The Adventures of Frodo Gardner
Volume II Through Shadows to the Edge of Night By Dolores J. Nurss
Chapter 6, Part 36 Billie-Lass (December 10, 1451)
The last stretch of road
descended sharply, switching back and forth between mossy
old pukel-men in a forest so dense that it seemed like
twilight all day long, as a faint mist of snowflakes
swirled about. Billie-Lass went slow and skittish down
the frost-slick path, for most of the time the slope
beside them tumbled so neck-breakingly steep that
brambles clung to it for dear life and the trunks of
fallen trees choked the ravines below. Sometimes the
ground would drop unexpectedly to one side of them into
out-and-out cliffs that opened up mountain vistas of
breathtaking, deadly beauty. Nor did Frodo begrudge his
pony's caution or try to urge her to more speed, not
though he knew that at this pace he wouldn't make Minas
Tirith till long past dark. Indeed, he felt half-sick
with fear whenever horsemen crowded past him, impatient
with his delays.
All the same, he could hardly wait till he got the stone
walls of Minas Tirith wrapped safely around him
(Sometimes he got glimpses of the white citadel towering
ahead, revealed between forests parted by ravine.) And
not just for the promise of at least a day or two spent
somewhere other than a saddle. The eyes of
fellow-travelers had grown more unfriendly with every
mile.
Something had seemed strange--wrong--about the last
several inns. Everything in them had looked too sharp,
too harsh. It finally dawned on him--they'd lacked that
softening haze of smoke that he had come to associate
with public houses. The focused light accentuated the
irritability of every face that greeted him, the lines
around the eyes that stared, the teeth bared slightly in
the scowls. Pipeweed had gone beyond dear; it had become
unavailable altogether.
Frodo breathed deep the piney air, wondering why anyone
would want to fill their lungs with anything else. The
trees stood straighter on this side of the mountain, tall
and proud like kings in bluegreen robes, trimmed in
fringes and ruffs of snow. The shadows cooled and
lengthened all around him; no, he definitely wouldn't
reach shelter by daylight. His stomach grumbled something
about dinner, so he dug out a hard-cured sausage from his
pack and a handful of dried apple slices to go with it.
The terrain had flattened a bit for a space here; it
looked like he might actually find room to dismount and
enjoy his supper on his feet, giving both himself and
Billie-Lass a break. Surely the Woses wouldn't begrudge a traveler so small a departure from the access-road through their land. He hadn't ridden far off the road
when the mare found some frostbitten berries to nibble.
Frodo laughed in the saddle and sighed. "Have I ever
told you, Billie-Lass, that you're the fattest pony in
the Shire? If I have to loosen your girth any more, I
shall run out of leather!"
Before Frodo could climb down, though, he saw a horseman
riding towards him on the road. He recognized the blonde
man as the same one who had threatened him before.
Smoke-hunger burned in the taut blue eyes, and grim lines
framed the mouth. Yet the man's voice sounded almost
compassionate, except for a faint quiver in it, when he
said, "Are you sure you will not share, little
master? There is yet time to make peace with your fellow
creatures and be welcomed as a friend--nobody means you
harm." And as he spoke other riders emerged from the
forest all around in that level place, where they'd been
waiting for Frodo (but the way stood steep before and
after and for quite some space around.) As though making
conversation, the man smiled and said, "You see? I
do take you seriously, my halfling friend, for I will not
face so redoubtable a warrior without company."
Frodo looked slowly all around him, swallowed, and said,
"This is crazy. What makes you think there could
possibly be enough for all of you even if I did
h..."
"Then you do carry pipeweed!"
"No! No! I meant to say that even if I
had..."
"Liar!" And the man made no more pretense of
fellowship. "Whether you have any or no we shall
discover soon enough--aye, and whether you hold aught
else that we might fancy!" All of the men started to
close in on him at once. "You deserve nothing less
for your selfishness and greed." The man drew his
sword with a shrill of metal on metal...
Billie-Lass reared in panic at the sound, nearly
unseating Frodo. Then, eyes rolling, the pony hurtled
between the legs of two much taller horses, biting and
kicking to make room; the injured steeds reared in turn
and gave their masters too much grief to stop Billie-Lass
from streaking right past into the woods, careening
around trunks and diving under boughs that would stop a
full-sized horse, while Frodo clung to her neck and
hissed "Good girl! You show 'em!" He heard
arrows thunk into trunks behind them as the mare raced
headlong towards a cliff in blind terror...
"No, Billie! Noooo!" But before he could
jerk the reins away she leaped--and Frodo stopped
breathing. But soon she stumbled nearly to her knees at
the foot of what turned out to be a really high bank,
scrambled up again and galloped on, his bedroll flying
off behind her as he gasped the icy air.
Now they cut past a wide bend in the road, into
bolt-holes in the woods that only a pony could shoot
through, over logs that Frodo never dreamed that she
could leap, while the men strove to master their mounts
so they could race around and make up the difference.
Frodo had no idea that his frantic little mare could
scurry across so steep a pitch, but when she hit the
trail again she went all out and sped like a chased cat
down the twists and turns, hooves skittering on the ice,
foam flying from the bit, hoofbeats and heartbeats
pounding. Frodo gripped the reins till they hurt his
hands to try and steer her stampede the best he could as
road/trees/vertiginous drops all spun before his eyes and
the snow stung with velocity. An arrow hit with bruising
force below his shoulderblade, but it snapped upon the
mithril and he held on tight. "Good girl--you can do
it! Keep your feet, lass, keep your feet!"
But she whinnied like a scream and jolted beneath him,
and they tumbled to the ground; Frodo barely kicked free
the stirrups and jumped aside in time to keep her fall
from pinning his leg. He stumbled behind a pukel-man and
watched the pony thrash in the middle of the road, blood
spattering from an arrow in her hindquarter, neighing and
neighing till Frodo thought he'd go mad with the piteous
sound. Frantically he cast about his mind for anything he
could do to ease her suffering, but all he could manage
was to cower behind the stone and witness all as the
sneering man rode up and plunged a sword into her neck.
Shock froze Frodo where he crouched; nothing had ever
looked so red against the snow. "He didn't have to
do that," the thought echoed in his head, again and
again, while the man told his fellows to fan out and
search the slopes for the halfling. "He could have
healed her--he could have taken her prisoner and sold
her." Then a fury welled up inside him--"They
killed Billie-Lass!" His hand trembled when
it fumbled for Sting's hilt, but when he pulled the blade
from its sheathe he had never held it so steady in his
life. He waited for one of the searching men to near,
hoping to stab at least one by surprise before the others
converged on him. "Let's see how many men it costs
to take one hobbit down," he muttered to himself.
Something odd troubled him. What took them so long? Why
didn't they head straight for the pukel-man to search for
him--the obvious thing for him to hide behind?
Then he heard horns, horns rising up the slope, and the
jingle of harnesses shrilling with the gallop of many
hooves, as a booming voice cried, "Hold! Lay down
your weapons and Gondor shall spare you! Persist and you
shall die!"
|