Chapter 11: Interrogations

Merry opened his eyes, desperately trying to get his bearings. He heard the loud clomp of hooves below him and guessed they were riding fast. All was dark but it still took a few confused moments for him to understand he was blindfolded. His abortive attempts to remove it revealed another unhappy fact; he was tightly bound.

The hobbit grimaced under his heavy blindfold, wincing in pain and frustration. Then, slowly, he remembered. They had escaped. Yes. He and Frodo had gotten away from their tormentors. Merry's razor-sharp mind, which had always served him so well, was now as dark and foggy as his surroundings.

What had they done? He tried hard to think. Frodo. Yes, Frodo had gone strange and run back into the hands of…and there had been a terrible cry. The riders.

Merry’s heart was beating strangely fast -- as if he were the one running, not the horse. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he steeled himself. For Frodo. He must not give in to despair -- not even now. If there was a glimmer of hope to be had, a shard of will to be found, Merry would seek it out. Like the fragile lead of mithril in a dark cave. He would find it.

“The Runt’s waking,” called a gruff voice that Merry identified as Broga. “What of the screeching, teched one?”

“Stirring too,” answered Grimbold. He sounded tired and tense.

“I can take him,” offered Scur.

The request was neither answered nor repeated, so Merry supposed Scur had been rebuked with a glance. He thought to inquire after Frodo -- but realized it would be a mistake -- yet Broga had caught his movement and realized the hobbit was awake. He chuckled cruelly under his breath..

“Boss – then what do we do? Let him call those things again?”

Black riders, thought Merry with a shiver.

“No,” said Grimbold.

Merry heard the jingle of a horse's harness and suddenly his body lurched forward as Broga’s mount halted. He was cut loose and fell to the ground, landing on his back with his breath knocked from him. The blindfold was removed and Merry blinked, finding himself staring up into Broga’s leering face.

The man spit on him. “Good afternoon, Ratling.” He smiled at his handiwork. “Did you have a nice walk?”

Merry shook his head quickly, cowed, at least for the moment. His brain was still refusing to function as it should and he had no will to stand up to the cruel man again. He searched desperately for Frodo with tense, seeking eyes but before he found his cousin, Broga kicked him and watched with an odd expression of joy as Merry curled up into himself.

“Your screeching friend is fine,” said Broga cheerfully. Then he added another kick for good measure. “At least for the next few minutes. After that, I vouch for nothing.”

VVVVV

Strider saw Pippin's stricken face and immediately knew something was terribly wrong. “Where’s Sam?”

But even the ranger's deep commanding voice, could not calm the young hobbit's rising panic. He searched quickly, desperately in every direction around the little campfire, but far more closely than one who was looking for the bulk of a grown and sturdy hobbit. A horrible cry rent the silence and Strider snatched up another brand from the fire.

“Pippin!” he demanded again. “Where is Sam?”

“Gone!” cried Pippin, approaching hysteria by the sound of his voice. “SAM!”

Strider stared at the spot Sam had been standing just a moment ago. His eyes blazed in a mix of fear and annoyance.

“Gone?” asked Strider. “I…”

“Disappeared!” screamed Pippin, his voice escalating with both panic and fury as he continued crying out Sam's name.

The shrieks came again.

“What is this devilry?” asked Strider, raising his torch high in the air and looking around as desperately as Pippin had. “The riders draw closer!”

“Closer!” echoed Pippin. “We can't fight them like this! What shall we do?”

“Find Sam, right now” said Strider, grim warning in his voice. “And flee this place without delay.”

“Sam!” shrieked Pippin. “Sam! I know what you’ve done!" He whirled in the little space around the fire and his eyes blazed with terror and rage as they peered into the darkness around them. "Take it off!” he thundered with a most un-Pippin-like fury.

Strider started at the words and a cold chill of fear filled him. He spun Pippin around to face him and the young hobbit bit his lips as if they had betrayed him.

“Take what off, Pippin?” Strider asked carefully.

Pippin opened his mouth, then shut it again, then shook his head violently. “Nothing,” he mumbled but would not meet Strider's eyes.

Strider’s grasp tightened.

“Pippin – what has Sam got to take off?” His voice shook with impatient rage. "Tell me now or it will be too late for any of us."

Pippin paled but still could not answer.

“Pippin? I must know. Does Sam have It?”

Another bloodcurdling cry went up -- closer still. Strider dropped the brand and put both hands on the hobbit's shoulders, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“PIPPIN!" He put his full might of will against the youngster. "Does Sam have the Ring?”

“Yes!”

Strider stiffened to hear his suspicion confirmed. “He will draw them to us,” he warned Pippin gravely. “But to himself first. We must find him.”

Pippin at last nodded. He understood what danger the Ring could be; that at least was clear, even if he did not know the foul thing's purpose. The hobbit took one step toward the fire for a brand of his own and tripped on something large and unseen. When he scrambled to his feet, Sam had appeared from thin air, crouching in the firelight, wide-eyed and panting in terror.

Strider drew him up by the collar. Despite his rage and fear, the ranger’s eyes were riveted to the ring of gold resting in the hobbit’s hand. It glittered and shone, mocking him in the firelight.

With great effort, he dragged his eyes away and pierced Sam with his frightened gaze. “Hide it away Sam! Do not put it on again or they will take you.”

Sam stared at Strider, terrified, as if he were the enemy to be feared. He held a finger outstretched, ready to slip the Ring onto it.

“NO!” hissed Strider his voice racked with emotion. “Put it away! Do you not understand? That's how they find you.”

Sam looked down, dazed, into his palm, his finger still outstretched. Suddenly Pippin stepped up beside Strider and reached out to the other hobbit.

“Sam, he is right!” Pippin pleaded. He swallowed, his eyes growing wide with fear as some dread comprehension dawned within him. Sam was gazing, glassy eyed at his palm. He was not hearing him; wasn't hearing either of them. Without another moment’s hesitation, Pippin slapped him hard across his face. “Sam!” he screamed, almost in a panic. “Don't do this! Come back! Put it down! Please! Please!”

Sam stirred, blinking, from his stupor and raised a hand to his brow. “They are... terrible,” he said, trembling.

“And they are very near,” said Strider. “Stay close.”

Pippin nodded and, with grim determination, drew his sword.

“That will not avail you with them,” warned Strider, picking up their packs. “They can not die in that way.”

“How do they die, then?” cried Pippin, suddenly angry and slashing at the empty air with his sword .

Strider opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly his eyes grew wide in terror. He brandished his firebrand and shoved Sam violently behind him as he backed into the trees. Pippin turned just as a swirling black shape reared up on his side of the fire. He cried out in horror and faced it, sword bravely but ineffectually in hand. Strider was quickly at his side and jammed the flaming brand where the thing’s eyes should have been. It shrieked as it burst into flame.

The sight of the burning wraith was one to chill the blood-life of a wizard. Sam was still dazed and sightless from his ordeal, but Strider and Pippin were transfixed as time stood still and the horror burned itself into their memories.

Its scream rent the very air.

“Run!” cried the man. He tucked Sam under his arm and pulled Pippin, his sword still grasped tightly in his trembling hand, after him.

VVVVV

When the pain had subsided to a level he could tolerate, Merry again opened his eyes. He was relieved to see his cousin’s small figure, sitting up in front of Grimbold, who seemed to be interrogating him, but his relief was shortlived. Frodo's back was turned to Merry, so he could not see his expression, nor could he hear any voice but Grimbold's. He watched as Grimbold plucked Frodo up and stepped toward him, his expression frightfully calm. Roughly, he threw Frodo to the ground beside his cousin.

“Broga,” he called. “I need you here.”

Broga stomped over to Merry and smiled evilly. The hobbit felt a shiver of familiar fear course through him. He thought he knew what was to come next.

“No, stand behind this one.”

Grimbold indicated his henchman should stand behind Frodo and Merry felt the blood drain from his face.

Scur quickly finished tying his mount to a nearby tree and approached his captain with tentative urgency. “Boss?” he asked, eying Frodo protectively. “You’re not gonna hurt my imp, are you? He didn’t do nothing so bad. It were the other one.”

Merry could have kissed the villain for his concern.

Grimbold rounded on the man, his expression rock hard and unyielding. “Stay where you are, Scur,” he ordered. “Water the horses, gather wood, whatever you wish, but do not come nearer or both you and your little pet will pay dearly for it.”

“But, boss…”

“Now, Scur. Do as I say!”

Merry heard Scur's reluctant footsteps retreating and his heart sank. Broga's rough hands grabbed his legs and the ruffian slid a knife was slid through his bonds. Then he pulled him up to stand facing his cousin, whose leg bonds had also been severed.

“Now,” said Grimbold sternly. “We come to it.”

Merry knew better than to answer. Reluctantly he lifted his eyes, only to find Frodo still clung to his familiar glazy stare -- but the set of Frodo's jaw told him that his cousin was far from oblivious. Merry's heart pounded in his chest even as he also tried to empty his face of all emotion.

“Here is what I know,” said Grimbold evenly. “Both of you have deceived us.” He turned to Merry, his eyes cold as ice. “I know your cousin can talk and that you made this escape with his help.”

Merry opened his mouth but Grimbold silenced him with a cold look. “This is what I still need to know," he continued. "Who is this prisoner and what is his connection to those things." He looked warily back the road. "Furthermore, I want him to tell me himself--everything he knows, especially about these… creatures out there.” Grimbold’s voice became lower and more menacing. “And this is something you both should understand. I will employ any means within my power -- short of killing you just yet -- to procure answers to these questions, as our survival may hinge upon them.” Grimbold then turned to Frodo. “Who are you? Speak.”

“He can't,” lied Merry.

Grimbold spun and clouted him savagely across the face. His hands still bound, Merry reeled back and fell. Broga laughed.

“Do not make sport of me, halfling!” warned Grimbold. “For compared to what the wizard will do, that will seem a kiss. Now stand up and you tell me your friend's name.”

Merry rolled over and staggered to his feet, a rivulet of blood trailing from his mouth.

“His name is Frodo,” Merry answered.

“Frodo what?”

“Bolger.”

“Are you sure?” asked Grimbold.

“Yes,” said Merry without hesitation.

“Broga,” said Grimbold calmly, and nodded once towards Frodo.

Quick as a snake, Broga drove a fist into the other hobbit’s gut. Merry cried out as his cousin crumpled, gasping, to the ground.

“Stand him again, Broga.”

The man lifted him but Frodo could not maintain his feet at first. His eyes were blinking, watery with pain and he could not catch his breath.

“You saw that coming,” said Grimbold. “I saw you flinch. Do not pretend that you are unaware any longer.”

Frodo coughed and sputtered but showed no sign that he heard the man.

“Tell me, master halfling, is Frodo Bolger indeed your name?”

He did not answer, but tried to straighten, holding his midriff painfully.

Grimbold shook his head in regret, “I used that question to see if your friend would lie - and he did. So I give you another chance. Tell me your name, Frodo, your real name.”

Frodo did not answer.

Grimbold took hold of Frodo shoulders, and then spoke in a low voice. “State your name, halfling or the next hurt is for him.” Grimbold waited a few seconds. “Broga,” said Grimbold sharply, have you your scourge?”

In spite of himself, Merry inhaled sharply.

Broga smiled and unhooked the coil from his belt.

“What is your name, halfling?” repeated Grimbold with a growing edge of impatience. “This will be the last time I ask so nicely.”

Frodo swayed, but kept his lips tightly shut. He no longer showed even the pretense of idiocy, but did look like he was very close to being ill.

Grimbold nodded again, this time towards Merry. Broga pushed him to the ground and wrenched up his shirt to reveal his scabbed and scarlet back. Merry tried to roll away, but the man stepped onto his thighs, pinning him in place, and swung the whip down across his wounds.

No mortal willpower could have forestalled it, even for a second. Merry screamed in agony and blood flew up from the tail of the whip.

“Baggins!” cried Frodo hoarsely, almost choking with the effort. “I am Frodo Baggins.” Then his knees buckled.

The man caught him before he fell and smiled grimly as he pulled him back to his unsteady feet. Grimbold took a step back and observed the pained eyes staring up at him, well focused and aware at the moment. “Very nice to speak to you at last, Frodo Baggins.”

VVVVV

Strider, Sam, and Pippin ran until the shrieks fell far behind them.

Against a stack of boulders at the base of a hill, they rested at last, the hobbits’ lungs burning so badly from fatigue that they could go no further.

“So those riders,” panted Pippin, “they…die by fire?”

“It is not for me to kill that which no longer lives,” answered Strider, grimly, still keeping a wary watch on their trail.

“What do you…mean?” Pippin’s voice shook, and not just from exhaustion. He hadn’t thought he could become any more afraid, but he was.

“That thing is not dead,” said Strider. “I only delayed it with the flame.”

“Will it be back then?” asked Pippin.

“Yes.”

An eerie silence fell between them as they rested, catching their breath and, in that quiet space, their fear grew. Finally Strider looked out from their hiding place and, satisfied they were momentarily safe, he sat back against a stone and faced Sam.

“How long have you carried it, Sam,” he asked quietly.

“What?” said Sam, stiffening and instantly defensive.

“The Ring, Sam.”

Sam hesitated.

“He saw you disappear,” said Pippin, “You were in a daze but now your secret is out.”

“Why should I tell this man my life story?” the stout hobbit muttered.

“Because he just saved your life -- both our lives -- from that rider! Because you put it on and those things almost got you -- and us!”

“And because,” added Strider, “you are both in grave danger -- worse than anything you imagined before. You need my help now, if ever you needed anything.”

“I’ll thank him for his help,” said Sam to Pippin, ignoring Strider as if he were not present. “But I still don't trust him.”

“What will it take to make you trust him?” Said Pippin, exasperated. “For I’ll not travel without him now -- not with those creatures about.”

“You must never put the Ring on, Sam, ever again,” warned Strider. He sought the hobbit’s eyes with a deadly serious gaze. “It draws them to you like a beacon and makes you invisible to those who would help you.”

“How do we know you didn't alert them?” snapped Sam.

“Sam,” Pippin cried incredulously, “he saved us.”

Sam made a noncommittal noise. “Well, if he wants to follow us to Isengard like a stray cur as ain’t been fed, I don't suppose I have the means to stop him anyway.”

Pippin relaxed, knowing that was as much concession as he would get from the other hobbit, and looked to Strider, hoping the ranger would understand how much it took for Sam to trust him even that far. But Strider was staring hard at his companion with a look that would brook no argument. “Strider?” he asked, becoming worried again.

The man ignored him. “You cannot go to Isengard bearing that burden.”

“What?” yelled Sam angrily, struggling to his feet and balling his fists as if he were ready to fight..

“What?” echoed Pippin. “But we must save Frodo and Merry. How can we do that without going to Isengard?”

“It may be that it cannot be done,” admitted Strider. “But to carry the ring to Isengard would not just be folly -- but suicide.”

Pippin caught his breath and no one spoke for a time. Finally, Sam broke the silence with a firm and determined threat.

“Don’t you listen to him, Pip. It's a chance we’re willing to take.” He turned to Strider. “Even if you don’t have the courage for it.”

“Sam’s right,” agreed Pippin. “We knew this would be dangerous but we've got to try. We have accepted that we may die trying, but we must try.”

“Of that I have no doubt, Master Peregrin,” said Strider, his expression softening. “But to bring the One Ring to Isengard would be the same as delivering it up to Sauron himself. And if that happened -- not only would Frodo and Merry perish -- but all of Middle Earth would be consumed as well. Is that what your friends would have wanted?”

“You speak of my master like he's already dead!” growled Sam.

“You say you would gladly perish to save him, but would he not just as gladly perish to save the entire world?”

“You have no notion of what he'd want! To live and save the world -- I say. And I say we can help him to do both!”

“It may be impossible for him to do both,” said Strider gravely. “These are hard words and it wounds me through to deliver them, but you have a weightier charge now than just saving your friends.”

“But we are so close!” said Pippin, feeling the panic rise in him again. “You said it yourself. Could we not give chase for a few more days?”

“I said he was close,” admitted Strider, “when I heard the riders closing in -- for they follow only the Ring. It is clear to me now, they were not on Frodo's trail at all, but ours. They are tracking us, Frodo may be nowhere near us.”

“You don’t know that,” said Pippin growing desperate. “And I think he is nearby. I do, Strider.”

“He may be,” said Strider. “And that is what cuts me especially deep -- for it matters not. We must take the Ring now and carry it -- not into the hands of the enemy -- but to Rivendell where at least it can be kept from them long enough to decide what shall be done with it.”

“NO!” roared Sam, enraged. “Now his true colors come through, Pip! He never cared a whit for Frodo -- only for the Ring. He wants it for himself!”

“I do not!” said Strider, raising his voice at last. “But Saruman does. I told you, if he gets it -- and if you two small hobbits assail his fortress -- that is a certainty -- it is only a matter of time before Sauron himself takes back what is his. And what will become of your friends then? Do you wish them to die knowing that the world was lost for a fools errand? That is not the Frodo that Gandalf described to me. The Ring must be taken to safety with the elves!”

“Gandalf,” snorted Sam derisively. “The elves. They would steal this trinket from my master as well. They don't care about hobbits any more than you do. So maybe it's time that hobbits stood up for themselves.”

“That's what Merry said,” said Pippin very quietly. He looked at Sam, wary and accusing, as the realization dawned on him. He took a half step back.

Sam’s face contorted with rage and before either Strider or Pippin could counter, he pounced upon Pippin with a ferocity the like of which he had never shown toward anyone before. Pippin threw up his hands against his attacker and tried to flee, but Sam bore down on him like a mad thing. Strider stepped in and pulled them apart but Pippin was already bleeding from the mouth and Sam was still swinging wild blows even as the ranger dangled him in mid air.

“He’s your cousin, Pippin!” screamed Sam, his voice breaking with raw emotion. “How can you think of leaving him to die?”

Pippin wiped his nose but trembled with sorrow. “I don't want to,” he said, “but Sam, Strider’s right and you are proving that right now. If the Ring gets into the wrong hands, no one will survive what follows. At least with Strider's plan, there is some hope.”

“But not for Mr. Frodo!” cried Sam. “The wizard will hurt him, the wizard will kill him…long before we get to Rivendell, and you know it!”

Pippin did not answer, but struggled to his feet. He looked at Sam and then to the lands that fell away to the south. He wiped his eyes and turned to Strider. “How far is it to Isengard?”

“A week, walking at a good pace.”

“And if we agree to go to Rivendell?”

“No!” cried Sam

“Wait Sam -- let me finish,” said Pippin. “If we agree to go with you to Rivendell -- might we follow our friends’ trail just one more day? Just give us one more chance in daylight to see if we have any hope of catching up. If we do -- we can rescue our friends and procure their swift horses from the ruffians.”

“I would strongly advise against it,” said Strider more gently, setting Sam back on his feet. “But this request, at least, I cannot refuse.”

“Sam?” said Pippin pointedly. “Can you agree? You are the ringbearer for now.”

“And what if I should say no?” he snarled, straightening his clothing defiantly. “Will you drag me along captive?”

Strider laughed but without mirth. “By the riders or by the wiles of Sauron, yes,” he said. “Without my aid, that would be your fate. With my aid even, perhaps. And they will take you to a place none so fair as Rivendell.

Sam glowered at the ranger and looked daggers at Pippin, but at last grumbled his agreement, though Pippin fancied he saw a cold light in his eye. Pippin placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and assured him things would turn out all right, then bid him to get some sleep if he could.

The wind picked up at that moment, swirling the dusty ground between the rocks in small whirlwinds that died almost as soon as they were born. The hobbits huddled into crevasses to rest, but Strider sat down gravely, set his sword upon his knees, and stared out into the unfriendly night.

VVVVV

“Will you now answer my questions, Frodo?” asked Grimbold.

“What I am able to,” replied Frodo in a soft voice. “But I do not remember much. My seeming has not been as much deception as you might think.”

“All right. What can you tell me then?” said Grimbold.

Frodo swayed on his still unsteady feet, but caught himself before he fell. "Might I sit?" he asked with a deceptive calm, as he might of someone serving him tea. When Grimbold nodded, Frodo slumped to the ground with relief. Grimbold crouched before him and when he had recovered his breath, Frodo continued.

"You must understand, my mind has not been entirely my own,” he began wearily.

“Whose mind is it then?”

“It belongs to dark dreams,” Frodo grimaced and closed his eyes momentarily. “And, and to visions I do not understand.”

“But you are aware now. Explain.”

"When I began this journey, I was possibly much as I seemed, for I do not remember it." He coughed and winced at the pain against his ribs and throat. "Perhaps it was the 'tender' care I received at your men's hands that enabled me to regain my wits."

Grimbold raised an eyebrow at the hobbit's irony. “Call me a fool, Halfling, but I believe you. But have deceived us before, he said. I dislike being deceived." He narrowed his eyes at Frodo. “Don't do it again.” He nodded toward Merry, still moaning pitifully.

Frodo looked over at Merry, who was still in too much agony to be aware of anything but his pain and then up at Grimbold. Their eyes met in a moment of mutual understanding.

“Now tell me, Frodo, why did you trick us?”

“Until recently, my behavior was no trick,” said Frodo. “After, I remained silent because,” Frodo thought carefully on his words, “it seemed wisest.”

Grimbold nodded. “The creatures -- you called to them last night. Are you in liege with them?”

“I don't think so,” answered Frodo, truthfully. “I fear them.”

“What do you think they want?”

Wispy thoughts dangled just out of reach. He had lost something, but the creatures had lost something too. “I…I think…” His features tightened in thought. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know what they wanted.”

Grimbold opened his mouth impatiently but Frodo continued, speaking faster.

“I don't remember,” said the hobbit, growing desperate and a little angry. “And I am so tired and hurt that I cannot think. But I do know that my companion and I are only simple hobbits, we have nothing anyone could possibly want. I have told you all that I remember. Will you untie us now and let us go home? I don't want anyone to be hurt any more.”

Grimbold shook his head, unmoved. “No,” he said flatly.

“Where are you taking us then?” sighed Frodo, slumping again.

“You really don't know -- do you, halfling? Your friend has not told you?”

“No,” he answered. “He seems reluctant to go there and I'd rather not either, if my preference be known.”

“Do you know why you are being taken there?”

“No,” said Frodo sincerely. “As I said, we are simply hobbits,” said Frodo. “We have nothing that another would want.”

“That is not my understanding,” countered Grimbold, turning again to Merry, who had quieted and was staring up at them in anguish. “I think your friend there knows. Has he not told you even this?”

“He is not my friend. And no, he has told me nothing.”

“But you do care what happens to him. I have seen that much.”

Frodo hesitated, and then answered, “I don’t trust him. But I don't think I should trust you either, no matter how fair your speech.”

Grimbold almost laughed, then his eyes turned as grim as his voice. “At least I know you are being honest,” he said. “But this you can trust -- we will continue this conversation at a later time, and if our ‘tender’ care causes you to remember something new, you shall tell me about it.” It was not a request. “I know enough about those creatures to know you are right to fear them. I believe that whether by intention or not, you draw them to us. If you are not a powerful prisoner, then you are a dangerous one, so have to a care, Master Baggins.”

“I know some,” wheezed Merry in a pained voice. “I know some…of the answers…you seek. But they are not for all ears.” Merry turned his head slightly toward Broga, a movement that caused him to catch his breath in pain.

“Little ratling!” growled Broga. “Your screams will be for all ears!” He raised his whip. “And for some, they will be as sweet as music.” He brought the hard whip down again upon the hobbit’s damaged back.

Merry screamed even louder than before. Grimbold leapt to his feet and drew his sword. “That is enough, Broga. Leave us now!” he ordered.

Broga gave his leader and the two hobbits a dark look and went away, muttering under his breath.

“Speak,” said Grimbold to Merry. “Or I will bring him back.”

Merry looked at Frodo with pain-teared eyes. “I need to speak to you alone,” he rasped.

Grimbold laughed. “I daresay Mr. Baggins was right not to trust you,” he said. He turned to see Frodo swaying, his eyes beginning to glaze over with pain, weariness and something more sinister that was not an act. “Scur!” he called. “Come quickly, take your imp!”

Watching from afar, it only took seconds for Scur to reach them with a readied blanket.

“Be aware,” said Grimbold. “Your imp speaks, and he speaks to us all. He likes you well -- But do not be fooled by his tricks. You may make him comfortable, but do not untie him. If he speaks again, even in his sleep -- you will tell me every word. Do not forget that he is our prisoner, not your pet.”

Scur frowned and stepped forward, keeping his eyes fixed on Frodo, who was having difficulty remaining upright.

The ruffian leader grabbed his subordinate by the arm before he could reach his charge. “I mean it, Scur, mark my words, do not grow too fond of this halfling. A dire fate awaits him at journey’s end and it would be a short and unhappy relationship. You are a mercenary; he is your prisoner, nothing more.”

Scur mumbled unconvincingly, nodding his head and shaking free from Grimbold’s grip. He lifted Frodo tenderly from the ground, wrapping him in the blanket. The hobbit winced and groaned from the pain in his stomach. Scur stared at his charge’s face and shook his head disapprovingly. Then he set him down by the warm campfire and patted his stomach where Broga had struck him making him flinch again.

“I saw what Broga done to you,” Scur said. “And if he does it again, I'll kill him myself.”

TBC

*****

AN: The Golden Mushroom Awards need noms! Nominate your favorite hobbity story in fun categories. Not this story, I mean GOOD stories by nice authors..the other stuff you read here. They would go in the gen category. http://www.west-of-the-moon.net/gma.htm