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When Trouble Came  by Lily Dragonquill

Chapter Four: Growing Despair




“There it goes,” Marmadas sighed.

“There they labour.” Seredic shook his head.

“And all for the Chief,” Milo grumbled.

“Don’t call him that,” Saradoc said. “Lotho has no authority among the hobbits, no matter what fancy name he gives himself.”

“A name doesn’t change what’s going on,” Merimac pointed out, but his face was dark.

It was the end of Wedmath. Harvest time had begun, but not for the hobbits of the Hall – not for those that still lived there, at least. Saradoc watched his fields from a distance. It was hobbits that worked there, some the very lads who had watched the Hall’s gardens only weeks before. Ruffians stood about them, laughing and driving them on like cattle, cracking their whips if the hobbits worked too slowly for their liking.

Saradoc pitied them as much as the hobbits in Brandy Hall. Folk all over the Shire fared poorly these days. They were oppressed and exploited. Gathering and sharing the Big Folk called it. They took food from every household, food the families had cultivated themselves, and carried it away to huge storage houses where it could later be picked up again. The hobbits, however, saw little of it again. It was all for the Chief’s Men. In fact, Saradoc began to believe that folk in Brandy Hall was better off in spite of food shortage. Here, at least, it was still hobbits who were in charge and though he had little to offer Saradoc cared for his kind. But what were hobbits to the Big Folk apart from cheap slaves?

They had closed all the inns. Not that anybody was in the mood for merriment. Besides, there was neither ale, nor weed, nor any extra food to have anyway. The only thing that did not grow short were the Chief’s rules, and every time Saradoc got one of those lists into his hands he would tear it to pieces. Not that it made any difference. Buck Hill and the surrounding smials of Bucklebury were an island in the midst of ruin.

Saradoc shook his head sadly and turned his back on the picture of misery before him. The sun shone brightly as they walked back to the Hall, her strength and warmth mocking their desperate state. They spoke little and their heads were bowed. Merimac alone seemed to be in a better mood than he had been in for days. Berilac had awakened some two weeks ago, and he fared better with each day, though Pimpernel and Adamanta saw to it that he did not leave his bed for too long. Yet there were worries on his brother’s mind as well and Saradoc was all too aware that most of them circled around the ponies.

It was the beast’s paddock that Merimac now headed for, probably without being aware of it, and Saradoc followed him, nodding his goodbye to the others. Merimac put his arms on the fence and Saradoc followed his example. Thoughtfully, they watched the beasts, about half of the Master’s breed, grazing and galloping without a trouble in this world. How he envied them! Saradoc closed his eyes and stretched his face towards a light breeze that smelled of ponies, dry grass and summer – a smell he would always associate with his youth when uncle Saradas had them under his wing during the haying season and his greatest worry was how to get away from his watchful eyes.

“I don’t know how I will get the ponies and the other beasts through the winter.” Merimac broke the silence and rested his chin on his hands. He did not look at him and Saradoc did not have to see him to know about the worry in his eyes. “Without the southern meadows I don’t even have enough space to let all the ponies out at the same time, if I want to get some hay as well. Without the help of the Marish folk we’d be badly put.” Merimac’s voice was heavy, but not without hope. “I think it’s our luck that the men consider the moor-land of the Marish of not much use to them and don’t pay it much heed. It will be a tight call but I think if we work hard enough on the meadows in the west and north, and if the grass grows fast we might even manage to get just enough hay for every farm.” He looked up. “What we shall do about oat and grain, however, I do not know.”

Saradoc nodded, but made no reply. His eyes rested on a beautiful chestnut mare with a blaze. She held her head proudly and her mane fluttered in the wind. A colt of similar looks skittered about her, one of the few foals this year. Saradoc sighed heavily. A lump was in his throat for he knew what he was going to say would not please his brother. Yet his voice was determined if subdued. “We can’t keep all the ponies. The sheep are lost. Marmadas has already butchered most of the pigs. I want to keep the cows for the milk and the hens, for as long as we manage to feed them in winter, for the eggs. The ponies…”

“There might be a chance…” Merimac interjected quickly and stood up straight.

“No, Mac,” Saradoc stopped him short and looked him straight in the eye. “You said yourself that we don’t have enough food to bring them through the winter. I have a Hall full of hungry mouths that need feeding and the gardens are not big enough to fill all their stomachs. If we don’t find a way to get to the southern fields this winter is going to be harder than any other. We’re lucky enough to still hold the forest south of the road to Bucklebury or we might all freeze to death after the first frost.”

His words were sharper than Saradoc had intended, but it was the truth and the only thing that was on his mind lately. Merimac stared at him, opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it; then he pressed his lips to a tight line, squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, fists clenched. Merimac loved his ponies, but Saradoc knew he also loved him and would see his reason. He pitied him nonetheless and as he laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed it gently his voice was soft and full of sympathy. “I wish there was a different way.”

Merimac took a deep, shaking breath, but did not look up. The muscles under Saradoc’s fingers were tense and the voice that eventually answered him was barely more than a whisper. “I know.”

Saradoc gave his brother’s shoulder another reassuring squeeze, before he turned towards the Hall. He had not gone far though, when he turned around once more and found that Merimac was still standing at the fence with his head bowed and his fists clenched.

“Mac,” his younger brother looked up, and though Saradoc could not quite define what he saw on his face, it struck him almost as painfully as the dispute they had the other day. “Take young ones. The meat shouldn’t be too stringy.”




******




For a long while Merimac did not move. He did not understand why Saradoc’s request pained him so much. He had feared it would come this far, had known it long before this day. Yet there was a dull ache in his heart. The ponies were the only thing in these dark days that had not changed. They were still his, they still loved him, and he could treat them as he had always done. Everything else seemed to slip from his fingers. Like everybody else Adamanta had gone quiet and thoughtful, Berilac he had almost lost, and Bluebell detached herself further and further from him with each day.

Merimac rested his arms on the fence once more and was surprised to find his daughter sitting on the wooden boards at the other end of the paddock. She looked at him and had probably watched him for some time. Merimac managed a smile and waved at her, but the girl immediately looked to the other side, dark curls waving in the summer’s breeze. Merimac lowered his hand again and sighed. This was the worst of all pains.

Every time he and Bluebell saw each other there was an argument. Only last night they had quarrelled so heatedly that it had needed Adamanta to bring them back to their senses. Merimac couldn’t even resent her anger. She felt caged and locked up. She wanted to go out, do something, anything, and she blamed Merimac, for he would not let her. It was not safe, not for anybody, but most certainly not for a young girl of eighteen.

Yesterday she wanted to go for a ride. A ride! Merimac laughed bitterly. At any other time his heart would have danced with joy to see his daughter among the ponies as well as his son. And he would have gladly accompanied her on whatever trip she might want to go – Heavens, he himself ached to go for a good long ride – but he could not allow it. Not now. It tore at his heart to see her storm away from him with tears glittering in the corner of her eyes. He knew Bluebell complained to Adamanta about him, but even his dear wife struggled to bring reason into the girl’s mind. Bluebell had a fiery spirit that Merimac had ever enjoyed, but these days he wished her as unassuming and calm as her mother had been.

One of the ponies, a young skewbald gelding, recognising its master came up to him, snorted and nuzzled his shirt looking for a treat. Merimac chuckled despite himself, pushed the pony’s nose gently from him and stroked its soft nostrils. Immediately, he was brought back to the iniquity of his other burden.

The ponies knew nothing of what was going on and yet they were to pay – to die, so that his kind might live. The circle of life uncle Saradas would have called it and Merimac had ever accepted it – until this day. A cruel stroke that fate dealt on him, and yet he would do as he was asked. Not today perhaps, but soon. He would choose carefully and for once he would not look for excellent breeding but simply for good meat to feed the nigh one thousand mouths that now occupied Brandy Hall’s every room.

Merimac pushed the gelding from him and clapped its flanks so that it bolted out into the paddock.

“Run,” Merimac whispered after it. “Run while you may and enjoy what life is left to you.”




~*~*~




Saradoc stood at the window of his study, hands crossed behind his back, and gazed north-westwards, watching the last fiery rays of sunlight disappear behind the treetops. It was only a simple joy but for a moment there was peace in his heart.

He turned around as the door opened and Esmeralda entered with a roll of parchment in her hands. He smiled at her and gestured for her to sit down. He himself remained standing for another instant, but the moment had passed just like the unexpected lightness in his heart.

“You look tired,” Esmeralda announced as she took her seat at the other side of his desk.

Saradoc smiled weakly. “So says the woman who doesn’t seem to sleep at all these days.”

Esmeralda shrugged. “It could be worse.”

“Could it, really?” Saradoc wondered and sank into his chair.

She made no reply but clutched the roll of parchment tighter as if loath to show it to him. Her face was pale, her expression a strange mixture of pity, sympathy, fear, and determination. Blessed be the Tooks and their ceaseless determination, no matter how difficult the task they faced! Saradoc admired her grit, and though he knew her weakness too, he marvelled every time he saw her. She said that he was the strength that held everything together, including her, and yet he wondered how far he would have got without Esmeralda at his side.

Saradoc leaned over the desk and took her hand when she still would not speak. “What is it you meant to tell me?”

It was a stupid question, for he guessed the answer. Some weeks ago he had asked her to count the supply of food and calculate how long they would manage and where it might be possible for them to save. The parchment and the fact that she was so reluctant to show it to him disclosed the bad news he had already feared. Esmeralda closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“You have to stand up to them.”

Saradoc looked at her in surprise.

“You have to fight them,” she repeated and met his eyes. “If all of Buckland stands together you can defeat them and drive them out.”

For a long moment Saradoc could only stare at her and when he answered his words and the calmness in them surprised him. “I know.”

She straightened, brow furrowed. “Then, why…?”

“Who would follow me?” he asked. “Merimac and perhaps another handful, but not more. The poor souls in this Hall are so intimidated they would not raise a weapon against the brutes unless they were attacked. They might have come with me at one point, but we have lost too much and too often.”

“If we don’t do anything, the Hall will be our deathbed, Saradoc,” Esmeralda insisted. “If the last year hadn’t been such a good one, we would be in trouble already.”

“You don’t understand,” Saradoc stood up and leaned over the table, his hands still resting on Esmeralda’s. “Even if Buckland united against them it would not change our situation much. More Men would come and we would be at constant war, just like the Tooks. If we really want to change something the entire Shire must be roused. Every single hobbit must stop putting up with how the brutes treat them. That is the only way to fight them, to get rid of them and declare the Shire our own country once more.”

His eyes were locked with hers. He was breathing hard, but Esmeralda sat unmoved, her expression unreadable, her blue eyes dark as the late evening sky. Saradoc pushed himself up and strolled back to the window, where he pressed two fingers of his left hand against the spot between his eyes as he always did when he was at a loss. The sun had almost vanished and the study was plunged in a dull, shady grey.

“The soups will be even more watery soon,” Esmeralda informed him factually. He was sure that only he was able to distinguish the slight trembling in her voice. “The potatoes and bean poles as well as most of our roots are out of our reach. We’ll manage during the summer. We’ve tomatoes and salads enough but once the season is over we will quickly run out of satiating food.”

Saradoc closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’d rather have lost Bucklebury than the southern fields and meadows.”

“We’re also running out of flour and corn. Soon we’ll only have milk and cheese to live on.”

Saradoc felt the blood drain from his face. He turned to look at his wife, his expression one of shock and disbelief.

“What did you expect?” she demanded sharply. “We haven’t been to a market for over six months and while we hold Hall-land we can’t go to one of their sharings.” She shook her head. “I’d rather be a beggar than a prisoner in my own home.”

“Don’t say such things!” Saradoc told her.

“Why not?!” Esmeralda got to her feet and all but threw the parchment at him. “Look at the numbers! We’re not just beggars now, we’re dead! And if you’re cursed pride hadn’t forbidden you to ask for help when you still could we might still have a chance.”

“Help?! Is that what you call the sparse amount of food every family can pick up every other day?” Saradoc looked down at her, as she stood stiff and erect before him. Her eyes glowed with fury and frustration, her lips were pressed together to a tight, thin line and her fists were clenched at her sides. He felt her warm, ragged breath on his neck. “That’s not help. That’s mockery.”

“It’s better than what we have.”

Saradoc knew about the disappointment in his eyes as clearly as he knew about the accusation in hers. How easy she made it on herself! Blame him, of course, as if he hadn’t tried to find another way. There was none, as far as he could see. He could surrender, but wouldn’t that make matters even worse?

He returned his attention to the darkness outside, so giving himself a moment to think the situation over and offering Esmeralda a chance to calm down. He had once called her spirited and Paladin had agreed that his calm would do her temper no end of good. Saradoc did not think that he had tamed that spirit. Quite the contrary! He was only considerate enough to know when it was better not to argue any further. As much as her temper annoyed him at times, he could not deny that it was that very trait that made him pursue her in the first place.

Silence spread between them and although she was angry with him, Saradoc drew strange comfort from her presence. She was right with one thing. He had to do something if he did not want the Hall to be indeed the deathbed of many hobbits. As he stood in his study, unmoving, and with the sound Esmeralda’s breathing in his ear, the answer seemed clear to him.

“I will have to talk to them,” he said without turning.

“They won’t give you anything if they don’t see any profit for themselves,” Esmeralda announced evenly from behind him. She had calmed down, but Saradoc knew she still meant every word she had said.

“Perhaps I can pay them.”

“Money?” Esmeralda laughed bitterly.

Her laughter angered him and he turned to look at her sharply. “Don’t dare scorn me now, wife! There is nothing else I could give them. My land is mostly taken and I will certainly not offer them my people as slaves.”

Esmeralda stared at him in disbelief. Her mouth hung open and for a long moment she seemed to ponder a possible retort, but something in his expression must have stopped her. Her anger melted away and concern replaced the blame in her eyes. Finally, she seemed to understand him. “Sara…”

She reached out a hand to touch him, but Saradoc shook his head. “I will go tomorrow.”

“Alone?!” The worry in her voice stung him. When he looked at the dark shadows of her eyes he perceived her once more as the mother of a lost child, now trembling for her husband.

“It is safer,” he nodded.

“Safer?!” Esmeralda’s voice was shrill again, but her tone was different than before. “They almost killed Berilac!”

“Almost, yes,” Saradoc agreed and took her hands into his. “But they didn’t.” He pressed his lips against her brow and closed his eyes. Her fingers clasped his as if afraid he might disappear if she let go. He stroked her cheek and managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “They are still under Lotho’s rule. He will not have me killed.”




~*~*~




“I can walk on my own,” Saradoc coldly informed the squint-eyed brutes that walked on either side of him and held his upper arms. The ruffians grunted, but let him go. Saradoc straightened and walked with his head high, although he felt like going to prison rather than parley. Men lurked at the walls. They fingered their knives and grinned while they watched him with suspicious curiosity. The list of rules Saradoc had come across so often on his way here, he noticed, were missing from the walls in this house. He felt ill at ease but nothing in his composure gave him away. He could not afford insecurities, not while he was with them.

Saradoc felt only disgust for them. They had fouled his native land, tormented his people, and nothing that had once been a sure part of the hobbits’ every-day-life was safe from them. He had heard rumours of the Bridge Inn being used for the Men’s purposes, which was why he had come here in the first place. He had not expected to find the old inn completely gone. It had been replaced by a handful of ugly houses with narrow windows, through which hardly any sunlight streamed. Some of the houses were used as the gatekeepers’ small lodgings, others, like the one he had been led into, were the big housings of the ruffians.

He loathed the place, every bare, bleak corner of it. His heart ached for the cheerful lights of the Inn, the smell of ale and pipe-weed, of grilled fish and potatoes, longed for music and song and laughter. He missed the old times when there was joy and peace in the Shire and gates at the bridge were guarded but open and not spiked and dangerous-looking.

“You’ve come to talk, I’ve been told.”

Saradoc looked up. On the far end of the small, dark room sat a man with heavy black brows and dark eyes. Two Men stood beside him, like the guards of a king, only the Man possessed neither nobility, nor honour, only a scornful sneer that seemed glued to his face while he watched Saradoc advance.

“That is why I am here,” Saradoc replied calmly.

“Are you their leader?” the Man wanted to know as he looked him over suspiciously.

Saradoc stood, heart pounding, but his voice was undaunted. “I am Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland.”

Immediately, the brutes at his side grabbed him by the arms again and several other Men who leaned against the walls, reached for their knives and clubs. But their leader laughed, loud and roaring. “The Master, eh?” he scoffed and chuckled wickedly. “I doubt it. I’m Master of this land now, Bill Ferny, not Saradoc.”

“Shall we send him to the Lockholes?” the ruffian on Saradoc’s right asked.

Ferny considered this for a long moment and Saradoc’s heart sank. Esmeralda had been right, after all.

“Don’t dare tell them who you are,” she had whispered into his ear at their parting. “Give any name you like, but don’t tell them who you are.”

Saradoc could still hear the dread in her voice and the fearful trembling of her lips when she had kissed him one last time – more passionately than she had done ever before when in public. He had not cared and would do it again if only her words were proved wrong. What business would any Hall-hobbit have with the ruffians if not sent by the Master? Saradoc would not have the ruffians think the Master of Buckland a coward who was too afraid to come himself when his people were in need.

“If anything happens take my place.” When Saradoc placed a hand on his shoulder Merimac had been almost as pale as Esmeralda. It had probably been Saradoc alone who had seen the fear in his brother’s eyes. Merimac had offered to come with him, to go in his stead, but Saradoc would have none of it. He wanted his younger brother out of harm’s way and see his position in able hands should he not return.

“You don’t know what you’re asking from me,” Merimac had said when he accompanied him to the cart he had made ready for him.

“I do,” Saradoc had calmly replied, “and you know I would not deny myself.”

“I feared so.” Merimac had looked at him for a long moment, sombre and doleful, before he embraced him in farewell. “Take care, brother.”

“No,” Ferny’s voice broke his strain of memories. “No, I don’t think so. He’s no threat to us and neither are those maggots that live with him. They’re frightened, little worms, that’s all they are, isn’t that so?”

Saradoc’s eyes glistened dangerously. How dare that brute insult them so? What did he know about hobbits? What did he care? What…? But he bit his lips and swallowed the retorts he wished to throw at Ferny’s face. If only he could find a way to rouse the Shire and teach him wrong!

“You’ve nothing to say to that?” Ferny wondered and his lips curled with vicious laughter.

If looks had been able to kill Ferny would have dropped dead then and there, but Saradoc kept quiet, fists clenched at his sides. He took a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke once more. “Do you only wish to insult me or will you listen to my plea?”

Ferny shot him a glance that was as deathly as the look in Saradoc’s eyes, but he waved his hands dismissively. “Speak.”

Saradoc coldly looked at the Men at his sides who loosened their grip though they would not let him go completely.

“My people are hungry,” he said at last and his voice echoed strangely. “I have come to appeal to your goodwill. I do not ask for much, but I hoped we could come to an understanding that several bags of flour might be picked up every couple of weeks by my people.”

Silence. The pounding of his heart in his ears was almost painful. Every muscle in his body was tense, every breath laboured. Ferny scrutinised him with contemptuous eyes, his brows almost touching.

“What do I get from this?”

Saradoc swallowed struggling to stay calm and unperturbed. “If your companions let me go I will show you.”

Ferny shot him another of these deathly looks as if to warn him not to test his limits, but Saradoc held his eyes unmoving. Ferny gestured to the Men at Saradoc’s side. Freed at last, Saradoc produced a small, brown leather bag from his trouser pocket. Ferny got up from his chair, too impatient perhaps, to see his prize, and Saradoc was all too aware of the many eyes that rested on him. To his right he heard the dull pounding of a club edgily beating into one Man’s palm, as if its owner was itching to put it to real use. Saradoc’s nape tingled and sweated poured down his spine in little runlets.

Ferny snatched the pouch from him, pulled the string forcefully open and examined the coins in it: twenty silver pennies, enough to buy two, if not three, excellent ponies.

“That’s not bad at all,” Ferny said, his eyes never leaving the coins. Unlike him Saradoc was aware that the two Men who had guided him here stared greedily at the silver as well and for the first time he hoped that Ferny had enough authority to keep his fellows from fighting over the money.

“Will you grant me my wish?” Saradoc asked in the hopes to distract their attention from the coins.

Ferny stared at him put the coins back into the pouch which in return he put into his breast pocket. He sneered. “Wish?” he wondered and furrowed his brow as if trying hard to remember something. “I can’t seem to remember a wish, can you?”

Several Men shook their heads and sniggered while others laughed loudly at the joke. Saradoc straightened and looked Ferny in the eye, his expression one of mingled anger and disgust. “You can’t do that!”

The next moment his ears rang and his jaw rattled. Pain exploded in his head. Saradoc stumbled sideways where he was caught by one of his guards. Laughter echoed through the room, along with cheers of approval. Saradoc shook his head to clear his mind and when his eyes finally focused again he found Ferny face to face with him, breathing his stinking breath into his nose. “Don’t tell me what I can do, Master!” he threatened through gritted teeth and was rewarded with more laughter from his Men. “Go back to your Hall of rebels now until you can give me a better offer.”

Saradoc stared at that sneering mouth and those unrelenting eyes in disbelief. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his eyes watered. His mouth worked but he did not dare to answer back. Gone was the proud Master of Buckland. All that was left of him was a broken hobbit who could not believe the cruelty before his very eyes.

His guards grabbed him once more and pushed him towards the door. Saradoc was followed by jeers and laughter and the bitter taste of defeat. Once outside he climbed onto the coach-box of his cart and urged his pony to a quick trot. Not once did he look back.

Yet he did not drive straight home but took the long road over Newbury. He could not face folk in Brandy Hall as he was: mortified and empty-handed. Scattergold the hobbits had nicknamed him and never had he felt that name to be more appropriate. He was a stupid fool not to see what Esmeralda had known from the very beginning. Brandy Hall’s freedom could not be bought with silver. Yet he would not give the place up, could not. Perhaps that was foolish too and his stubbornness would kill them all in the end. Hunger would carry them off one by one and he would feel the guilt, knowing that he alone was to blame. And one day his life would end in misery. The last Master of Buckland, the most inapt of them all – gone.

“Evening, Master Saradoc.”

Saradoc started awake from his reverie to find a band of five Shirriffs trotting next to his cart. One he recognised as Hob Hayward, whom he remembered from the Hay Gate. He nodded his head in greeting but thought better about adding conversation to his gesture when he realised that the others were utterly terrified by this simple greeting. Pale-faced and wide-eyed they hushed Hob into silence and increased the distance to the cart, lest he should be tempted to say more.

Saradoc watched them torpidly and his breath hitched, when he noticed that several hobbits in the distance had stopped working on their fields to see him drive past. Immediately the ruffians who stood guard over them cracked their whips and bellowed a command to set them to labour once more, but Saradoc had seen their faces and had read what was written on every single one of them. “Help us. Get us out of this. Do something!”

“What can I do?” Saradoc asked voicelessly in return and struggled to fight the helpless tears which threatened to overwhelm him. “Would you come with me?” he added quietly and felt the painful truth in Ferny’s words. They were too frightened and he did not know what else it needed to stir their courage and rouse their spirits.

“If we stand together…” he thought, then shook his head, repeating to himself what he had told Esmeralda only the previous night. “We need the entire Shire.” But there was no way of letting them know of his plans. If he could reach Paladin they could start out together and the rest of the Shire would join in, but alone….

As Saradoc drew close to Hall-land borders the sun was setting. His pony had slowed to a lazy walk and Saradoc, lost in his broodings, had not bothered to hurry it. The beast snorted uneasily and only then did Saradoc grow aware of a hissing noise coming from the bushes.

“Who is there?” he demanded in a voice stronger than he would have expected.

There was a low, raspy chuckle and then a hoarse voice whispered: “If you keep your mouth shut I might be able to help you.”

Saradoc squinted and his heart skipped a beat when he noticed the ruffian standing in the shadow of some trees. He clicked his tongue at the pony, but the Man jumped into the road and blocked the way for him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said, still chuckling, and Saradoc had half a mind of saying all the hot returns he had swallowed in the afternoon, but what the Man said next silenced him. “I’ve heard of your plight and unlike that short-witted fool, Ferny, I think you paid a fair price.”

“What do you mean?” Saradoc asked and shifted his position, unsure whether he could trust the Man’s words.

The Man looked in either direction, hastened to the cart’s side and leaned conspiratorially towards Saradoc. “Come to the eastern border of that small town of yours an hour after nightfall tomorrow and after that every week. I shall see two bags of flour delivered to you on a donkey. Take the flour and send the beast back.”

Saradoc’s heart beat fast. He stared at the Man. He was none of the squint-eyed and sallow-faced brutes he had encountered on various fights as well as this afternoon. This one looked more like a Man from Bree, although it had been ages since Saradoc had seen one of that town’s Big Folk. There was no honesty in the Man’s dark eyes, but neither did Saradoc see the spite and malice he had seen in so many others.

“At what cost?” he wondered in a whisper.

Again the Man uttered his raspy chuckle and Saradoc shuddered involuntarily. “Cost?” the stranger mocked. “I have your land, Halfling. What else could I want?”

Saradoc felt the sting in that, but at the same time he was grateful. “What is your name?”

“My name is nothing to you,” the Man replied and looked hastily from side to side. He seemed almost fearful now, as if suddenly remembering that they were still on the open road. “Go your way and never speak to anyone about me.”

He clapped the pony’s flanks and the beast started into movement. Saradoc looked back over his shoulder, brows a-frown. He did not dare trust this stranger, though his heart wished he could. Nevertheless, he was the only hope Saradoc had and although the stranger’s raspy chuckle sent a chill through his body he was willing to try his luck.

“Thank you!” he called voicelessly over his shoulder, but the Man had already disappeared in the shadows.





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