Greenway Morning - by Eykar, Prologue to of Chapter 4 of The Redemption of Meriadoc by Aelfgifu

Yellow light dappled through leaves, dancing in shards on his outstretched legs. The ground was cool and damp beneath him. The snuffle, chomp, smell of horse was nearby, sure and constant – all, as he well knew, that he could trust now.

Only the horses. No Gandalf. No Sam. Mist tendrils reached for him as a quiet loneliness stabbed his heart, frozen there by a sound, the soft whoosh of a knife being drawn. The mists thickened. His hands were pulled upward. The mists closed.

But now he could fight them. With effort, he pushed open a slit, hungry to see, to feel, to – smell: Smoke and pepper. Sour breath. The snaggle-toothed sharp face of his captor. Eyes hard but holding no malice. Grinning.

His heart raced in his throat. The mists hovered. He could shrink, hiss into safety, vanish. He willed himself to stay, to know.

“Here,” captor’s voice grated.

Something touched his hand – warm, greasy. How seldom he thought of his hands until now. He looked down. Hands lying loose, palms upturned on legs. Unbound?

Experimentally, as from a far distance, he imagined the fingers moving, closing, holding.

A low rough laugh. “’Sright, Imp. You want it?”

His hand back? Yes!

“You got to take it.”

Take It. Can’t. Gone.

He wanted always. Want scraped like a blade growing dull with overuse, snagging and tearing. More: He had promised - That brought mists, clinging to shroud the pain.

No. Not what the captor meant. No malice.

He forced a patch of sight half clear. Bleared light slanted onto captor’s dirty hand. There were too many fingers. No, too many hands. The long-fingered hand held another, one clasped loosely around something roundish, greasy, smelling of pepper and old smoke. His hand - rope trailing from the wrist, but free! With a thrill of remembering, he willed it to move.

All came clear. His stomach knew what he held: Nothing here to stir heart-twisting longings. It was a piece of sausage.

A silent laugh shook him. A wry smile twitched far behind his still face.

“Think fast, Imp!” Captor scraped the meat from his palm, dangled it smirking in front of his eyes. His hand followed, grabbed, clumsy but his again.

It tasted greasy, peppery. How long since his lips, his tongue, had felt? Bits of light danced on greasy fingers. Captor’s hard eyes were bright, self-satisfied, missing almost everything. As they should.

“Look at this, lads!”

Chapter 4 – The Greenway

As the sun rose pale and hesitant above the trees, Merry's brain slogged into wakefulness. He reached out to rub the sleep from his eyes and groaned audibly when his hands refused to budge. The cords had rendered them numb and he felt as though the tree bark had made a permanent impression upon his back.

A dark shadow blocked the sunlight as Broga leered over him. "Have a nice sleep, ratling?"

"Bugger off," growled Merry, too tired to flinch before the slap came.

"Boss says I'm to feed you," snarled Broga, kneeling down. "So if you'd like better than dirt, you’d best keep your trap shut."

Merry nodded grimly, shutting his eyes against the suddenly bright sun. Pain throbbed thorough his stricken cheek as Broga tore off a stale crust of bread and jammed it unceremoniously into Merry's mouth. The hobbit chewed wolfishly, devouring each bite but avoiding eye contact to avoid provoking his captor further.

"Look at this, lads!"

Merry's eyes cut toward the sound of Scur's voice.

"Look what I done!"

Broga hastily stuffed a too-big piece of salted venison into Merry's mouth and turned to face his partner. Scur was kneeling before Frodo, who was sitting near the dead fire, his wrist bonds cut. "Boss!" called Scur again, "Come here, you got to see this!"

Grimbold appeared through a break in the trees, his hand curled around a tin of coffee. Scur grinned at him with a short flash of enthusiasm before turning back to his hobbit. He tore a small piece of bread from his own loaf and held it up to Frodo's eye level. "Now watch this," he said softly. "But don’t make no noise. I don’t want to scare it."

Merry craned his neck to see his cousin between the three dark shapes surrounding him. He gasped inwardly, catching the motion of blue material as Frodo's coat moved up and then down again.

Scur leapt to his feet. "See that will you! See what I done! He took it! I'm training him, see!"

Merry watched Frodo chewing contentedly, his eyes staring straight ahead, but with a spark of awareness in them.

"Gimmie that!" said Broga, seizing the bread from Scur's unsuspecting hands.

"Hoy!"

Broga leaned down to Frodo. "I'll show you trained," he said derisively. "You ain't so special. Rat's hungry enough, he'll eat for anyone." Broga brandished the bread like a weapon in front of Frodo's face. The hobbit followed the bread with his eyes, but when Broga thrust it up to his mouth, he flinched and clenched his jaw shut. "C'mon, rat! It's good for you!"

Scur yanked Broga away by the back of his shirt. "You’re giving it a fright! You ain't got no way with it!"

Broga slammed the bread down on the grass. "Thing's teched as ever!"

"I say he ain't," said Scur. "Least not around me." Scur again knelt down, picked up the discarded crust, rubbed it clean on his tunic, and held it out a short distance from his charge's face. Merry watched again, entranced by the awareness that seemed to animate his cousin. Frodo raised his hand tentatively up, grasped the prize, and placed it carefully in his own mouth.

"You see!"

Merry felt a shiver run through him. He could not deny the memory of Sam going through the same exercise when Frodo had refused to eat for him. Yet Frodo was eating for this… this man. Merry's second reaction, after a brief flash of unaccountable jealousy, was fear. It was not safe for Frodo to appear cognizant--not now, in front of these men. Frodo must remain mute and pliant in their eyes. If they knew he was fully aware, they'd only keep their guard up, or worse, hurt him. No. Merry could not let that happen. He would have to talk to Frodo, make him understand. Then, he smiled to himself, they would plan their escape.

"I don’t care if Scur convinces him he's an elvish princeling, as long as he gets him to eat!"

Grimbold's voice tore Merry from his train of thought. Broga's voice set him upon a new one.

"But it ain't right! I got this biting imp while--"

"I said no," ordered Grimbold, and marched over to his horse.

Merry felt his muscles tightening as Broga stomped back toward him, a dark look spreading across his face.

"What are you looking at, maggot?" snarled Broga savagely. Merry shrugged as best as his bonds would allow. "You're to ride with me again. And Scur gets your creepy, little teched friend. Hope he casts a spell on him."

Merry knew better than to answer. He sat still, wincing as Broga cut the cords from his wrists and forced his shoulders forward, binding his hands roughly in front. Broga grasped Merry's chin in his calloused hands to force eye contact. "Can't wait 'til tonight," he whispered with a slow, cruel smile. "Can't wait to have your soft hide all for myself and to hear you yelping like a stuck pig."

Merry offered no challenge, but struggled to keep both his gaze and his mind steady as sadistic pleasure seeped into the big man's eyes.

VVVVV

“See it, Sam? That’s Bree.” Excitement livened Pippin’s weary voice as he pointed.

Sam felt his heart quicken. All his hopes hung on finding Gandalf in this place. And if the wizard was not here? Sam felt his stomach thud and tighten into a painful twist. What then?

“I know, Sam,” said Pippin with a fragile smile as he rode up beside him. “It’s on my mind too.”

They had rounded a long curve in the road, cleared a final grove of trees, and now found themselves moving down -a gentle slope -. A large lump of a hill rose up before them and nestled on its western flank, like at kitten at its mothers teat, was -the village, naught but a brown blur at this distance, yet large by Sam’s reckoning.

Tilled fields radiated out on either side of the road as they approached, though the harvest was long over, and stubble and weeds filled the once rich fields. As they drew closer, Sam could see smoke rising from buildings so big that even the familiar smell of hearth fires was not the slightest bit welcoming. How strange and out of place he felt here, in this whole bad business, with the distance between him and his master yawning wider by the minute.

As they approached Bree’s outer dike, Sam recognized what must be a crossroads, although larger than any of the few that he had seen before. The East Road on which they traveled was bisected by a wide path running north-south as far as the eye could see. It was unkempt and grass-grown, but an unmistakable road none-the-less, perhaps once taking folk to lands worth visiting. Just beyond it lay the dike surrounding the village, and past that, the large, west gate of Bree.

“What road is this, and where do it go?” asked Sam, straining his eyes down the expanse of highway.

“It once led to strange lands…from the days of the ancient kings of men,” answered Pippin, his voice quiet. "So I’ve been told."

How strange Sam wondered urgently – and how far? “Ain’t those places still there -?”

"Well the places are, -- at least I suppose they are. But I don’t know- -about the men - No one travels out from there anymore. Wherever there is.”

“Or was,” offered Sam ominously.

“It makes me sad somehow,” said Pippin.

“It makes me nervous,” said Sam as a stab of uneasiness chilled his heart. Again he stared south down the endless, almost spectral road. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. Something beckoned him from the tall, green grass that swayed, bowed, and whispered alongside the windy road. His gardener's eyes could see the full seed heads of the grasses and knew this vast, lonely passageway would not deny them purchase. He could not tear his eyes from it and his mind twisted in thought. Here was just another road without end in this big world that his master might travel to a fate unknown.

Sam felt Pippin’s small hand on his tense shoulder and realized he had been staring longer than he’d thought.

“Come, Sam,” said Pippin gently. “We can only search so many roads. And right now we have to see what’s at the end of this one.”

Sam nodded and turned his attention to the village. Without a word the hobbits crossed the Greenway over the dike towards Bree--and perhaps, Sam prayed, towards Gandalf.

VVVVV

Miles to the south, far beyond Sam's searching gaze, Frodo stared at the same Greenway stretched before him like an endless river of grass. He let the sights, sounds and smells of the land filter into his consciousness, slowly at first, then more eagerly as his of long-deprived senses reawakened. He scarcely noticed that his hands were bound to the pommel of Scur’s saddle. He’d grown so accustomed to confinement that his conscious mind didn't even register it, but the songs of the birds, the wind on his face, the feel of moving forward in time and space--these things reached him through the mists and coaxed his mind from its enveloping cocoon. Sensations too long denied filled him with quiet delight.

But with the joy of perception, there also came uneasiness. Something was still missing. Desire, deep and insatiable, licked at his awakening mind. He suddenly longed to move questing fingers up to his throat, but one careful pull reminded him that he was bound fast. And in that moment, he deeply resented being tied.

What he sought was not there anyway. Hot frustration filled him. It screamed its siren call into his mind but he knew he could not answer it, yet. The rush of wind cleared the mists a little but they had not yet loosed their hold. He was still cradled in the grey darkness, only given teasing glimpses to tempt his mind back from the brink.

But consciousness would come. He knew that now. The shadows could not resist his need for It. They were falling away before the circle of fire. He only needed to bide his time and need would sharpen the tattered remnants of his thought. The rush of the wind and the easy rhythm of the horse's gait called to him again and in that moment of distraction, the mists returned, cloaking his eyes, shushing his mouth and filling his ears with silence. It did not matter now. He was awake inside and it was only a matter of time before the grey curtain was burned away.

VVVVV

The dusky colors of evening had appeared in the sky, before Pippin and Sam at last came into the town. Sam heaved a loud sigh, letting his eyes rove over the unappealing outline of the uncomfortably big town. Unhobbity, he thought, not knowing why this should so disconcert him. He’d not expected this place to resemble the Shire, but the sight of the uncozy two and three story buildings, the blocky stone squares that passed for homes, gave him a stronger jolt than he'd expected. They were a sharp reminder of how far he was from his own home. The closer they rode, the stronger these feelings became until at last they bore down upon him like a physical force. The west gate loomed like a giant oaken palm blocking their way.

‘A mite early to close the gate,” said Pippin. “It’s barely dusk.”

“Something ain’t right here, Pip,” said Sam shaking his head. “And it goes past us being hobbits in a big person’s place. P’raps some of our troubles have found their way here.”

Pippin pointed to a smaller gate off to the side, near a three storyed structure that carried the look of an inn. There was a man sitting beyond it.

“That must be the inn, Sam,” said Pippin pointing. “I s’pose we could get in that way. If Gandalf is indeed here, he’d be waiting at the inn, I think. It's worth a go.”

Sam drew back his reins and signaled to Pip with a sharp whistle. “Pippin,” he whispered, feeling the sudden need to be secretive.

Pippin turned his head. “Is something wrong?”

“I just remembered something Gandalf said to Mr. Frodo, that’s all. P’raps it don’t matter now, but I can't be too sure.”

“What did he say?”

“Gandalf told Mr. Frodo to leave his name behind. And what’s more--remember--Merry said there'd be spies everywhere. Maybe they got some here too. I’m no one, that's sure, but with you being son of the Thain and all, p’raps we should leave our names hidden-like.”

“What name shall we give, then?” asked Pippin, now whispering too. “Or rather, what name did Gandalf say to give?”

Sam squinted, trying to pull the memory back into his mind. Presently, his eyes brightened in relief.

“Underhill.”

VVVVV

The ruffians had followed the Brandywine River until the trees of the Old Forest to the east closed in, thinned, and at last disappeared altogether. As soon as the clear, green expanse opened up, the men turned the horses east until at last they reached a long, snaking, track that appeared to lead to the Greenway.

Merry had been allowed to sit up in front of Broga rather than be tied down. While thankful for small mercies, he was becoming increasingly disconcerted by Broga’s unconcealed glee at reaching this milestone. “There it is, ratling,” he said, the moment they’d turned. “The Greenway. You know what that means, maggot-imp? It means I get to take my pay out of your soft little hide, see? What do you say to that?”

Merry made no answer to this question or to the endless variations that Broga continued pestering him with. Instead, he directed his attention to his cousin, now observing the land about them with a dangerous level of awareness. Merry suddenly flinched as a sharp, agonizing sting swept across his ankle. Broga had removed the whip from his belt and swept it across his foot.

“I said, Whatya gotta say?” growled Broga. “Or do you want another taste of the meal to come?”

“What would you have me say?’ hissed Merry, his foot still throbbing with pain. “I could call out to Grimbold, you know.”

But Grimbold was at a fair distance ahead and Merry immediately realized his folly.

“I’ll give you something to squeal about!” Broga snarled, raising his scourge. But Merry was quicker and jerked his foot up before the blow fell. The end of the whip slashed across the horse's side instead, drawing blood and causing the animal to rear up.

Broga was summarily tossed to the ground, while Merry, tied to the saddle, was flung from side to side like a rag doll. Scur leaped from his mount and managed to grasp the horse's reins, bringing him to a halt. Merry was breathing hard, hanging from the side of the animal by his tied hands.

Wheeling around toward the commotion, Grimbold found Broga sprawled on the grass with Scur holding onto Broga’s skittish animal. He leapt off his horse and righted Merry.

“He tried to whip me,” huffed Merry, still breathless. “But he hit the horse instead and it bolted.” Merry felt oddly like a tattling child, but the dark look that washed over Grimbold’s face gratified him.

Grimbold cursed under his breath as he stomped over to Broga, just lifting himself from the ground. “If you try another trick like that, I’ll lean you up against a tree right next to your prisoner.”

Broga said nothing, but sauntered up to his horse as nonchalantly as he could manage, grabbing the reins from Scur and taking off without so much as a thank-you. He waited until Grimbold was a safe distance ahead before pinching Merry’s leg with all of his might, daring the hobbit to cry out. “You’ll pay for that,” he hissed. “You’ll pay with all the flesh your back has to give.”

VVVVV

The gate keeper jumped to his feet as the two hobbits rode up.

“What do you want and where do you come from?” he asked gruffly.

“We are making for the inn here, my good man,” said Pippin, gesturing toward the tall building with as much authority as he could muster.

“Hobbits! Two hobbits! And what’s more, from the Shire by their talk.” He slowly opened the gate and let then through but their obvious uneasiness put him on guard. “We don’t often see Shire-folk riding on the road these days,” he said as he halted by his door. “You’ll pardon me wondering what takes you from the Shire. And what be your names, I ask?”

“Our business is our own,” answered Pippin, with an overdone flourish of his hand. “But if you must know, I am Mr. Underhill of Hobbiton and this ---" Pippin suddenly realized that they had not assigned Sam a new identity. He coughed to fill in the momentary gap and continued, “This is Fredegar Bolger, a worthy hobbit in my service.”

Sam shot Pippin an incredulous look, then realizing his peril, gave a short bow.

“Very well,” said the gatekeeper, pushing down his own suspicions. “I meant no offense. But it's my business to ask questions after nightfall.”

“But is isn’t—"

Sam poked Pippin by way of a warning. Pippin closed his mouth and the hobbits turned their ponies down the dirt road. The gate keeper shook his head and turned back into his house. Neither the man nor the hobbits noted the dark figure bounding quietly over the short gate and melting into the shadows of the darkening street.

The hobbits rode uneasily down the dirt road, the stone buildings leering over them like hungry brick trolls. When at last they reached the inn's stables, Sam felt it safe enough to speak.

“Fredegar Bolger!" He hissed. “Of all the fool names – why did you have to go and choose that one?”

“I had to think quickly and take the first one that popped up!” said Pippin in an injured tone. “I’m sorry, but you didn’t exactly give me any name to call you by. And you wouldn’t pass as a relation of mine, dressed as you are!”

“But Fatty’s quality,” said Sam uneasily.

“But they don’t know that,” said Pippin. “At least I hope not.”

“And I hope they don’t know he’s missing neither,” muttered Sam. “Well, it can’t be undone now,” he said as he tied up his pony. “Let’s not give any name for me at all if it ain’t asked. Just saying I’m your servant is fine.”

“Fine,” snorted Pippin. “Can we just go in and try to find Gandalf?”

Sam’s heart picked up a beat again, his nervousness flooding back into him like a cold wave. “Right,” he said, swallowing hard and looking up at the sign creaking above them. “Well, let’s see what things are to be found in this Prancing Pony.”

VVVVV

Merry felt dread coursing through his body as Broga’s horse drew to a stop.

“We’ll camp here for the night, said Grimbold as he pointed to a copse of trees just off the road. “There’s a creek behind those oaks where the horses can water.”

Broga leapt down off his horse, his eyes alight like a child at Yule. He cut Merry down from the saddle and tossed him roughly to the ground. His ugly face distorted into an overlarge smile as he bound Merry’s feet. “Finally, finally, finally,” he muttered.

"No!" Merry began trembling as the ruffian tore at his buttons.

“Not yet,” ordered Grimbold, approaching them. “We’re going to make camp first, then we deal with Master Brandybuck.”

Merry sighed audibly as Broga reluctantly stood up. “And one more thing,” said Grimbold firmly. “I’m going to prepare the prisoner. I don’t want anything he might be carrying to go missing.”

Broga threw his boss a poisonous look, but he held his tongue, pausing only to favor Merry with a twisted grin before swaggering off into the brush for some firewood.

Grimbold knelt down beside Merry, his face impassive. The hobbit craned his head back from his place on the ground.

“Do you wish to sup before or after?” asked Grimbold flatly. “Before, it might come up on you. After, you might not be in a condition to eat. Your choice.”

“After,” mumbled Merry, suddenly loosing the bulk of his appetite.

“Fine,” said Grimbold. “I’ll have some broth saved for you.” Grimbold eased Merry into sitting position, and continued. “You’ll want to relieve yourself before, as these are your only trousers.”

Merry allowed the ruffian to assist him, and made no struggle as Grimbold, his hand curled tightly around Merry’s forearm, led him over to a sturdy oak. He sat Merry down, and without ceremony, wrapped a leather thong tightly around Merry’s legs just above the knee, then stripped off his shirt. Merry stared up into his eyes.

Grimbold tisked his lips. "You should have behaved yourself, halfling. It's out of my hands now. I will make Broga use my cat. It won’t cause as much damage as his whip, but it will hurt. I’m letting him give you 30 lashes, ten for the bite, and 20 for the escape attempt. Thirty lashes, or until your back is bloody, whichever comes first. Breathe between strikes as best you can, since if you pass out too early, I’ll let him start over. But I'll not let him kill you. Do you understand?”

Merry nodded and quietly said, “Thank you.”

The ruffian gave a grim laugh as he pulled Merry to his feet and leaned him against the tree. “Do not mistake my actions for kindness, little one,” he said, as he wrapped Merry’s arms around the trunk and pulled the knot tight. “For after you reach your destination, you will wish you were dead.” Grimbold wound a second rope around Merry’s thighs, steadying him against the trunk. “But it is for me to deliver you and your cousin there alive. After that, you and your fate are none of my concern.”

“Why don’t you do it?” offered Merry, his breaths coming faster, his heart quickening.

Grimbold shook his head. “You don’t understand, do you? Your flogging is as much a reward for Broga as a punishment for you.” Merry let Grimbold’s words sink in, wondering why part of him should find the situation ironic. The man reappeared in front of the tree. Merry stared back, his bare skin pressed tight against the bark, a shiver coursing through his body. “I’m going to gag you now, as I can’t risk the noise.”

“I shan’t scream,” said Merry emphatically.

“You will,” Grimbold said and lifted the gag.

“Wait!” Said Merry quickly. “Wait. Please…just don’t let my cousin watch.”

Grimbold fastened the gag around his mouth. “Remember to breathe,” he said, “Above all, don’t die.”

VVVVV

Sam reached up and opened the heavy door, pushing it forward with some difficulty. He held it for Pippin who quickly stepped inside. The thick atmosphere hit their senses hard after all their days in the fresh, open air. The pungent scent of pipeweed, human sweat, spilt ale, and the humidity of many bodies mingled to assault their nasal passages in a single obnoxious blow. They looked at each other and smiled. It was not unlike a warm summer night at the Dragon.

Still, it was not the same. Not at all.

Sam helped Pippin off with his cloak and quickly removed his own amid the stifling fireplace heat. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead.

Standing close together in the dim entryway, the two hobbits from the Shire took in their surroundings with wary eyes.

The furniture was uncomfortably large as evidenced by a bar counter they could not even see over. The characters hunched around it were fearsome and worn, with faces creased, tired, and dirty, attesting to the hard life of this town, where a man or a hobbit grew old before their time. Around the edges, patrons sat at huge tables, eating stew, throwing dice, laughing, cursing, and drinking what looked like ale from enormous earthenware mugs or a rich amber liquor from round, clear glasses. Even the barman's gold-eyed cat, glaring from a high windowsill, looked sinister--as if it would as soon eat them as look at them.

“Good evening little masters!” The innkeeper, looking larger than any of his patrons, was bending down from behind the tall counter. “I’m Barliman, keeper of the Pony. What may you be wanting?”

Sam decided to take the lead this time. “We want hobbit beds for two. This here is Mr. Underhill.” Sam indicated Pippin with his hand. “Has anyone come asking about my master?”

Barliman leaned down again, scrutinizing Pippin. Both hobbits felt quite alarmed, wondering if they’d done this all wrong. But the innkeeper lifted his gaze, paled, and clapped his hand against his forehead with a loud, “It’s you all right! If only you’d arrived a few weeks ago!”

Sam and Pippin looked at the man, wide-eyed. “Why?” asked Pippin.

“That wizard was in a state about your whereabouts!” answered the innkeeper.

“Gandalf!” cried Sam and Pippin louder than they should.

“Yes, Gandalf,” answered Barliman.

“Is he--?”

“No,” answered Barliman, cutting Pippin off. "But he was. And in such a state about my forgetting to deliver the letter!”

“Letter?” asked Sam.

“I was to deliver a letter and—,” Barliman suddenly covered his mouth, thinking better than to have this conversation at the crowded bar. With a wave of his hand, he urged the hobbits behind the bar and through a door into a small, cluttered store-room. They crowded among scattered crates and sacks, eyes bolted upon the visibly shaken innkeeper.

“It’s like this,” he said in a low voice, steepling his fingers nervously and glancing towards the barely-cracked door. “Gandalf was here a few months back and gave me a letter to deliver to a Mr. Baggins of the Shire.” Barliman gave Pippin a meaningful look, vaguely sinister in the wavering candle-light.

Pippin shuttered, and mastering himself, asked, “What does that have to do with me?”

“Ah, you know best,” said the innkeeper knowingly. “I won’t give you away; but I was told that this Baggins fellow would be going by the name of Underhill, and I was given a description that fits well enough – A hobbit taller than some and fairer than most, and he has a cleft in his chin – a perky chap with a bright eye.”

Sam glanced at Pippin, observing for not the first time the stamp of common ancestry in the young hobbit’s face, in particular, the cleft chin that appeared so often in those with Tookish blood, including Frodo Baggins.

“He said if he weren’t with you, you might be in trouble. He left in a rush, and suffice to say that I found none to deliver the letter. And when Gandalf returned a few weeks back, he asked if you’d come. I explained about the letter and such, and he growled that my forgetfulness had cost more than I could guess.

"I feared he’d melt me on the spot, right then and there, but instead he asked if you'd been here. I told him that none looking as you had come. It was as if I’d struck him to his death. His face fell--for I’d just confirmed the bad truth he’d already suspected. He put his head in his hands, mumbling something about the end of something. He didn’t even stay the night!" Barliman's free hand flew in the air, gesticulating as fast as the words pouring ever more rapidly out of his mouth. The one holding the candle shook.

"He galloped east, fast as the wind on that big white horse of his--oh! And such a horse it was!—leaving me with instructions to send you to Rivendell if you be found, though he said it in a way that made me think you weren’t to be expected."

“Did he say when he would return?” asked Pippin.

“No, Mr. Baggins,” whispered Barliman, “he did not. Though with the likes of him, you never know. You may wait for him here as long as you want, sir, at no charge, of course, as I fear I’m the cause of your troubles.”

Barliman ushered them back into the public room, offering to bring them a few ales “on the house, mind.” As he slipped from behind the bar, Sam instinctively looked up, suddenly feeling the weight of strange eyes upon him. A tall man wrapped in shadows sat menacingly in the far corner, one leg probed against a stool. He had the hood of a dark, weather-beaten cloak drawn up over his head, despite the heat from the fire. Sam could detect the glint of his eyes as the man puffed slowly on his pipe,. The one hobbit-height table was uncomfortably near the stranger. As they sat, Sam nudged Pippin, but before he could speak, Barliman rematerialized holding two tall pints of ale.

“Who is that fellow in the corner?” whispered Sam, turning conspiratorially towards the stranger. “He’s not taken his eyes from us this whole evening.”

Pippin glanced up and sucked in his breath.

“I don’t rightly know," said Barliman. He's one of them wandering folk. Rangers we call them. What his right name is, I’ve never heard but he’s known 'round here as Strider. Funny you should…”

Barliman’s name came flying across the room before he could say more. “Excuse me lads,” he said straightening. “Work calls.”

Sam turned his head toward the insistent tugging at his sleeve. “Sam!” gasped Pippin, his face distraught. “That’s him! The ruffian from the forest!”

VVVVV

Merry heard the heavy thud of footsteps behind him, but could not move to see who approached. The sound of cruel laughter revealed what he already knew to be true; Broga had come to extract his payment.

“Put that whip away,” Merry heard Grimbold order. “You're to use the cat."

"Why?" snarled Broga.

"You know why. He's not to be permanently damaged."

A cold fear ran through Merry, and he doubted the new scourge was a gift. His suspicious were confirmed as Broga sauntered up to him, smiling obscenely.

“Well. Ain’t you a pretty sight! All trussed up and waiting for our fun!” Broga held up the cat, a bunch of knotted ropes bound up at a handle.

Nine whips in one, thought Merry and found his heart pounding.

“Let’s give her a little test, shall we?” Broga swung hard at the side of an adjoining tree, causing bits of bark to fly in every direction. Merry flinched at the noise the knots made on impact and it made him instantly aware that Broga had an extremely powerful swing.

“Pretty good, eh?” he jibed.

Merry trembled involuntarily as he tried to steady his will.

“Broga!” snapped Grimbold’s voice. “Let’s get on with this.”

Broga leaned in close to whisper in Merry’s ear. “Just so you know, in case you can’t see him, your teched little buddy is standing right behind you ready to see everything. I convinced Scur it would be good for ‘im.”

Merry’s breath caught and a low moan escaped unbidden from behind the gag. His legs would have given out on him if they had not been bound fast to the tree.

“Thought you’d like that, little rat-maggot!”

‘Broga!” Grimbold called again.

“Ready,” Broga answered as he bent his spine and shoulders backwards, cracking the vertebrae.

“Thirty blows or bloodied back,” called Grimbold. "On my count.”

Merry heard the big man step behind him, heard the cord swing back with a hollow whoosh. Merry tightened his back, drew in a deep breath, clenched his fists, and waited.

TBC

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