Chapter Six - Just Bring Him Back Alive

"I see smoke," Denlad said. He pointed upward, toward the crest of the hill.

"Let us pray that it comes from Aragorn’s fire and that he is sitting beside it having a quiet second breakfast with that hobbit we saw."

Denlad failed to see much hope of that. "All that noise we made, surely he would have heard. I doubt it is his fire, or if it is, that he is sitting quietly beside it, unharmed."

"Your optimism is overwhelming." Halbarad paused and turned around. "Can you not for a moment look on the bright side? Have your years at Aragorn’s side taught you nothing of hope?"

"Oh, hope I have in plenty. But I am also a realist. If Aragorn were up on that hill and whole, you know he would have flown to our side at the first clash of swords, which racket I’m sure was quite audible even from up there."

Halbarad stood silently for a long moment, by turns glaring at Denlad and staring up the hill. He finally sighed. "Why must you always be so infuriatingly right?"

He turned around and continued his march up the hillside. Denlad smiled faintly, but it soon faded. What he would give to be wrong in this case! But if Aragorn was indeed by that fire, and the trail they followed seemed to bear that out, he was obviously too injured to have come to their aid, and if that were the case, his condition must be dire indeed. He sped up and passed Halbarad, suddenly possessed by an urgency even beyond the fear that had hastened them to this point. "Hurry," he called over his shoulder, and he heard Halbarad’s steps increase their pace.

It was not a tall hill, but like most of the hills in this barren land, its steep and forbidding front hid a long gradual slope behind it, and it was for that more easy ascent the trail led. And no surprise, that, for no man, let alone one injured, could easily climb the granite cliffs that soared upward from the valley. Ledges here and there provided tenuous homes for the few trees hardy enough to survive the harsh winds and poor soil. Denlad saw a goat creeping along one such shelf before they lost view of the cliffs.

As they hurried on, he spotted a flattened place in the grass and paused. Aragorn had fallen again. Denlad looked back toward the hill’s summit, wondering again about the hobbit. He bent low, looking carefully all around the flattened spot and finally found what he sought: a second pair of footprints, unmistakably hobbit, that had approached via a narrow game trail barely visible through the bracken and grassy weeds. "Look here, Halbarad. It seems we did glimpse a hobbit up on that cliff top. And it looks as though he stopped to help Aragorn."

Halbarad hurried past, eyes on the ground. "They are walking side by side; but look! Aragorn’s feet are dragging, and the hobbit’s footprints are deeper here. I would guess the hobbit is all but carrying Aragorn at this point."

"Are they so strong, hobbits?"

"I would not have guessed so, but it seems this one at least is."

They kept on, following the trail, and came to another spot of flattened grass, and from there the grasses lay smashed flat in a long curving trail up the hill as far as he could see. He looked more closely, nearly putting his nose in the dirt, and found a few green fibers. He held them up. "Halbarad, I think he’s dragging Aragorn, using Aragorn’s cloak as a sort of sledge. But why would he drag him so far? Why not simply build a fire here?"

"I think that this hobbit must know this area; perhaps he knows the grasses catch fire easily, and knows the summit is largely barren of vegetation. And, well, perhaps he has some knowledge of tactics and is heading for the highest ground."

Denlad shook his head. What a wonder this Shireling must be!

There was no longer a need for care, so they started running down the well-defined trail. They topped a slope that Denlad felt must surely be the summit. But he stopped, confused. "I thought this must be the top, but I do not see the smoke, nor the fire."

"There!" Halbarad pointed, and Denlad saw the problem. They had come up to the right of an outcropping of large grey boulders that blocked their path. He had thought them the crest of the hill, but now he remembered seeing them from below; they marked a spot just below the summit. He took a step to the side and finally spotted beyond them a grey-white finger of smoke reaching lazily upward, small against the blue vault above them.

They hurried forward, this time Halbarad taking the lead. Denlad thought about calling out to Aragorn, but that same urgency that had driven him to greater speed seemed suddenly to caution him to greater stealth. He reached out and touched Halbarad’s sleeve. Halbarad immediately stopped and looked back.

Denlad held a finger up to his lips, then motioned that he would go around the left side of the outcrop, where a scant trace of a game trail hugged the boulders above a sheer drop of at least fifty feet on its left. Halbarad shook his head and motioned instead to the less treacherous right side. He pointed to his own chest and then to the left side. Denlad pulled a face at him for taking the more hazardous route himself, but there was no time for arguing. He silently drew his sword and eased around the rocks, listening for any sound, looking for any movement that might signal something amiss. Seeing nothing, and hearing only the undisturbed soft buzz of small insects, he eased out from the rocks into a clearing. An untended fire burned in the middle of it. Halbarad came around from the other side of the rock. "Well?" Denlad asked.

"Nothing. I saw no one."

Denlad frowned as he sheathed his sword. "This makes little sense."

"An untended fire, a meal cooking... it would appear whoever was here was interrupted, very abruptly."

Indeed, a skillet of sausages and potatoes sat unattended on the fire. Denlad, out of long habit, reached down and pulled the pan out of the flames and set it to the side, then kicked dirt over the fire lest it spread, although as Halbarad had earlier surmised, the hilltop was largely barren of vegetation.

Halbarad squatted on his heels and looked at the scattered tracks. "These are hobbit, and those are Aragorn’s. But look at this!"

"A second man," Denlad said as he looked where Halbarad pointed. He followed another track and it led to a bedroll, and a pack. A cup lay on its side in the stain of its spilled water. "Someone was drinking, not many minutes ago... and that is Aragorn’s pack, and his cloak," he said, then he froze. "And here is his sword."

Halbarad stared it, his eyes bleak. "He would go nowhere willingly without his sword."

"He reached for it... see that? A partial handprint near the sword... see his fingers?" He hesitated, then went on, "and that is part of a heel print. Halbarad, he reached for the sword and the man stamped on his hand."

"And then?"

Denlad frowned as he tried to make sense of the jumble of footprints in the dust. He finally shook his head. "I cannot tell. It might be that he hauled Aragorn to his feet and then..." He stopped in frustration. There were simply too many smudges and unclear prints for him to make anything out. Aragorn would be able to read the signs, he thought with bitter irony.

"This man’s tracks... it must be another Southron. They seem to be breeding like rats."

"It very well could be," Denlad said absently, for a bush had suddenly claimed his attention. He touched Halbarad’s arm and gestured toward it. Its lower limbs were quivering as if in a light breeze.

There was no breeze this calm morning.

Denlad pulled his sword again and he and Halbarad moved swiftly toward the bush. Halbarad yanked the branches aside and, with a loud squawk, a small hobbit leaped out, grasping at the air to find his balance.

Denlad swiftly lifted his sword away and grabbed one of the small flailing hands. "Easy, Shireling! You are among friends." He steadied the hobbit and led him to a log and seated him. He noticed a scrape and a large bump on the hobbit’s temple. "What has happened here, can you tell us?"

The hobbit blinked a few times then covered his face with his hands. "I failed! I tried to stop him taking Strider but he was too big and strong. He threw me away like I was naught but a bit of trash."

"Which way did they go, did you see?" Halbarad asked.

He pulled his hands away, but he still looked stricken. "No. I... I must have hit my head. Everything went grey and fuzzy and then I opened my eyes and saw the two of you."

Halbarad sighed, then started searching the perimeter of the camp for signs. Denlad pulled out his shirttail and used it to gently dab at the still-bleeding scrape. "Do not be so hard on yourself, Master Hobbit. It takes more courage than most men have to take on a Southron twice your height. What is your name?"

To give him credit, the hobbit gathered himself together and gave a small bow of his head. "Ferdinand Took, at your service."

"Well met, Ferdinand Took. I am Denlad, and I am at yours. And that man over there is Halbarad Dúnadan."

"Strider said those were your names. We watched you from here, as you fought.  Or at least I watched you.  Strider couldn't see from his vantage point, so I told him what was happening."

"How badly is Strider injured?"

"I found him yesterday, in the field below. He had a knife wound, and likely some broken ribs. He was nearly on his last leg when I found him; indeed he really wasn’t on any legs at all really, having made it to a stand but that was as far as he got. He lasted long enough to greet me, but then he sort of collapsed to his knees. I managed to help him sit down, but then he fainted dead away. I got him to wake up a bit, and got him walking, but it wasn’t many more steps before he fell down again, and then nothing would wake him. I was that scared he would die, I am not ashamed to say. There was so much blood soaking his bandage; scared me silly, it did, and I’m not easily frightened. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to him. He might have been cut nearly in two, for all I could see." He paused to take a deep breath, then continued. "I didn’t want to stay where we were; too open, you see. I didn’t know if whoever had done this was still lurking about. I saw he had a cloak, in his pack, and I took it and laid it out and sort of rolled him onto it and then grabbed the ends and started tugging. It took a while; he’s a big man, and you can see, I’m not big by any stretch of the imagination. But I had to get him up this hill, where I reckoned it would be safer for him to recover. But I guess I thought wrong. No one bothered us through the night, and so I didn’t reckon on there being another bandit, and especially not after seeing how you had taken care of those three down below."

Halbarad returned to their side in time to hear this last. Concern creased his brow. "This man... how long ago did he take Strider?"

Ferdinand glanced at the sun. "It could only have been minutes. I was fixing second breakfast when we stopped to watch your fight. I managed to get Strider to eat a slice of bacon–he won’t eat, gets sick if he does and that worries me. Losing the blood he has, he needs to eat to get his strength back. I cannot imagine why he cannot eat."

Denlad smothered a smile at Ferdinand’s outraged expression. Woe betide any man who does not eat the food offered by a hobbit. "Ofttimes pain steals a man’s appetite. I have medicine I can give him that will help that."

"Oh, good, very good." Ferdinand looked relieved, but then his face fell. "Only we don’t know where he is. Oh dear..."

Halbarad rested a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. "Calm yourself. We will find him. I found their trail; it is clear and they are only minutes ahead of us, from the looks of it. We should be able to see them as soon as we round the summit." He gestured at the swelling on the side of Ferdinand’s head. "Will he be all right?"

"I think so," Denlad said. "He will have a headache, but he seems relatively unharmed. His name is Ferdinand Took, by the way."

"I regret we must leave you so soon after meeting, Master Took, but time is short," Halbarad said. He pulled off his pack and set it beside Aragorn’s. "But we will be back, as soon as we find our friend."

"I will keep the fire going."

Denlad felt himself blush. "I’m sorry about kicking it out. I thought no one was here."

"No need apologizing; I can light it again easily enough." He dredged up a wobbly smile. "You saved my sausages from burning, at least."

Denlad laughed. He liked these irrepressible hobbits. "Keep them warm for us. I’ve no doubt that Strider will be hungry when we bring him back."

With a final look at Ferdinand’s scrape, finding it no longer bleeding, he stood and, after pulling off his own pack, save the healing supplies which he tucked under his belt, followed Halbarad, but Ferdinand suddenly called out, "Wait!"

Denlad stopped and turned.

"You should know–I think I heard the man say something about paying back blood for blood." Ferdinand’s blue eyes held unshed tears. "Please hurry. I... I have grown very fond of Strider, in the hours I have known him."

Halbarad cast a worried gaze at Denlad, then inclined his head to Ferdinand. "He is one to whom one’s love–and allegiance–come easily. And I have been remiss in not thanking you for all you have done for our friend. Words cannot really express my gratitude."

"Nor mine," Denlad added.

"Just bring him back here, alive, and that will be all the thanks I will ever need."