Beomann Butterbur was never able to adequately explain to his father, to Gil, or even to himself, the impulse that sent him into the barrow on the Ranger's heels. How much help was a green boy clutching a kitchen cleaver likely to be? and yet for all that it stuck in his craw to let the Rover face whatever was there under the earth alone.
Gil carried no torch and neither did Beomann, it should have been black as pitch inside the barrow, but it wasn't. A cold, unholy light burned in the burial chamber and crept, sickly pale, up the passage.
And there were voices. Thin, cold, moaning voices drearily chanting in a language Beomann couldn't understand but which seemed to drain the warmth from his body and hope from his soul.
And then Gil cried out a word that stopped the chanters' tongues and shattered the spell like like a dropped plate. Beomann gave a great gasp of relief and crept closer to look in the burial chamber door.
The first thing he saw, with horror, was little Tom and Daisy laid out on a slab of stone as if for burial decked in cold, dead gold with a naked sword lying across their throats.
The second was the three Wights, their white bones clothed in rags of skin and tattered silk. And lastly, facing them, the Ranger. Tall and terrible in worn green leather, eyes and sword gleaming with a pure silver light. He spoke again, clear ringing words that fired Beomann's heart though he understood them no better than the Wights' song.
The undead things shrank and gnashed their fleshless jaws then, snarling, drew long greeny-white swords and sprang at Gil. His blade flashed clean silver flame as it cleaved the formost Wight from skull to breast bone. It collapsed in a heap of splintered bone and a cold wind rushed, wailing, past Beomann and up the passage, fading into the distance.
He unscrewed his eyes and uncovered his ears in time to see Gil slice the head from the shoulders of a second Wight and had the sense to get quickly out of the way of whatever it was that fled wailing into the night. More Wights were coming out of gaping openings to other chambers or passages, converging on the Rover. Beomann launched himself at them with an inarticulate cry.
Old dry bone splintered under his cleaver as he hacked at limbs and rib cages. It caught on something and was ripped out of his hand. Ducking under the swing of a Barrow Wight's sword Beomann grabbed for a blade lying on the floor, rolled onto his back and skewered the Wight as it bent down to stab him. He scrambled to his feet, swinging the sword inexpertly with both hands as he charged back into the fray.
Suddenly the sickly light went out. Beomann stumbled over a tangle of bone and fabric, fell and lay still, panting, afraid to move in the blackness.
The Rover's voice, breathless but calm, came out of the dark. "Who's there?"
"B-Beomann Butterbur."
A rustling and a warm strong hand clasped his arm. "Are you hurt?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, Beomann, I don't know how you came to be here but thank you for your help. Now let's get the little ones out of here." ***
It turned out Beomann was hurt, a long gash along his jaw, another running from shoulder to elbow on his right arm, and a bloody hole through his left thigh. But he didn't feel them until after they'd arrived safe back at the Pony and his mother'd descended upon him with a sharp cry of dismay.
The Widow Thistlewood hung, wringing her hands and dripping tears, over the cold still bodies of her children. "Are they dead?" she moaned, "are they dead?"
"No," Gil answered her, "but their spirits are lost, wandering in Shadow, and must be called home."
Little Tom and Daisy, still in their barrow jewels and silken burial robes, had been laid out on a table in the common room with what seemed like half of Bree jostling and craning their necks for a look.
The Rover leaned over them and spoke commandingly in the same strange language he'd used in the barrow. "Lasto beth nīn, tolo dan na ngalad!" Silence fell abruptly over the crowded room, but the children did not stir.
Gil reached to take each by the hand. "In the name of Elendil the King and of Hundeth the Chief I summon thee. By the oath that binds thy kin to mine I bid thee come back to the Light!"
And Tom gave a great gasp and opened his eyes. And his sister uttered a long wail and held her arms out to her mother. Gil stepped quickly back as the Widow caught her children up in a tight embrace and the crowd of Bree folk surged forward to congratulate and exclaim. Came over to where Beomann sat on a stool before the fire with his mother tending his wounds.
"You must watch for infection." the Ranger warned her. "Wightish weapons are notoriously unclean."
"I can imagine." Mrs. Butterbur sniffed. "Nasty undead things!" squinted up at him. "Are you hurt?"
"Not a scratch, though I might have been killed if not for your son." and he gave Beomann a smile that made him feel warm clear through and a good foot taller. "That was brave, my friend. Not very intelligent perhaps, but brave."
"I'm that proud of him." Mrs. Butterbur agreed and threw her son a sharp look. "But if he ever does the like again I'll kill him myself!"
"Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum." Beomann said meekly. But in his heart he wasn't sorry at all, and in the back of his mind an idea was born to lie hidden, even from himself, for a long while.
His mother was studying the Ranger again and clearly not liking what she was seeing. "You look like death," she told him. "and you say you're not hurt?"
"Not by Wights." Gil answered, which was a mistake. Ishbel Butterbur had raised four sons and three daughters, she knew an evasion when she heard it.
"By something else then?" the flash of guilt in his face was all the answer she needed. "Get up, Beomann." she ordered. Then to the Ranger. "You, sit down." he opened his mouth to protest. "I said sit down, young man!"
The vivid laughter that briefly lit his face made him look young indeed. Meekly he took Beomann's place on the stool. Under jerkin and shirt was a bandage and it had blood on it. The wound beneath, a nasty diagonal gash across the ribs, had been neatly stitched closed but oozed blood here and there where it had broken open again.
"Taking on who knows how many of those horrid Wights with a great gash like this in you," Mrs. Butterbur scolded as she cleaned, salved and rebandaged the wound. "have you no sense at all?"
"Not much." Gil admitted, smiling. Then more seriously; "What else could I do, Mrs. Butterbur, with two children gone?"
That silenced her, more or less. She grumbled to herself as she finished her bandaging, then ordered Gil upstairs to bed and to stay there until she said he could get up!
That made him laugh again. "You sound just like my old Nurse. Very well, Mrs. Butterbur, I know how to follow orders. Good night."
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