodo, but I would not depend on him for another one. Radagast shook himself mentally. What had come over him, to nurture such a jaded view of anyone?

And Frodo plainly had no such qualms. He repeated to Logi the gossip he had heard, bristling with indignation at the villains who spread such lies. Logi's face was blank until he caught the wizard's eye, and in a flash Radagast divined his thought, You know the truth of this, old man.

On that recognition they became allies of a sort. Logi brought them to the Hobbits he'd adopted, and Frodo discovered second and third cousins among them, rejoicing to find them live and whole. While the Shirefolk visited, the Orc led Radagast apart, ducking into a rough hut faced with bark.

"My son," he said, taking the baby out of Freiga's arms without greeting or apology. He held the child so Radagast could see – no Orc-look to this little one; the child was golden-fair.

Logi made no answer, but sat down cross-legged on the dirt floor, babbling baby-talk and playing with his son. For a moment Radagast watched, noting how the Orc's bitter expression softened as the child laughed and pulled his hair; finally he turned to make himself known to the sad-faced woman.

He remained only one night with them, for time was pressing to bring the Hobbits out of the Shire. He had his hands full dragging Frodo away – the lad was determined to remain with his hero, but Logi put him off, and Radagast thought he understood. Frodo would believe no evil of his rescuer, and Logi would not force the truth on him, but nor would he deny it.

It was Freiga who lingered longest in the wizard's mind, and he could not think how to comfort her, neither then nor later. Her eyes followed her husband whenever he was near, but Logi avoided her gaze and rarely spoke to her. Yet now and then he touched her fleetingly, as if he could not help it, as if his tenderness for her refused to die, however he tried to kill it.

Radagast brought Frodo back again to the southern lands, thinking he would do well in the scattered villages, making himself at home in the Big People's barns and stables, all without their knowledge. The lad was adept at hiding and considered it good sport; in later years he became a leader among the Hobbits there.

By autumn there was no one left in Delving but Hodfast and his family, the Commander and Queen Mab. Radagast sat late with them one evening, recounting where he had settled this group or that of the refugees, but mum concerning Logi.

At length he turned to Canohando. "I have a horse for you. The boatman is growing restive and wishes to be gone – it is time for you to sail."

They left Delving three mornings after, the Mayor and his party traveling with them as far as the new settlements in the north.

"I'll return to you this winter," Radagast promised in parting, and the Hobbit nodded, working the wizard's hand like a pump handle.

"Aye, so you will, and we'll have a warm welcome for you! You'll eat from our larder then, and be cozy at our fireside – small recompense enough for all you've done."

The next day they went on, the wizard leading Canohando and Malawen on a single horse. Malawen rode behind, clinging to the Orc, and Radagast was uncertain whether it was to keep her own balance or to hold her mate steady in the saddle. After a while they passed beneath the shade of a woodland so ancient, it seemed a relic of another age, and the thin beams of sunlight that filtered through were like messengers of faerie, whispering of glories long departed, of battles lost and won. They'd been talking quietly, more cheerful than any time since the day last summer when Haldar had come riding – but the forest silenced them.

Radagast had urged – nay, he had all but begged Logi to meet them at the place of embarkation, but the Orc would not.

"What should I say to him, old man? Let him think me dead; that will please him best."

The trees grew nearly to the water's edge, where the land dropped down onto a stony beach, but they smelled salt on the air for a long while before, and heard the waves riding up the shore. At last they caught the glint of sun on water, and when they came out of the shadows they were all but blinded by the light. Malawen slid from the horse without assistance, but when Radagast reached to help the Orc, something caused the horse to shy and Canohando, already halfway down, fell sprawling to the ground.

There was a moment of confusion, Malawen and the wizard stumbling in each other's way to help him up. Then they froze like statues, all three of them, at a howl of protest practically in their midst.

A harsh denial, railing at the Fates –and Logi was standing at the forest verge, staring at the Commander's shortened leg, his crippling infirmity.

It seemed as if time slowed to take it in –Canohando half up, half down, hanging on his crutches – beside him Queen Mab pale with fury, glaring –and Logi with contorted face, crying out at heaven. Then Canohando straightened and reached for Malawen.

"Wait, Elfling." Involuntarily his eyes sought the missing arm, and his lips tightened. Logi was silent now and watchful, as waiting for a blow, his left arm holding something to his chest. "You came to say farewell? What have you got there?"

Logi tugged awkwardly at the shawl tied over his shoulder, until they could see the child he carried, awake and gazing around him with wide eyes. Malawen sucked in her breath and backed away, but Canohando beckoned.

He helped unwind the shawl and blanket; he leaned heavily on his crutches and stroked the baby cheek. Haldar gazed in wonder at the grey countenance bent above him, so like his father and yet not the same; at last he gave a fruity chuckle and grabbed the Commander's nose.

Canohando laughed in spite of himself. This child, this child– "Melethril, come and see!"

Malawen took a step toward him, but then she caught Logi's eye and jerked away, turning her back to stare out over the water, one trembling hand above her eyes to shade them. "Look, is that the boat?"

They came to stand beside her, Logi at Adah's heels as he used to be, when he was just a lad. The boat sat like a ring on the glimmering Sea, bobbing with the swell.

It was small and round, a pearly membrane stretched on a sapling frame. Within it stood an Elf, a long oar thrust in the water, as if without his holding it the coracle must bound away, eager to be free. Slowly he poled in closer, till he bumped against the shore.

Canohando swayed on his crutches, and Logi caught his elbow. The Commander glanced wryly at him. "The Orcs have come off badly in this war. What will you do now, Logi?”

Canohando's eyes sharpened on him, measuring. "Keep it, then, and the Powers keep you faithful." He flung an arm round Logi's neck and for an instant pulled him close, then he touched the baby cheek once more and turned away.

Clumsily he clambered into the coracle, Radagast helping him. Lightly Malawen stepped in and settled between his knees, her head against his chest, his arms around her.

Logi bundled Haldar in his blanket and tightened the shawl that bound his son to him. He felt the boatman watching him, but the Elf was veiled in light; looking at him was like staring at the sun, and Logi blinked and dropped his eyes.

Radagast bent over to embrace the pair in the boat, the hem of his garment trailing in the water. "You have paid your debt to the Ring-bearer, and somewhere, I doubt not, he knows of it and thanks you. Henceforward the Hobbits are under my protection."

"While the earth endures, the Little Folk remain, though no one knows but the wildings of the forest. This I have been promised."

He stepped back, and the Elf gave his oar a push that set the coracle spinning away from shore.

Logi squinted, keeping Adah in sight as long as possible. The Elven boatman shifted his weight, steadying his frail vessel without missing a stroke of his oar, and of a sudden Logi's eyes were opened.

He shouted; he ran at the Sea to throw himself after them, heedless of anything but his need to reach the boat. From boyhood he had envied that artless grace, that harmony of motion, it could be no one else –

The sea floor dropped away and the Orc went under; he could not swim one-armed. He came up sputtering, and Haldar wailed at the shock of cold and wet. Then the Brown One was beside him in the water, keeping him afloat, and the coracle danced away across the waves, beyond all hope of catching it. But the shining boatman raised a hand and brought it to his mouth; he flung his arm out wide toward shore, as if he blew a kiss.

The Hobbit settlements took root, their dwellings delved 'neath rocks and spreading tree roots, hidden from any eyes except their own. They learned to sleep by day, and twilight was their morning. By night they were abroad in field and garden, in barn and dairy and the farmhouse kitchen, skimming the cream and taking their little share, but leaving all in order, better than they found it.

So legend grew around them – for they could not be utterly unseen; now and again some farmer caught a glimpse, who stayed awake to aid a difficult calving – and legend grew that luck bestrode the farm the Small Folk favored.

Kindly farmers, or those who craved good fortune, left offerings sometimes: a bowl of milk, a skein of homespun yarn. But not all Men are kindly. There were a few who tried to force their luck, to capture one of the nighttime visitors and make him give a blessing. And soon another legend grew, of the dreadful fate that fell on anyone who molested the Little People.

So the northland was transformed to pastures and fields and tidy villages, and the people were tall and sturdy, with fair hair. But the Hobbits, in their dwellings underground, still loved a pipe and a mug of beer, a bit of cozy gossip before they went to bed.

People said afterward that a coal popping out of the fireplace started the blaze. So men chided their wives, warning them to bank the coals well before they retired at night. The fire was remembered for a generation; it devoured house and barn, the enclosed passage that had connected them, and the family within.

The neighbors rushed to help, but the farmer had been a churlish fellow who built his house in the middle of his fields, a half-mile from the village. The flames were shooting out of the roof by the time they could get there and form a bucket chain from the well. They stopped the blaze before it spread to the standing corn; that was as much as they could do.

They found the farmwife later in the morning, wandering the pasture without a stitch of clothing, carrying her little daughter. They both were badly burned, and the mother died by nightfall. The child might easily have died as well; the old granny-woman who brought babies was the only healer, and she offered scant hope. There was no one of the family left to care.

The girl lay in the midwife's hut while the elders met to portion out her father's fields to his former neighbors. It was only sensible; the ground could not be left unplowed, to revert to wilderness – it was arduous labor clearing land for farming. Meanwhile the granny-woman smeared goose grease on the child and gave her beer to make her sleep. For two or three days she stayed close by, but in truth there was little she could do, and the girl's groaning wore on her nerves. At last she took a basket and went to pick mushrooms in the surrounding woods. By the time she returned at evening, she hoped it would be over.

When her basket was near full she saw one mushroom larger than all the rest beneath a bush, and crawled under to retrieve it. But when she had it safe and straightened up, rubbing her aching back, her mouth opened in a round O of surprise, and she dropped basket and all and stumbled backward, flailing her arms in the effort not to fall.

"Don't be afraid!" The voice was kind, and the apparition which had so startled her bent to gather up her scattered mushrooms. "You must have heard of me – I know what stories are told round the fire on winter evenings. I'll take my oath you never heard of the Old Man harming anyone."

She shook her head without speaking, accepting the basket he held out, and he smiled on her benignly.

"I've come to fetch the child. I heard you have one badly burned, who is none of yours."

She stared at him stupidly, and he added with a touch of impatience, "You don't want her, do you?"

Again she shook her head, and he said briskly, "That's good, because I do. I am a healer, you know. Perhaps I can save her."

An hour later he was striding away from the hut with the burnt girl in his arms, swaddled in a wet sheet. The child had swooned and lay against his chest. She scarcely seemed to breathe, and he wondered if he were too late. The message had come from Logi, who heard many things from the Small Folk. In general the Orc paid scant attention to the doings of Men, but he had a great tenderness for any creature injured by fire. The Old Man knew he could expect a visit from him in the near future, to find out what had become of this child.

He walked all night, neither fast nor slow, his long legs eating up the miles. He came at last to a windowless house so cleverly constructed, it seemed no more than a dark place in the forest, grown over by briers and approached by a twisting path more suited to a fox, one would have thought, than a man of reasonable height and more-than-slender build. He followed it sure-footed, placing each step exactly in a line with the one before, and at the portal he said softly, "Open."

The wooden door swung back, and he passed within. And inside was a miracle, for the place was full of light, filtered by the trees to cast a greenish radiance through a ceiling clear as crystal. The light wavered and danced as the foliage moved above, and the effect was rather like being at the bottom of the Sea.

The Old Man laid the girl on a narrow bed set like a cupboard in the wall. "Rest, little one. You're home." He crossed the room to a hearth of colored stones, and knelt to make a fire.

For many weeks he nursed the child, easing her pain with herbal draughts that cast her into sleep, and soothing her skin with lotions of his own making. Logi came and saw how she was cared for, sitting up a whole night to watch her as she slept, and rising at daybreak to refuse breakfast and depart, with only a curt, "Thanks" to Radagast.

For Radagast he was, the brown man who had so frightened the midwife – Bird-tamer of the Third Age, now Keeper of small things, the Little Folk among them. Old Man, they called him, not guessing his power or his great antiquity, and he was content with that.

Only Logi was aware of his true nature, and Logi rarely spoke. Like a ghost he drifted through the northland, and the small ones knew him for protector and fled to him, but he was bitter enemy to anyone who injured them. Among Men his name was evil, for more than once he had hunted to the death a man who'd done mischief to the Little People, and his vengeance was greatly feared.

When the girl was healed enough to get up and move about, Radagast let her stir his herbal brews, and kept her amused with songs and stories. She loved hearing about Elves and Dwarves, great kings of olden times, and everything he told her she believed implicitly. But most of all she wanted tales of Logi, for Radagast had not hidden from her that it was at the Orc's urging he had come to rescue her. The Grey Man, she called him, and regarded him as her savior.

"He does not love Mankind," Radagast warned her. "You he took pity on, because of the fire, but you will find him a grim benefactor. You must not look for softness in a rock."

"He spends himself for them; he made a vow, he told me. He is one of the immortals. Two that he loved are now beyond the Sea, and two are in the ground. He has no heart for more."

He told her about the Invasion, of Logi's treachery and Haldar's death. It explained the Grey Man's horror of fire, and was sufficient warning of his conflicted nature.

"They died. Oh, not at once! The lad grew beautiful and strong, and with his father he kept watch over the halflings – they would kill wolves or serpents that came near the dwellings of the Little People, and drive off any Men who threatened them. Only at first was there need for that, till the Hobbits learned to be invisible. It is a rare Man these days who catches one of the Small Folk! But Freiga died in birthing another child and the babe died with her, and Haldar the Younger was longer-lived than most, but not immortal."

The girl murmured distress. "But why did she die? Why couldn't you save her the same way you saved me?"

They were in one of the Old Man's small gardens, scattered here and there about the forest. Radagast sighed, bundling up the weeds he had been pulling and pushing himself to his feet. "I am healer, child, not wonder-worker. Freiga died of broken heart as much as anything. Logi could not forgive her, as he has never forgiven himself."

A double tragedy, he thought. As long as he knew them, the Orc was harshly disdainful toward his wife, thrusting aside her evident devotion. But his flesh betrayed him: he could not forbear to touch her, brushing against her as if by accident, running his hand down her hair when he thought no one was looking. When Haldar was a lanky boy of six, big enough to run after his father along the forest trails, Freiga began to swell with new life.

Logi gave no sign that he knew she was with child. But when the birth went wrong, when she had been a night and a day in labor without result, he appeared suddenly at the wizard's door in the middle of the night, wild-eyed and drenched with sweat from running. And quickly though Radagast hastened to bring aid, the Orc was there before him, Freiga cradled against him, kissing and stroking her tangled hair, begging her not to die, while Haldar hid under a blanket in the corner, trying not to hear. The wizard could never recall the pathetic scene without pain.

She knew before the end that her husband loved her. It was the only consolation to be found in the whole sad story. After her death, Logi went crazy for a time. He vanished into the wilds without a word, and Radagast was left to dig the grave and comfort the heartbroken orphan as best he could. For half a year the Orc did not return. Then one morning he was sitting by the hearth when they awoke, and Haldar ran to him and buried his face against his father's chest, locking his arms around him as if he would never let go.

Years later when Haldar died, Logi dug the grave himself. He buried his son in a grove of towering beeches, the silvery bark set off by golden leaves, for the year was passing away, as Haldar had. Then he built himself a hut in that same grove, and if he could be said to have a home, roaming endlessly through the northland as he did, his home was there.

Radagast sighed and turned back with relief into the sunny present. Logi was wounded in ways he could not cure, but this little one, this Silja –

She never tired of asking questions; indeed, she seldom tired at all. She was up before the sun and like a sunbeam she went everywhere, whether she had any business there or not. She pried into every nook and cranny, as she pried also into the affairs of those around her. She was a pest, she tried the wizard's patience as few creatures had ever done, and he blessed the day she came to him.

When she had been with him a year and was completely healed, he asked her one day if she wanted to go home. He thought she might; it was a lonely life for her, far from her people and with no other child for playmate. But the laughter left her face as if clouds had covered the sun, and she broke into noisy sobs.

"You told me when I came that I was home! I remember, and I remember you carrying me. This is my home."

He gathered her to him, patting her on the back, chiding himself for an old fool to be so glad of her answer. "All right, all right, my child. You remember true. This is your home, if that is your desire."

But she broke off and would not tell him what she meant to do when she grew up. He built another room onto the house, for her to have a chamber of her own, and began teaching her to read and write. And twice or thrice a year Logi arrived unheralded, to spend a day or two before the hearth, silent more often than not, unless he recounted some need among the Small Folk that required the Old Man's assistance.

Always Silja greeted her Grey Man with cries of welcome, trying to climb into his arms. Useless for Radagast to scold her, remind her of her manners, and once when Logi bared his teeth and roared in pretended fury, "Begone, or I will cook you for my dinner!" she giggled and kissed him on the hand.

At last he let her curl up on his lap, and even held her so she would not fall, when she finally fell asleep. But when she squirmed about, playing with his knife sheath and trying to plait his hair, he pinned her against his chest with his powerful left arm.

"Be still! You're like a flea, forever hopping. Watch out lest I squash you like one!" And he rubbed his thumb and finger together suggestively before her eyes. She chortled, but after that she settled down tamely in the circle of his arm.

Always during each visit he examined her burns. She was marked by the fire, and covered herself in long dresses and long sleeves, but the Grey Man would roll back her sleeves and make her lift her skirts while he looked at her arms and legs, turning her so the light fell on her scars. Her face was unmarred and he barely glanced at it, although she was a pretty thing.

"Can you not concoct some ointment to smooth her skin?" he demanded of the wizard, but Radagast shook his head.

"I have done all I can. They may lighten as she grows, but they will never go away entirely. She has you to thank that she is here at all, that you sent me word in time."

Logi grunted, but Silja settled her skirts and stood on tip-toe to look him in the eye. "I will pay you back. When I grow up I will marry you and make you happy."

"Then I will love you anyway, because you saved my life, and you were sorry that you killed your friend."

But at that the Orc's expression turned so black that the wizard took Silja hastily by the elbow and drew her out of reach.

When she woke next morning the Grey Man had departed, and Radagast tried to impress on her the discourtesy of what she'd said, leaving aside the danger of provoking such an uncertain temper as the Orc's. Dutifully she listened, but at the end she gave him a smile of utter confidence.

"All the same, I'm going to marry him, and if he is not happy he'll have only himself to blame."

When Logi came again a season later, he examined her burns as usual before he asked, "Well, little flea? Are you going to marry me?"

Spring followed winter, and summer turned to fall, and she learned her letters and read her way through the Old Man's store of books. She penned fair copies of his herbal remedies, which he gave to such healers as were willing to receive them, and she learned to make the brews herself under his critical eye.

In her fifteenth summer she composed a long poem about the Orc Commander and his Elven bride. When Logi came she read it to him, and he frowned and told her to go about her business – but before he left he asked to hear it again. Later she wrote another poem, about the burning of Haldar, but that one she kept hidden and showed to no one. When she was seventeen, Radagast began considering if he should arrange a match for her, but when he broached the matter, she was so adamantly opposed that he let it drop.

That was in winter, and when spring came she set herself to make a border of violets along the pathway to their door. She was on her knees in the woodland, digging up plants and wrapping them in moss, when someone came suddenly from behind and pulled her to her feet, a hand clamped over her mouth.

Instead of fighting she turned on her captor and caught him round the waist. "You cannot frighten me! I know your hand; I know the smell of your skin. Have you come to marry me?"

Logi made a sound deep in his throat, something between a chuckle and a growl. "Have you no better wisdom than to mate with wicked Logi? The Old Man himself watches over his shoulder when I am behind him."

Thus he maligned himself, yet he did not let go of her, and she leaned against him trusting, his heartbeat thumping in her ear.

"You are not wicked. You will never die and leave me, and I will make you happy."

His arm tightened on her, crushing her to his chest, and she gasped. Instantly he released her, his hand coming up slowly to stroke her cheek. His touch was light as breath, amazed and tender.

The Grey at the End of the World by jodancingtree