Chapter Six

"It’s no good, Mr. Boromir," Sam puffed. "We’ll never catch up with them this way. Poor Bill isn’t made for running, an’ neither are hobbits."

"And Dwarves are natural sprinters," Gimli put in, huffing equally as hard as the gardener. "Not … made for long-distance running." Gimli’s massive chest was heaving to the point of straining his chain-mail. No one had dared suggest to the dwarf that he remove his armor for running, and it certainly did not occur to Gimli.

As Merry had feared, Pippin had not made it far. Seeing the tweenager stumble again, Boromir had ordered a halt just long enough to settle Pippin atop the baggage, where the poor lad clutched Bill’s panniers for dear life. Merry was frightened by Pip’s pale face, but he himself could hardly keep the pace. He was simply exhausted, having already run leagues before their reduced Company set out in pursuit of Gandalf and Aragorn. His legs quivered and his lungs burned, and only sheer determination kept him on his feet.

Suddenly Bill lifted his sagging head and his soft, black nostrils distended. Before Sam could stop him, the pony neighed loudly. "Sam!" hissed Boromir, "silence him!" Sam was already pulling the pony’s head down and cradling Bill’s nose in the crook of his arm, but it was too late. An answering neigh came from ahead of them, then a whinny from the side. A third horse answered a moment later.

A sweat-streaked head peered at them doubtfully from behind a tree. Overcoming his initial surprise, Boromir whistled softly to it and the furry ears tipped forward. "Here, boy," the soldier cajoled softly in the age-old sing-song of horsemen, "what a pretty boy. Such a handsome boy – oh, girl. Excuse me, lady. Pretty lady, come here now. Bring your friends… that’s a good girl." Step by step, Boromir’s gentle coaxing voice drew the horses from the woods.

"No one move," he instructed the others. "Let them scent the pony."

"And this," Sam whispered. Moving only his arm, Sam held out a handful of lumpy white sugar. The first horse whickered eagerly, desire for the treat overcoming her fear. She moved forward and the other two followed, crowding around the hobbit. "All right, all right," Sam murmured to them, reaching up to pat foam-covered necks, "enough for everyone, there is. You too, Bill. Ah, poor things… They’ve been cruelly treated."

Pippin, perched precariously on top of Bill’s baggage, stared at them in wonder. "Where did they come from?"

Boromir rubbed the mare’s nose and pulled at her lower lip. The horse whickered and thrust her head into his hands. "Merry, do you recognize these animals?"

Merry shook his head. "I didn’t see their horses, Boromir. I did not know the hunters had them until Aragorn said so." Merry drew his small, sharp dagger and carefully cut the ropes that held the ill-cured pelts to the mare. The mare turned her head to watch but did not shy from him. The stinking pile of pelts slid to the ground and she stepped away from them, the skin on her withers shuddering in relief. "Poor lass," Merry cooed to her, "poor little lass." Boromir almost laughed at this – the size disparity between the hobbit and the large pack-horse was ludicrous. But as Merry reached up to gently stroke the foamed coat, the Gondorian recognized another horseman-born and remembered that horses care not about the size of the rider, only about a gentle, guiding voice and kind hands, and his urge to chuckle subsided.

Merry turned back to the others. "But who else could they belong to, out here in the Wild?" He and Sam cut the other two horses free – both geldings – murmuring to them softly. Then Sam caught up a handful of the stiff grasses, twisted them around his hand, and began to curry the nearest.

"They still wear their harnesses," Boromir murmured in wonder. He stroked one of the geldings and it inched nearer, eyes closing in bliss as the man scratched its forehead. Catching up the slashed reins, his face darkened as he realized the animals had been cast off to fend for themselves. "We will ride," Boromir decided. "We can fold our blankets and use the most pliable pelts as padding. The lack of saddles will be as uncomfortable for the poor beasts as for us, but we will be able to move much faster."

Gimli had been eyeing the horses apprehensively. "Dwarves do not ride," he rumbled. "I would slow you. I will stay with the pony." He paused, and with obvious reluctance continued, "It would be best if young Pippin stayed with me."

"I want to go!" Pippin yelped, teetering uncertainly on the bundles. "I feel much better now! Merry!"

Merry moved over to Bill and stared up at his cousin’s eyes. "Pip, please stay. Please. Gimli’s right." He rose high on his toes, pulling himself up on the straps, and Pippin leaned down to hear. "We can’t leave Gimli alone with these horses, Pip – his people don’t know anything about horses."Pippin darted a look a look at Gimli just in time to see the dwarf step back when one of the geldings stretched out his head, hoping for a nose-rub."And our Bill is near done in," Merry continued. "All of them need a good curry and watering and you could give the poor things a handful of Bill’s oats."

Pippin, too, came of a horse-loving folk and Merry knew that his cousin’s generous heart would not willingly leave these mistreated animals in such straits. To say nothing of Gimli, who was watching the nearest horse apprehensively under lowered brows. One of the geldings snorted when Sam encountered a knot of hair, and the dwarf jumped noticeably.

"All right!" Pippin gave in with ill-grace, allowing Boromir to lift him down. On the ground, the tweenager followed Sam’s example, pulling up a wad of dried grass to curry the other gelding, talking to it softly under his breath.

Improvising riding gear proved difficult; a blanket under a pelt to shield the horse and one atop the pelt to shield the rider, and it was agreed that was the best they could contrive. Boromir picked Merry up and sat him on one of the gelding’s back, handing him the cut reins. Sam was lifted up behind him, and he grasped Merry’s waist so tightly that Merry gasped. "Sorry, sir!" Sam whispered in Merry’s ear. "Long way to the ground, isn’t it?"

The mare Boromir chose for himself, swinging up easily onto the shaggy back. "Easy, easy, my lady," he murmured to her and walked her in a circle, feeling muscles bunch then loosen under him as she remembered her training.

Pippin watched them mournfully, tears in his eyes. As they moved out, Merry looked back over his shoulder and Pippin waved frantically. The youngster stood for a moment, watching as the riders were lost among the trees, then turned resolutely to Gimli. "Would you like me to teach you how to curry a horse, Gimli? Just let me lead this lad to that rock over there, so I can climb up… I curry my father’s ponies all the time. I usually get curry-duty as punishment for whatever I’ve done. You can do Bill, if you like. You start on the neck…" Pippin’s voice faded from Merry’s hearing as they moved quickly deeper into the wood.

* * * * *

Aragorn rose from a crouching position, careful that the seeping blood did not stain his boots. The slanting light from the westering sun made it difficult to see. "A bad death," he commented quietly. "I can tell no more without moving the branch, and it would take ten men to do that."

Gandalf leaned on his staff, brows bristling as he glowered at the dirty boot. "How long ago?"

Aragorn touched the damp soil and rolled a small muddy ball of it between his fingers. A red-brown smear remained on his hand when he dropped it. Distastefully, he scrubbed his fingers clean on the ground. "Not more than an hour, I’d say."

The wizard nodded shortly. "They are moving faster now. Then so must we."

* * * * *

Harlan swore, then rose up in the saddle to glare about him. Billeh pulled his horse to a halt behind him, crowding close to the lead horse. When Harlan said nothing, Billeh spoke up. "I remember this place. We dug a spear-pit, over there – see – Lando and me cleared all the saplings ‘round here for the stakes. The tree branches covering the pit don’t look broke… Don’t look like it got anything. Not that we need any more pelts," he added hastily when Harlan turned around to scowl at him.

"I didn’t intend to come this way," Harlan snarled under his breath. The man leaned forward and spat, then scrubbed at the blood staining his chin. He turned to glare at Frodo as he sat before Legolas, the seething anger in his eyes promising revenge for the hobbit’s kick when circumstances permitted. "We should have been out of here by now," Harlan muttered. "I wish this damned forest was burnt to the ground…" Legolas heard him, and from the sudden increase in the brooding rage he felt in the air, he thought the trees had too.

The man leaned back and tried to look at the sun, but the trees were close here and blocked out a clear view of the sky. "Tie the Elf’s horse to that tree," Harlan snapped. "Let me think a minute."

Legolas tried to unobtrusively catch Frodo’s attention as Billeh tugged their tired mount over to a low branch and looped the reins around it. Looking down, the Elf could see only a mop of dark curls, quite in need of a wash. Frodo’s head was turning from side to side and the small body was tense. He feels it, the Elf thought. The Ring-bearer does not understand the danger, but he feels the forest’s anger. "Frodo," Legolas breathed. The hobbit nodded his head; soft as Legolas’ voice was, Frodo could hear him. "Stay close to me."

Frodo nodded again with a shrug of his shoulders. Legolas understood – if the men chose to separate them, there was little he or the hobbit could do to stop them. The two hunters were arguing loudly now, oblivious to their prisoners. Billeh was pointing to the hunting pit, then back the way they had come. Harlan sneered at him and gestured to the side.

The air seemed hard to breathe here, cloying in the lungs, thick with anger and old, remembered grievances. Legolas wished his arms were tied around the hobbit, that the trees might know he protected the little one. This one is harmless, the Elf thought towards the surrounding trees. No - not harmless. But he does not deserve your hate. What he bears he bears towards its end, that all might breathe the free air and drink the sweet rain. He could not tell if the trees heard or understood him. The seething, brooding rage he felt did not abate.

Legolas was not one of those who had first walked the new-made world to lay his hands upon the trunks of the sleeping trees and sing them into awareness. He was a young Elf, not yet three millennia old, and had not perhaps been as studious as his royal father would have liked. He knew he could not hope to command these ancient giants; he feared that even his vouchsafe of Frodo would not protect the hobbit. There had to be some way to prove to the trees that Frodo did not deserve their fury. His attention was returned to the dispute before them when Harlan abruptly drew a knife. His knife, Legolas saw with a surge of anger that did not reflect upon his serene face. The bone handle glinted in the diffuse light. Billeh drew back, startlement and anger on his face. Then he shouted an obscenity at the other man, turned his horse and attempted to plunge back into the forest.

Legolas felt a surge of wrath run through the trees. Roots snaked out to snatch at the horse’s hooves. The man’s mount shrieked and reared, unseating its rider. Before either man could stop it, the mount ran unhindered into the forest. Billeh stumbled to his feet and staggered after it, passing under the limbs of a great pine. He did not see the massive tree suddenly tremble as if caught in a great wind. It seemed to lean down, reaching. A massive spiny branch caught the man across the chest, hurling him off his feet and into the air.

Legolas did not need to see the man’s fall through the air, where he landed. The crunch of bone and the spurt of blood told him more surely than the man’s scream a heartbeat later. Absurdly, he wished he could cover the hobbit’s ears and eyes. Frodo struggled wildly against his chest for a moment, jerking against his bonds, then froze. Hearing him give a soft sound of horror, Legolas sorrowfully raised his eyes.

Harlan sat shocked, his eyes on the horrendous scene before him. His horse was plunging under him but the man controlled it with a pitiless hand. Billeh was writhing, the burbling cries that emerged from his throat escaping around a great wooden spike set into the soft earth of the pit. The man was impaled through the back, almost upright, the stake emerging from his torso between the lower ribs. He made a weak, whimpering sob as the blood ran down to drip from his boots into the pit. Then he convulsed once and mercifully died.

All were silent in dismay. Then Harlan kicked his frenzied horse and drew along side Legolas, one hand wrapping around their mount’s reins while the other reached above the hobbit’s head to grasp the Elf’s tunic. He dragged Legolas forward, squashing Frodo into the pommel. "Call them off!’ the man hissed. "You’re a tree-Elf, aren’t you? Call them off, or I’ll kill you both right now!"

"I have no control over the Living Forest," Legolas responded with as much dignity as he was able to summon, half-dragged over a trembling hobbit. "If you wish them to withdraw, you must free us."

Harlan released him, throwing him back violently in the saddle. "Blast you!" he snarled. "I’d cut your throat right now, ransom or not, if I thought I could walk out of here. A dead man can’t spend your father’s gold." The man ground his teeth in frustration, his face darkened by fury and the rough bristles of his unshaven beard. Then he pulled his horse back and stared at them, and Legolas’ heart sank.

"I can’t harm you, not with your friends watching. That’s clear enough. I’m not stupid enough to kill you and think I could outrun miles of murderous trees. But maybe I could do something to ensure my safety."

Sunlight flashed on Legolas’ knife. With reflexes faster than any mortal’s, Legolas kneed his horse and the animal responded instantly, trying to turn away from the man. But Harlan’s fist clamped tight on its reins, preventing it. The knife slashed then Harland was pulling Frodo from Legolas’ horse, bodily hauling the hobbit onto his. Legolas tried to tear his hands free, disregarding the burns that bit into the tender skin of his wrists, but the rope to the saddle held. Still stunned and horrified by Billeh’s death, Frodo reacted too slowly. A second later he was mounted before Harlan as the man backed his horse away from Legolas.

"You seem to be fond of the little master here," Harlan said conversationally. "He is a pretty little lad, isn’t he?" Still holding the Elf’s knife, the man ran the tip gently over the hobbit’s cheek, leaving a hairline trace of red. Frodo choked, revulsion and outrage blazing from his eyes. "Maybe you could convince the trees to let me pass with him, heh?" The man was silent, thinking. "Then, if you want him back, you talk to your da and have him pay for your little friend here. Maybe I’ll be tired of him by then."

Harlan laughed, his eyes glinting proudly with his own cleverness. "It’s simple enough, Elf. You and I both ride out of here, in different directions. I keep the halfling with me. If you try to follow, I’ll kill him. You go to your royal sire and get the ransom. I’ll meet you in one month, under the same moon." The man laughed, still toying with the knife. It brushed a curl away from Frodo’s face, traced the curve of a delicately pointed ear. "Not here, though! I’ll send you a letter with the place." The man’s arm tightened around the hobbit and Frodo gasped, tugging ineffectually at the muscled arm constricting his chest.

"Hold still, you! I owe you for that kick, hobbit. I intend to collect on that … with interest." The knife ran down the side of the hobbit’s face, then followed the curve of the pointed chin to the small hollow of Frodo’s throat. There it stopped.

Harlan frowned, then risked a glance away from the tied Elf. The tip of the knife was caught in the links of a silver chain around the halfling’s neck. He jerked the blade but the finely wrought links held. Frodo stopped struggling, abruptly going still. His enormous eyes sought Legolas’, and the Elf read terror there. Not for himself, but for what he carried.

"What’s this, then?" the man mumbled. "A pretty silver necklace, heh?" He pushed Frodo sideways, holding the knife so close that Frodo’s throat brushed against it with each breath. "Something on it, heh? What are you hiding there, halfling?" The man’s free hand delved into Frodo’s shirt, further ripping the cloth. A button popped as he forced his hand down the hobbit’s back. Frodo did not move but his eyes never left Legolas’, and the plea in them was unmistakable.

"Ah, here we go." Still pushing Frodo forward and to the side, Harlan groped the hobbit’s clothing, a puzzled expression on his face. "What are you wearing under there, little master?" Then his hand closed on something that burned with cold and he withdrew his clenched fist. "What a pretty gold ring." The man held it up, pulling the chain against Frodo’s neck. "A pretty gold … pretty…" Harlan’s voice trailed off as his eyes widened. "Pretty…" he repeated stupidly, his voice slowing to a crawl. The Ring reflected in his eyes, glowing like metal heated in a forge, shimmering in the dark pupils. "So … pretty…"

Legolas saw the hobbit clench his eyes shut, his face suddenly a rictus of pain. As Legolas watched, astounded, the hobbit’s lips drew back over bared teeth and when his eyes opened, something like the seeds of madness glimmered there. With a shock, Legolas realized that Frodo was going to attack the man. He could not permit that. He could not allow the Ring-bearer to throw away his life in a doomed attempt. Gathering his breath, the Elf shouted loudly to distract them both. With speed no mortal could hope to match, he leaned forward in the saddle and spurred his horse into the man’s mount. Startled, the animal leaped forward, crashing into the other horse, knocking it off its feet. One of the horses screamed. All of them went down in a thrashing tangle of kicking hooves and snapping bones.

* TBC *