Chapter 3

The weather was turning increasingly cold. Merry’s back ached, as did his legs, and he couldn’t stand to think what Frodo must be enduring as his cousin sat slumped, swaying on the pony. Frodo’s cloak was drawn over his head and both hands were before him on Bill’s back, the left swinging unnaturally. Merry wished desperately he’d had the foresight to pack a saddle—even one-handed, Frodo could have grasped the saddle horn and kept his seat with much less effort. But the saddle probably would just have been stolen along with his ponies from The Prancing Pony’s stable. Bill trailed despondently after Sam, his neck stretched long and his ears cocked backwards. Beside him, Pippin trudged with his eyes half-shut, bronze curls trailing into his eyes, hands curled up over his shoulders to ease the strain of his pack against his back.

Only Strider seemed unaffected by the grey day and the cold. The Ranger moved quickly ahead of Sam, his hand on the hilt of that long sword and his eyes sweeping from side to side. He constantly outdistanced them and had to halt while the hobbits and pony caught up with his long steps. While waiting, the man would stop and turn completely around, his keen gaze checking behind them and into the trees about them. The hobbits watched him miserably, and continued their snail-like advance.

So the day passed by them and the road under them, until Aragorn finally let them halt for the night. By then, Merry was so tired he felt physically ill. Pippin did not so much sit down as collapse to the ground. They sat for a few moments while Sam halted the pony and Aragorn lifted Frodo down, to lay him between them, propped up against a fallen log. He was gone from them again, limp, his dark head lolling back. When Pippin started to rise, his hands reaching out to catch up the nearest twigs, Merry reached over Frodo and pushed him down. "I’ll get the firewood and make a fire, Pip. Frodo needs you to keep him warm." Pippin nodded and curved himself gently against their cousin, sliding his arms around the sagging form.

Struggling to hide his weariness, Merry climbed to his feet and dragged himself over to Sam and Aragorn as they unloaded the pony. Sam’s sandy curls were plastered to his forehead and his hands shook, but he untied Bill’s panniers with gentle fingers. Merry helped with setting up camp then started on gathering the firewood.

"Merry," warned Aragorn’s soft voice, "Don’t go far from camp."

Fortunately, Merry did not need to. The Ranger had chosen a campsite among thick trees and fallen wood was plentiful. His arms full, Merry came back and saw that Pippin had fallen asleep against Frodo. Frodo had turned his face into Pippin’s chest, and both slept in complete exhaustion. Merry shook out Frodo’s blanket and covered them both, then laid Pippin’s on top of that.

"Where—" started Sam, and Merry shushed him frantically, motioning at the sleepers. Sam smiled at the quiet figures and moving off to the side, sunk his spade into the soft earth to dig a fire pit.

"Thank you, Sam." Aragorn sank down cross-legged across from the sleepers and pulled out his long belt knife. "Dig it deep enough that it can’t be seen." Angling the carcass to the dim light of the moon, the Ranger sliced the rabbit he had killed neatly from belly to tail and skinned it efficiently. "Poor enough fare," he commented as he worked, "but I don’t want to take the time to set snares."

Sam wiped his brow and laid the spade aside. He and Merry arranged the tinder, topped it with twigs, then the larger pieces of wood. "Couldn’t you shoot us a few more coneys?" he asked. "That’s a great bow you’re carrying, and somehow I think you know how ‘ta use it."

"I do, Sam. But a good archer does not shoot into the woods at night. If the arrow does not fly true, it is almost impossible to recover it. I have no arrows to waste." He jointed the rabbit and dropped the parts into the cooking kettle Sam held out to him. Sam hung the kettle over the fire Merry had succeeded in starting and they sat back to watch it cook.

Merry awoke to Sam shaking his shoulder. "Here, Mr. Merry," he said, pushing a filled plate into his hands. "Strider says ‘ta keep quiet. No unnecessary talking or moving about." Startled, Merry opened his mouth … then he shut it and straightened, sniffing the cold night air. Wood smoke came to his nose, wafted past him. Confused, he looked and saw their small fire had been extinguished, and the almost invisible plume of smoke was drifting upwind.

The Ranger’s eyes glinted at him from where he sat with his own plate. "Yes," he said softly. "We are being followed."

* * *

Though they broke camp at first light, Aragorn pressed them to move faster and put as much distance behind them as possible. That meant breakfast was eaten on the road, much to Pippin’s disgust. Merry envied his younger cousin’s ability to bounce back to his usual ebullient self after a single night’s rest; he had spent most of the night staring into the darkness and worrying. Sometime after moonset, Aragorn had come over and knelt by his bedroll. "Merry, go to sleep. They won’t take us unawares, I promise. Your cousins and Sam and I will need you alert tomorrow." Reluctantly, Merry had closed his eyes and fallen into a sleep so profound that Pippin had had to dribble water on his face to wake him up.

They had walked for several hours when Strider halted and raised his hand for them to stop. The Ranger crested a small hill and surveyed the land around them. Returning, he flung sweated hair out of his eyes and said, "Ahead lies a great thorny patch of prickle-bushes. We have overshot our road and must backtrack."

Sam groaned and Merry felt his heart sink. On the pony, Frodo raised his head but said nothing. Only Pippin seemed unfazed. "Any berries on those prickle-bushes?"

Aragorn eyed the youngest hobbit warily.

"There are, aren’t there? What kind? Are they ripe?" Pippin was fairly vibrating in place.

"Raspberries and blackberries," the Ranger replied reluctantly. "Pippin!"

Pippin was already halfway down the far side of the hill. At Aragorn’s call, he obediently slowed and returned to them. "Frodo likes berries," he explained. "He’ll eat them when he won’t eat anything else. May I go pick some for him, please?"

Merry tugged on Aragorn’s sleeve. "Let him, Aragorn. Sam, why don’t you go with him? Aragorn can change Frodo’s bandages. We could certainly use the fresh food. Take a saddlebag, Pip, and fill it up."

After the two had departed, the man carefully lifted Frodo down and washed and re-wrapped the wound. Frodo was silent, eyes squeezed shut. That ordeal over, Aragorn helped him lean back against the berry-pickers’ piled packs, softly urging him to sleep if he could. Then Aragorn turned to Meriadoc. "All right, Merry. What do you have in mind?"

"Look down there, Aragorn. You can’t even see Sam and Pip among all those brambles. They stand taller than a hobbit’s head—probably taller than yours. We couldn’t find a better place for an ambush."

"Ambush? What are you talking about?" Frodo looked from one to the other. "What is going on here?" Merry winced; he had hoped that his cousin had fallen asleep, he had been sitting so still and silent.

"Uumm," he temporized, then gave up. Frodo was staring at him levelly. "Aragorn and I … didn’t exactly tell you the truth about everything that happened two nights ago, Cousin." Seeing Frodo’s dark brows draw together, Merry hastened to add, "We didn’t lie about anything, we just didn’t tell you everything that happened." The brows quirked further and little draw-lines appeared between them.

"All right," said Merry, caving. He glanced at Aragorn just in time to see the man school his features, wiping the amusement from his face. Merry scowled at him, then sighed and proceeded to give Frodo a complete accounting of his adventure. Including what he had heard the half-orc say, and the fate of the men who had captured him.

Frodo’s pale face grew even paler. "They … they were going to..."

"They didn’t, Cousin," Merry assured him. "Just this stiff shoulder, that’s all the damage."

"But now they follow," Aragorn added, seeking to turn aside Frodo’s fears. "Only two, I think, unless that purse of gold has bought more hounds upon our trail. I dare not leave you long enough to scout them; they might come upon you unawares."

Sitting next to Frodo, Merry flushed, thinking of the swords the Ranger had given them, and of how little use he would be to the others with his. Merry had never thought himself in need of protection before and it galled him. That he could not protect Frodo—and Pippin and Sam—was well nigh intolerable.

"So we need to stop these men from following us," Merry continued in the silence that had followed Aragorn’s conclusion. "We can draw them into those prickle-bushes, where they can’t move out of the path we lay for them. They’ll never see us among the leaves and thorns. Then…"

"Then what?" Frodo tried to straighten up against the packs and made a soft, pained sound. "Kill them? Hobbits don’t kill, Merry. Hobbits don’t…" Frodo gasped again, his face going white, and Aragorn knelt swiftly at his side.

"Frodo, relax. You must stay still." The Ranger laid a hand on the hobbit’s clammy forehead and looked worriedly into the anguished eyes. Frodo’s skin was cold and he leaned back, averting his gaze from Aragorn’s, hiding his face as he tried to draw in breath. He shuddered, then nodded jerkily. "We will think of something, Frodo, other than killing them. Though I would advocate it, as it best ensures our safety. Sometimes, my friend, it is necessary to do things you abhor so that the greater purpose be served."

"No. There have been enough deaths already because of this evil thing I bear. I do not want to be responsible for any more."

"Cousin—"

"No, Merry. No more killing."

Aragorn sat back on his haunches with a sigh of exasperation. "This is not your fault, Frodo, none of it. But … we will find another way. Tie them, or break an ankle, or … something." The Ranger rose and turned back to the bramble-bushes, shaded his eyes against the grey glare of the day. "Now, where are those young hobbits? We have already stayed here overlong."

Suddenly anxious, Merry stood beside him and peered into the thick, thorny foliage. No trace of Pip or Sam could be seen. He cupped his hands to his mouth and inhaled, but Aragorn immediately stayed him. "No calling, Merry. I will—"

"Hoy the camp!"

The voice came out of nowhere, then Merry realized it originated from somewhere in the bramble-bushes. It was loud and coarse, and with a sudden absolute terror, Merry knew he had heard it before. Squint-Eye, the half-orc. Two nights ago he had heard it, as the brigand leader stripped him to hold a burning brand against his skin.

Aragorn’s hand clamped on his sore shoulder and pushed him down. He sprawled against Frodo, brushing against his wounded side as Aragorn dropped beside him. Frodo made a stifled sound, unable to choke it back. The Ranger’s sword was in one hand, his long knife in the other. Behind them, Bill jerked on his tether-rein, catching the sudden scent of fear and pain in the air.

"Hoy the camp! Talk to us, Ranger! We have your little friends!"

Merry groaned as he heard Frodo, beside him, catch his breath in a sobbing gasp. Aragorn raised himself up on his forearms and shouted, "Sam! Pippin! Answer me!"

There was no response. None at all.

Merry closed his eyes in unbearable agony. While he had stood there talking, those that followed had circled round and… Or maybe they had come to the brambles first; the hobbits’ pace had certainly been slow enough to let determined men draw ahead of them. It took no great leap of imagination to think that the hobbits would want to gather some of the sweet autumn fruit. How easy it would be, to simply wait until the small, unwary ones came within reach…

"Ranger! Do you want these little rats back? A trade, Ranger! Give us the hurt halfling, and we’ll send them back!"

Aragorn was silent, turning his head from side to side, trying to locate the source of the voice. Merry did the same, straining his eyes as his blood thrummed in his ears.

"Ranger! Talk to us, or I’ll cut one of them!"

"No! Aragorn, talk to them!" Frodo pulled desperately on the man’s cloak with his good hand. "Tell them I’ll come!"

"No you won’t, Frodo. Now be still, both of you." Aragorn leaned forward and called, "How do I know you have the halflings? Let me hear their voices!"

"I’ll do better than that, Ranger. Heads up!" With that, an arrow whistled up the small hill and buried itself in the turf under them, but a few feet from Merry. Keeping low, Merry scrambled over and retrieved it. Tied to the shaft with twine were two curly locks of hair, one bronze and one sandy. Merry felt tears start to roll down his face.

* TBC *