5. “...Are Divided”
‘My poor Took, I fear you are done.’
Bandobras came to himself slowly, fighting his way free of the mists of nightmare, mingled images of charging the line of horrid, weapons-brandishing creatures. He’d had no time to loose one or more arrows, even had he had the inclination to abandon his death-grip on Friend’s mane and risk falling in the midst of the howling goblins, obviously maddened with excitement and bloodlust. His shafts remained in his quiver; somehow, he hadn’t dropped his bow, even unconscious. He became aware of his aching fingers, still clutching weapon and mane in their grip.
***
He realised he was lying face-down on Friend’s neck. He remembered nothing after they’d charged the encircling goblins. Blows had rained upon them as they passed through the line. Pain bloomed in his head, shoulder and thigh. No doubt Friend had his own share of bruises.
Driven by concern for the horse, he straightened, sparking exclamations all around him. A hand closed around his foot, and he looked down to see the Master’s upturned face, where relief was replacing sorrow.
‘I’m not done yet,’ Bandobras answered. ‘Not quite done yet, anyhow.’
‘You might have fooled me,’ the Master said wryly.
***
‘We’ve been trying to work out how to get you down from there.’ Rorric Goodfellow, Founder of Long Cleeve, stared up at his Chief Scout. The hobbit-bearing horse had come galloping right up to the makeshift barricade and stopped, so smoothly that his unconscious rider had remained on his back. Then it had stood, head high, surveying its surroundings yet seemingly oblivious to the coaxings of the ever-growing throng crowding around them.
‘Friend, I’d like to get down,’ Bandobras said. He untangled his fingers from the mane and stroked the soft neck.
Friend bowed his head and then knelt down.
***
With Bandobras within reach, it was quick work to ease him from the horse’s back, whereupon Friend stood up again and surveyed the surrounding hobbits, quite as if he was supervising their treatment of his rider.
‘No, don’t try and move him,’ Healer Nettle said sharply, bending over Bandobras, who had shook off the helping hands and then crumpled to the ground. ‘A stretcher, Master, that’s the thing. Bear him to the infirmary...’
‘But what about my horse?’ the scout roused enough to enquire.
‘Your horse!’ Rorric said in surprise, then, ‘Don’t you worry, lad. I’ll care for him myself.’
***