Chapter Three

Legolas was silent, keeping the contempt from his face.  Frodo was not so circumspect.  Fury blazed from those blue eyes.  He ignored the men looming behind him and addressed the leader, the hand not holding Sting clenching tightly into a fist.  “Sir,” the hobbit said clearly, “I will ask you and your friends to leave.”

Harlan grinned at him.  “Oh, quite the cock-a-whoop, aren’t you, little master?”  Frodo went pale while Sam reddened, his grip tightening on his own sword, grey eyes narrowed.  The man laughed at them, a sneer curling on his lips.  He sheathed the dirty knife in a swift, practiced motion.  Then his gaze wandered to Pippin.  “I don’t think you introduced the lad there.  Who's the tweenager?”

Insulted and furious with himself for being afraid, Pippin opened his mouth.  “I am Peregrin To–"

“Tunneldown,” interjected Frodo suddenly.  “Peregrin Tunneldown.  A penniless young ward in my care.  I took him in when his parents died.”

Pippin gaped at his cousin.  “Frodo!  What are–"

“Pippin, be quiet,” said Frodo softly in a voice Pippin had never heard before from his gentle, indulgent cousin.

The man glanced again at the young hobbit and dismissed him.  His attention had already drifted back to Frodo, and he cocked his head and regarded the hobbit quizzically.  “There’s something about you, little master, that intrigues me.”  He nodded once, as if he had suddenly made a decision.  “You will come with us, too, I think.  Can’t see any use for the others, though.  Lads!”

Even if the hobbits had been prepared, they would have stood no chance against three vicious men nearly twice their size.  Sensing movement behind him, Sam whirled, his sword thrusting up to take the nearest man in the breastbone.  But Lando was already moving, and his reach was far longer than Sam’s.  His fist came down hard on Sam’s head with the impact of bone against bone.  Sam reeled, staggering into Frodo, knocking his master forward.  Frodo twisted lithely and tried to steady Sam with an arm around his shoulder, but that instinctive, protective gesture hindered him.  He slashed at Harlan, but the man was ready and the musical ring of Sting was drowned out by the dull clang of the much larger blade.  His hand numbed by the sheer force of the blow, Frodo dropped Sting and stumbled back, falling to the ground, pulling Sam down with him.  Harlan recovered the sword before the hobbits’ dazed eyes, angling it to admire the fine work of the blade and rosewood hilt.

Pippin had thrown himself backwards as the men rushed forward, tearing his blade out from its hiding place.  Had not Legolas anticipated the movement, the sudden removal of his support would have smashed his head to the ground.  With an inarticulate shriek of rage, Pippin leaped over Legolas and threw himself at the man who had struck Sam.  Legolas cried out, too, half in pain and half in alarm, as he tried to raise himself up to prevent the doomed attack.  But his injury slowed him and his hand closed uselessly on the trailing end of Pippin’s scarf.

Before Pippin’s feet struck the earth, Harlan swung at him from the side, turning the youngster’s blade easily.  He struck the tweenager down with the flat of his blade, knocking Pippin to the ground so violently that the young hobbit was thrown backwards and slid several feet along the leaf-strewn earth.  He lay there unmoving.

“Pippin!”  Legolas’ and Frodo’s cries rang out together.  Ignoring the men, Frodo scrambled past Harlan and stumbled to Pippin, sinking down to cradle his unconscious cousin’s head in his lap.  “Pippin-lad!  Speak to me!  Pippin!”

Stunned, Sam staggered to his feet and tried to interpose himself between the men and his master and Master Pippin, raising his sword dizzily.  Harlan looked at the weaving hobbit and laughed.  “Still got some fight in you, heh?”  The laughter died as the man’s face hardened.  “You are delaying us.  Take care of him, lads.”

Lando and Billeh circled around Sam, coming at him from opposite sides.  The stocky hobbit looked desperately between them, backing up to try to keep them before him.   One of the men feinted at him and Sam parried the blow, spinning to drive the other back.  Steel rang and sparks erupted from along the blades like tiny fireworks.  “Mr. Frodo,” he hissed, ”you run.  I’ll take care of Pip and Legolas.  Run, sir!”

Frodo tore his eyes from Pippin's still face and Sam saw tears glittering there.  His master shook his head.  “No, Sam.  I’m not leaving you.  We face this together.”

Sam fell back another step, frustration so loud in him he wanted to shout.  The two men grinned, enjoying themselves, obviously toying with him.  One lunged forward again then retreated when Sam twisted to meet him.  The movement made Sam’s head pound fit to burst.  This can’t go on, Sam thought.  I’ve got ‘ta make Mr. Frodo go!   “Sir, you got to!  You can’t let them take you!”  Frodo shook his head, his eyes on Pippin’s motionless face.  Frantic, Sam hissed, “Remember your promise, sir!”

Those words seemed to penetrate.  Frodo’s head came up.  He looked over at the unequal contest, at the men idly toying with Sam, and his face twisted in pain.  Unconsciously, his hand clutched at the base of his throat.   “Ahhhh,” he groaned.  Then his eyes lowered again to his unmoving cousin, “No.  No.  Put your sword down, Sam.”  Frodo drew in a great breath then his enraged gaze turned to Harlan.  “We will not resist you, sir.  But we stay together.  All of us.”

Grinding his teeth in fury and frustration, Sam obeyed.  But Frodo hadn’t ordered him to sheath his weapon, and he did not.  Harlan nodded.  “Very well.   Back off, lads.  Lando, get the horses.  And we’ll take those bright shiny knives, little masters.”

“Mr. Frodo!”

“No, Sam.  We can’t fight them.”  Frodo gently unwrapped Pippin’s limp fingers from the hilt of Legolas’ knife and laid the blade carefully to the side.   “Give him your sword.”  Still Sam hesitated, caught between loyalty and what seemed to him to be common sense.  “Sam,” Frodo said softly.  “I won’t have you being hurt, too.  Do it.”

If looks could kill…  Sam devoutly wishing there was truth to that old saying, for these Men would neverdraw another breath.  Grey eyes furious, he unclamped his hand from the hilt and offered it reluctantly to the nearest man.  Billeh took the sword and swung it carelessly, admiring the weight and balance.  “Lovely,” he murmured.  “Never seen its like.  Bring a good price, this will.”  He moved past Sam to collect Legolas’ knife and with a warning glance at Frodo, knelt to pull Pippin’s sword from its sheath.  These he brought to Harlan, who handed him Sting.  Then Billeh walked over to Legolas and pulled off one of the cloaks, wrapping the swords securely in the cushioning cloth.

Legolas, too, fought to order his tongue and his expression.  To lie helpless on the ground while the hobbits were overcome!   He forced himself not to react as Billeh bent and retrieved his bow and quiver, his sword and the other long, bone-handled knife.  He hated the man’s filthy touch profaning his weapons.  The man was watching him closely, wary, careful not to come too close.  If he moved quickly enough, he might be able to catch up his knife and kill the man standing over him, but that would not help the hobbits.  They would surely suffer for his actions, and he himself would be killed.  Much good his sworn protection would be to the Ring-bearer then…  His hands dug into the soft earth and he forced them to relax and stared back at the men with a cool, considering gaze.

“Can you walk, Elf?”

“No,” replied Legolas coolly.  “My friends have constructed a litter for me.  If you wish to take me, you will have to carry me.”

Harlan had already spied the improvised litter.  He ambled over to it and inspected it, then grinned and deliberately slammed his foot through the frame.  Wood crunched and splintered.  He shook the shattered wood and cloth off his foot derisively.  “Carry you?  Sod that.  You’ll walk, Elf.  Or we’ll drag you.”

Frodo carefully slid Pippin’s head from his lap and laid it gently on the ground, pushing the curls out of the closed eyes with tender fingers.  He stood.  “Legolas is hurt.  He cannot walk.  Let us carry him, if you will not.  Will one of you carry the lad?”

Harlan smiled at Frodo and Sam’s heart quailed.  No, he thought.  Oh, no.  Oh, Frodo –  He realized he had lost track of the second man.  The faintest rustle to the side alerted him.  Sam swung around but Lando was already too near, and Sam was still slowed by the first blow.  The man’s fist caught him across the cheek, snapping his head to the side.  Sam was lifted off his feet and came down in a broken, unmoving heap.

“Sam!”  Frodo was running towards the crumpled figure but Harlan reached out and seized him, twisting his arms behind him, pulling the kicking hobbit against his body.  Sam’s last clear memory before the darkness took him was of the man laughing, Frodo imprisoned before him, and the other two forcing the Elf to his feet.

* * * * *

Aragorn reached out and lifted Merry from his feet before the hobbit could charge into the clearing, placing one hand over the hobbit’s mouth.  Already filling his lungs for a hail, Merry choked and looked up at the Ranger in astonishment.  “Never shout before looking, Merry,” Aragorn admonished softly in the hobbit’s ear, removing his hand.  After a moment Merry nodded, drawing in great gasps of air as he fought to quiet his breathing.

Aragorn set the hobbit down but kept a hand on his shoulder.  Both Ranger and wizard had kept the pace to the place where Merry had left the others, running with surprising silence.  They could easily have outpaced the hobbit but would not risk mistaking the trail in their hurry.  Ahead of the other two and struggling against the increasing burning of his lungs, Merry did not see the Ranger lightly touch the wizard’s arm and point to the side, at the trampled earth which led along the tree line.  Gandalf nodded tightly, long grey beard jutting fiercely.  Neither made any mention of it, saving their breath for running.  When they came to edge of the clearing and Merry had wheezed out their arrival, Aragorn made a small motion with his hand and Merry watched as Gandalf bent double, his hands on his knees for a moment, fighting to control his breathing.  Wiping the perspiration from his face, Gandalf nodded and drifted off to the right, silent, one hand on his staff and the other resting on the hilt of his great sword.

“Stay here, Merry.  Let me go first.  I will call you if it is safe.“

“But Legolas–"

“Will survive another few minutes.  Stay here.”  Aragorn waited until he had the hobbit’s nod of agreement before releasing Merry’s shoulder.  Then he was gone, no more than a rustle of wind passing between the trees. 

“Aragorn!”  Gandalf’s shout rocked Merry back on his heels.  Deciding that a shout from the wizard was as good as one from the Ranger, Merry darted into the clearing.  And froze.  Gandalf was on his knees beside a still figure, his staff and sword lying discarded as he gathered up the small body.  Pippin.  So stunned was Merry that for a moment, nothing else registered.  Then he realized that Frodo and Legolas were nowhere to be seen, and Sam was lying face-down on the turf, like a discarded doll.

Aragorn emerged from the trees on the other side of the small clearing, taking in the scenario at a glance.  His face was very grim and his sword was in his hand.  While Gandalf cradled Pippin, he ran to Sam and laid his hands carefully on the hobbit’s head and body.  Sam groaned and struck blindly at the air with one fist. 

That pain-filled sound released Merry from his shock.  In a flash, he was across the clearing and tugging desperately at Gandalf’s arms.  “Merry!” reprimanded the wizard.  “Be at ease.  He is only unconscious.  He has been struck.”

Gandalf’s reassurance only increased Merry’s agitation.  “Struck?  Struck?  Let me see him!”  Cradled in Gandalf’s arms, Pippin whimpered and Gandalf shifted him so that the tweenager lay against his chest, head lolling.  A red mark was rising on the side of his temple, swelling angrily against the paleness of his skin.  Merry had received enough unintentional bruises from Boromir during arms practice to recognize a sword-weal.  Merry caught his little cousin’s face in his hands.  “Pippin?  Are you all right, dear heart?”

Pippin’s eyelids fluttered and he moaned, his curled hands plucking aimlessly at the coarse cloth of Gandalf’s sleeves.  Merry was peripherally aware of movement at his side as Aragorn sank down by them, Samclaspedin his arms.  “He’s got a nasty welt on his head,” the Ranger informed them.  “Looks like a blow.  He’s lucky it didn’t snap his neck.”

Not releasing his hold on Pippin, Merry tried to peer into Sam’s face.  “Sam,” he called softly.  “Wake up, Sam!”  Sam groaned again, his face pinching with pain.  Merry met Aragorn’s eyes for a moment then leaned closer and whispered directly into Sam’s ear,  “Samwise!  Is the bathwater hot?”

Sam set bolt upright in Aragorn’s arms, causing the Ranger to tighten his hold around the hobbit to steady him.  “Mr. Merry, sir!  No, sir, it isn’t!”  He listed to the side and Aragorn hastened to support him.  Sam looked up at the Ranger blurrily, struggling to orient himself.  Then he shuddered and the sharp eyes snapped into focus.  “They took Mr. Frodo and Legolas!  They took them!”

“Who took them, Sam?  What happened?”  Gandalf pushed his water-skin into the Ranger’s hands and Aragorn unstoppered it and handed it to Sam.  Sam held it up to his mouth with trembling hands and took a quick drink, then raised it and squirted more directly into his face.  He handed it back with a shake of his head, droplets of water flying off his sandy hair.

“Three Men,” he said concisely despite blurring eyes.  “Great big brutes – hunters.  The leader said they were after snow-deer.  Mr. Frodo asked them ‘ta help us with Legolas but they wouldn’t.”  Sam paused and bit down on voicing his opinion of their attackers.  “They just wanted our swords, and Legolas’ knives and bow.”  Aragorn put his fingers on Sam’s wrist, feeling the pulse race.  “Then they found out that Legolas was King Thranduil’s son.”  Sudden rage flared in the little gardener’s eyes.  “They said Master Pippin an’ me weren’t no use to them.  One hit the lad right hard with the flat of his sword, and another hit me.  Is Master Pip all right?”

Pippin had been wiggling feebly during this angry recitation, and had opened his eyes for the last of it.   He looked up into Gandalf’s face, then over at Sam and Aragorn and lastly, at Merry.  Merry gave a stifled sob and released him, sitting back on the cold earth.  Pippin frowned at him in confusion, then his gaze darted suddenly around the clearing.  “Where are Frodo and Legolas?”  No one answered him.  Pippin reared up in Gandalf’s arms, staring at his cousin, a wince crossing his face as the movement hurt.  “Where are they?  Where are they, Merry?”

“We will find them them, Pippin,” Aragorn said softly.  “Sam, can you sit?”  At the hobbit’s shaky nod, Aragorn eased the hobbit down against Gandalf and stood up, keen eyes already scanning the surrounding ground.  “There!”  Quickly he walked a few steps to the scuffed ground and knelt beside the disturbed earth, laying one hand lightly on the soil.  As he leaned forward to peer at the ground, the others fell silent, watching him anxiously.  Pippin scrubbed at his eyes, sniffling, but was determinedly quiet, his gilded eyes both frightened and furious.  Gandalf rubbed his back comfortingly and Merry slid an arm around the trembling shoulders.

Aragorn looked up from the track, tracing it into the forest with his eyes.  “It looks like they got Legolas up and made him walk.   Ah, no…” the Ranger was silent for a moment, then continued.  “There is blood on the ground.”  His gaze travelled to the broken tree.  “That is the tree you said Legolas fell from, Merry?”

Wordlessly, Merry nodded and looked away from the dark stain coating the rotted bark with a shudder.   Aragorn’s keen eyes narrowed and his face tightened.  “Legolas’ blood, then.”

Still cradled in Gandalf’s lap, Pippin felt the wizard’s arms tighten about him, and he looked up into the angry face above him.  Sensing the movement, Gandalf looked down, and his face softened.  He raised a hand to gently tug at the lobe of the young hobbit’s ear, and Pippin smiled tremulously.   “Here are two sets of boots,” Aragorn continued quietly, ignoring for the moment the impact of his words upon the others.  He rose and moved towards the trees a few steps, kneeling again.  “And in between them the light print of Legolas’ shoes.  No … there is only one full print of his, and the other only a toe-print.  He must have been limping, supported by a man on each side of him.”

“We made a litter,” put in Sam, climbing unsteadily to his feet.  His seeking eyes settled on the destroyed contraption.  “Why did they break it?  Why didn’t they use it?”

Aragorn was following the trail, eyes on the ground.  Almost to the trees he halted and turned back to them, his expression sorrowful.  “There was no need.  Legolas would not have had to walk far.  They had horses.”

“Horses?” echoed Merry with a sinking heart.  “We’ll never catch them, then.  Aragorn, what are we going to do?”

* TBC *