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I   Blotmath 1419 SR : Ruffians

DRAGGING his eyes from the frightful thing at his feet Sam looked up with concern. Even at this distance he could see that Frodo’s face was drawn, anger spots burning on his cheeks, and Merry was scowling while Pippin looked distressed, head turning between his older cousins. Enough of the argument had been audible for Sam to know Baggins stubbornness was digging itself in, and he walked down to them, avoiding the shrouded form lying in the road and shaking his head.

“Now, Mr Frodo, you know that won’t do. Not for them Ruffians and not for him neither.” He gestured to the thing he’d been looking at.

Blue eyes turned to him in dismay. “Not you too, Sam? We can’t have vengeance starting here.”

“Who said anything about vengeance, Mr Frodo? First of all, it’s plain hobbit sense. There’s nineteen still tied up from yesterday as well as this lot today, and there’ll be more before we’re done.” Merry and Pippin both nodded, expressions grim. “So if we show thirty or more Ruffians to the Bounds, what’s to stop them sneaking back to attack farms in the South Farthing, or the Marish? Merry’s right about that, and you know it. And second of all, if they did clear off they’d only attack someone else, down south or over at Bree. Do you think Strider or Mr Halladan as he’s making his Lord Steward here would thank us for loosing hungry Ruffians on them?”

Merry and Pippin nodded again, Frodo looked stubborn, and Sam held back a sigh.

“I know we don’t want no vengeance, Mr Frodo, but just letting them go’s as much against the King’s Justice as killing them would be. And you know Strider’s merciful when he can be — you said as much about what he did with Mr Beregond.”

The spots on Frodo’s face were fading but his back was still stiff and Sam could see the headache gathering behind his eyes.

“So what do you suggest we do with them, Sam?”

“King’s Justice I said, and King’s Justice I meant. And it’ll serve more than one end. We can all tell folks there’s a king again from now to the end of never and it won’t do half so much good as seeing this lot handed over to the Rangers fair and square. And besides, there’s questions we’re all going to need answering. From what Tom and Jolly have been telling me there’s hobbits that have plain vanished, and not into them lockholes we’ve been hearing about. And a lot of things have gone missing too. With Mr Lotho dead, and him up there, as well as all them we killed in the battle, we’re running out of folks as can answer.”

“Hobbits gone missing?” Frodo shook his head sadly. “Such evil. I grant you that, Sam, but there are no Rangers to hand them over to, and there won’t be for some time.”

“Not so long as all that, Mr Frodo. Mr Halladan was reckoning to set out back north before now, and he’ll travel a sight faster than we did. Oh, we’ll have to hold them for a while, I’m sure, but treating them proper while we do’ll be no bad thing. And there’s all these horrid new shirriff houses to hold them in — they’ve got to be good for something.”

Merry gave a mirthless laugh. “Right enough, Sam, though I think it’s one of these sheds we’ll need. But guarding thirty and more of these brutes won’t be easy. I swear there’s orc-blood in some of them.”

Sam nodded, shuddering slightly. “I was thinking that too. But it’ll be easier if they’re bound to one another, I reckon, and it’s not as if we’re short of hobbits who can tie good knots.” He held up a hand as Frodo opened his mouth to protest again. “It’s only right, Mr Frodo, seeing what they’ve done and how scared folks are of them. And it’ll only be for a week or two at most, unless Mr Halladan’s taken to dawdling. I know there’s a lot to do but we can manage that, can’t we?”

Merry and Pippin exchanged a look before both nodded, and Frodo grimaced, some of the tension draining from his body.

“Alright, Sam. And much as I hate it, you do have a point about the King’s Justice, I suppose. But I insist we bury the dead properly, Ruffians as well as the poor hobbits who’ve fallen.”

“Of course we will, Mr Frodo. But for him” — he pointed back up the hill — “we’re going to need more than that.”

Frodo frowned. “What do you mean?”

Gesturing Merry and Pippin closer, Sam lowered his voice. “Well, for one thing, folk will be right worrit about that curse he uttered. Who knows what power he still had, but even if it was none we need his curse washed away somehow. And for another …” He hesitated. “I’m sorry to have to say, Mr Frodo, but if his body’s all withered up worse than Gollum’s, what’s on his fingers isn’t.” Frodo paled and Sam reached for his uninjured hand to squeeze reassurance. “There’s three of them. Two are only for show, I think, but there’s one I don’t like the look of at all. And that’s proper wizard business all right, so it’s a relief we know where to find a good one, I’m thinking, even if he won’t like being disturbed again so soon.”

Pippin clapped him on the shoulder. “Sam, you’re a marvel. With a change of ponies at Buckland it’d only take us a couple of days to find Gandalf if he’s still with Tom Bombadil.” He shook his head. “I know he said we wouldn’t need him anymore but I don’t think he was reckoning on Saruman being here.”

Frodo shrugged. “I’m not sure, Pip, but Sam’s right that we do.” He shivered. “More rings of power here in the Shire. Is there no end on it?”

“Now don’t fret, Mr Frodo. They’re not like it was. Just nasty-feeling, if you take my meaning. But I don’t think you and Merry can go, Pippin — you’re needed here to see to the rest of the Ruffians.”

“Then who should go, do you think?”

Sam shrugged. “Tom and Jolly Cotton, maybe? They both have their letters and are sensible hobbits. But they’ll need some of those Took archers as an escort, in case they come across any more Ruffians.” Both Pippin and Merry nodded, and Sam turned. “If I speak to Tom and Jolly, could you write a note for Mr Halladan, Mr Frodo, about the prisoners? That ought to go to Bree to wait for him, I suppose.”

“Yes, alright.” Frodo shivered again. “Thank you, Sam. I’d be lost without you. All this destruction in the Shire …”

“I know.” Sam nodded, face grim. He knew what damage this would do to his master, as if he didn’t have enough to cope with already, and still not properly healed from all he’d endured. “But we can set much of it right, and we’d best get started.”

It took a while for Pippin to gather ten Took archers and persuade them that escorting Tom and Jolly Cotton clear across to Buckland and beyond was the best use of their talents, but if rings didn’t mean much to them they’d heard Saruman’s curses and seen the cloud that rose from his body, so fetching Mr Gandalf, strange as the old man was, made sense enough. Once he’d seen Frodo started back to the Cotton farm, well wrapped against the chill with Nibs as company, Sam explained what was needed to Tom and Jolly, their father Tolman listening impassively. Eventually a bewildered Tom nodded, scratching his head.

“Alright, Sam. It don’t make much sense to me, but I’ve got all that, I reckon, and if you say it’s what’s needed, I’m not arguing. You four travellers have done more in a day than the rest of us have managed in a year.” Jolly and Tolman murmured agreement. “Only, when we come to the source of the Withywindle where this cottage is we might not be able to see, how do we knock on the door?”

Sam grinned. “You sing, Tom. Give me a moment and I’ll tell you what.”

From an inside pocket he took out the little notebook with a cleverly fitted pencil that the Librarian in Gondor had given him, thought for a moment, tapping his fingers softly, and began to write. Finishing up, he hummed it through under his breath and found all the Cottons staring at him with surprised interest. Tolman cleared his throat.

“I knew you had your letters, Sam, but not that you were a scribe, and a bard as well, if that’s to be sung.”

Sam flushed. “Oh, well, old Mr Bilbo taught me my letters first, Mr Tolman, Common and a bit of Elvish. And I’ve learned a lot from Mr Frodo over the years. But I also had time on my hands while he was doing important things, in Rivendell and in Lothlórien, and then in Minas Tirith on the way home. I couldn’t be gardening all the time and we was all being looked after for vittles and the like, so I studied on my writing a bit.”

“More than a bit, I’m thinking.” Tolman nodded. “And it’s plain that’s not all you’ve studied, Sam, for all your Gaffer don’t approve of iron weskits nor yet of carrying swords. Interesting. But I didn’t mean to hold you up, and those Tooks look to be getting set to go.”

“Right.” Sam carefully tore the page from the notebook and gave it to Tom, Jolly looking over his shoulder. “The tune’s simple but there’s a name or two to get right.”

He sang it for them, softly, and after they’d tried the hard words a few times nodded briskly.

“That’ll do — just sound out, nice and clear. And however strange it all seems, don’t worry none — I know Mr Gandalf has a bit of a reputation but he’d never hurt a hobbit, nor Mr Bombadil. Just don’t go in under the trees or out among the barrows, not no how.”

“If you say so, Sam.”

Jolly looked dubious and Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “I do, Jolly. But make the best time you can, will you? We can’t move that … thing up there without Mr Gandalf, and the sooner it’s dealt with the better.”

“Ready to ride, lads?” The senior Took among those Pippin had chosen had come over and heard Sam’s last words. “We’ll never get there if we don’t start.”

Within a few moments the twelve ponies and riders had clattered off towards Bywater and the road to the Brandywine Bridge. With a final wave Sam turned back, his mind already drawing up what seemed endless lists of things urgently in need of doing.

* * * * *

Gandalf was enjoying himself. It had been a very long time indeed since he’d been able just to sit and talk with a being as old as he, and the densely woven tapestry of Tom’s life shared with the River-woman’s daughter by these ancient woods was as relaxing as it was intricate. Since he’d been sent back, and especially since the Ring had gone into the fire at last, his own version of the Elves’ sea-longing had been growing in him, but Goldberry had been able to assuage it with blessings conveyed from Lord Ulmo, and his own recitation of what had passed in the War of the Ring was a small price to pay for her delicious cooking and such restful shelter in the household. The last few days had blurred happily amid all the talk and interested, interesting questions, and though he knew there were other things he could and soon should be about he found he had no desire to move on just yet.

Rising from the log where he’d been sitting and listening to the young Withywindle rushing down towards the trees, he laughed to see a robin peering at him suspiciously and extended a finger in invitation. But he lacked Radagast’s way with the smaller birds and received a peeping scold, redoubled as he laughed again. The path to Tom’s back door was dry despite the night’s rain and he needed only to stamp his boots a time or two on the mat inside the door before going through to the big room where a fire burned merrily in the hearth against the autumn chill. Tom had been out earlier, tending to his domain, but was back, sitting in his chair by the fire, and looked up as Gandalf entered, eyes twinkling.

“Feeling better for the waters’ sound and ready to be doing?”

Finding his own chair and sitting he returned the ancient gaze, eyebrows rising.

“Doing? I expect so, but I hadn’t thought much further than lunch. Is there something that needs doing?”

“Tom doesn’t know just yet but news may be arriving. There’s twelve ponies near the woods, with hungry hobbits on them.” He laughed. “Rarely do the little folk ride outside their borders but these seem fine and hearty lads, trotting at a goodly pace and wanting more than mushrooms.”

Gandalf frowned, hands instinctively seeking his pipe and snapping new life into the half-smoked bowl. “Twelve hobbits in a hurry on this side of the Old Forest? I don’t think I like the sound of that, my friend. Can they find us, if that is their desire?”

“If they know the song to sing, all of us will hear it.”

“Well enough. I wonder what their errand is? I didn’t think they’d need me more.” He shook his head. The rhythms of Tom’s speech were contagious and his host’s eyes twinkled again.

“Time will tell us soon enough, and trouble’s not for seeking.”

“Not for you, maybe. It seeks me out still, I fear.”

They waited in companionable silence, Tom waving a hand occasionally to shoo errant smoke-rings back towards his guest and laughing when they darted through one another, changing colour. Then his eyes sharpened.

“They have now come close enough for us to hear them speaking.”

He looked the question and Gandalf reluctantly nodded. Tom’s gesture changed and after a moment they could hear piping hobbit voices as plainly as if the speakers were in the room.

“This looks right, Tom.”

“I suppose so, Jolly, but there’s no sign of any cottage.”

“Sam said there might not be, but this turf’s been cropped and the forest eaves over there are clipped, so someone must be about.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose. “Tom and Jolly? That’s two of Farmer Cotton’s sons from Bywater, I think, and he’s as sensible a hobbit as you’ll find.”

Tom nodded. “Farmer Maggot speaks of him when we share news and supper.”

“I suppose we should sing that song Sam gave us, then.” There was a brief pause. “It made sense when he said it, sort of, but out here it feels, well, silly I suppose.”

“I know, but we can’t hardly go back and tell Sam we didn’t even try.”

“And we didn’t escort you all the way out here not to try, Tom Cotton, and Mr Peregrine as well as Sam Gamgee told us to make all speed, so just you both get on with it.”

The last voice had a distinct Tuckborough accent, and if Tooks were providing an escort the Thain must have mustered the Shire. Gandalf had half-expected that from what little he knew or had guessed of what had been going on, but his heart sank all the same. The four returning hobbits could not have had the receptions they’d dreamed of, but his thoughts were halted as two deep breaths were heard and the song began.

Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!

Master of the Forest here, even Old Man Willow,

We believe you have a guest, White Gandalf called Mithrandir,

And ask that he may hear us sing of danger that is pressing near.

Ho! Mr Gandalf, sir, please come! Our need yet lingers.

Saruman is ended here, foul rings on shrivelled fingers,

Dying curses laid on all, and harm already done us.

Gandalf Whitehame, hearken please, for wizard’s need is on us.

By the end Gandalf was sitting bolt upright in his chair, eyebrows and beard bristling. “Saruman’s ring! I had forgotten that. And ended here with harm already done?” He shook his head forbiddingly. “He had little enough power left when we passed him on the road, and though I thought he’d sent some of his Dunlendings to the Shire I believed Merry and Pippin would be equal to that. But I did not foresee that he would go there himself, nor die there. Frodo must be beside himself.”

Tom’s face wore a rare look of disapproval. “Willow trees and barrow-wights are evils Tom can master, but fallen servants of the Flame are quite another matter. And little folk should not be harmed. What was that wizard thinking?”

“Of revenge, I suppose, if at all. Treebeard should perhaps not have let him go but he had his voice still, I believe.” Gandalf sighed. “All water under the bridge now, and we should not keep these hobbits waiting.”

For answer Tom rose and went swiftly to the front door, his voice, warm with reassurance, floating back as Gandalf followed.

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,

Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.

Here no harm will come to you, brave hobbits come a-riding,

Bows in hands and hearts in mouths, to find where Gandalf’s hiding.

Amused despite himself, Gandalf still didn’t much care for the sound of “bows in hands”, and his first sight of the hobbits as he stepped through the doorway almost brought him to a halt. There were a round dozen of them, as Tom had said, plainly an escort of ten Tooks with the Cotton brothers, all gawping alarmed surprise at the sudden sight of the cottage and Tom bouncing down the slope towards them, still singing reassurances. And reassurance was wise, for the Tooks had arrows nocked as well as full quivers, and all wore belt-knives, while blowing ponies showed that they had indeed been riding hard. Tom stopped a little short, bowing and laughing merrily at the eagerness of the ponies to greet him, which also seemed to calm the hobbits though their faces remained startled and wary. Gandalf too stopped short, catching hobbit eyes.

“I am Gandalf, whom you seek. Some of you Tooks may have seen me at the Great Smials in years past, and I remember you both, Tom and Jolly Cotton, from Bilbo’s farewell party. Be welcome and be easy — as Tom says, no harm will befall you here.” He held up a hand as mouths opened. “I know your errand is urgent but your ponies must rest before they go any further. If some of you will go with Tom to help out with the grooming, he will feed and water them while you tell me your story.” He paused to shake free once again of Tom’s contagious rhythms. “You’ll all be hungry too, of course. Come.”

After some long looks among themselves the hobbits dismounted, five staying with Tom and the ponies while the Cotton brothers and the rest, including what was clearly the senior Took, came up towards him, the Took leading. He’d put his nocked arrow back in his quiver but hadn’t unstrung his bow and looked warily round before bowing shortly.

“Derumbold Took, Mr Gandalf, sir, at your service. I remember you from when I was little more than a faunt, in Thain Fortinbras’s time.”

“One of Isembold’s descendants, then, I expect.”

“That’s right.”

Derumbold was still looking cautiously about, and so were the other Took archers.

“I promise you you’re safe here.”

“It’s not you or … or Mr Bombadil what’s the worry, sir, but Ruffians.” The usually mobile Took face had a grim set to it. “That’s why Mr Peregrin sent us with Tom and Jolly here, and a good thing they did for we came on one or two between Frogmorton and the Brandywine Bridge and a small band fleeing on the road to Bree before we turned off it. You’re sure none have been down this way?”

“Bands of ruffians? No indeed. And if any such have entered the Old Forest or dared the Barrow Downs you’ll not need to worry about them more. Besides, if any do approach Tom Bombadil will know — he is indeed Master here, as your song declared. Come, food and fire await you.”

Nervously they followed him back up the slope, peering at the cottage. The wealth of autumn flowers in the gardens seemed to settle them a bit, and Goldberry was waiting to welcome them in, her musical voice its own reassurance that no evil could be present. With some more glances bows were unstrung and piled carefully inside the door, and when Gandalf joined them in the big room with the cheerful, sweet-smelling fire crackling in the hearth they were seated all around, Goldberry already serving them goblets of cool water and promising food as soon as it could be readied. Thanking her, Gandalf took his own seat and looked at the Cotton brothers.

“Well, then, what is this tale of Saruman? That is not a name I would expect to hear from hobbit lips.”

The brothers looked at one another and to Gandalf’s mild surprise it was the younger, Jolly, who answered.

“Sam told us that was his name outside the Shire, Mr Gandalf, sir. And that’s what Mr Frodo called him when they spoke. We only ever knew him as Sharkey, or the Chief.”

Gandalf frowned. “He was alive to speak to Frodo? How then is he ended?”

“Mr Frodo said to let him go, despite everything he’d done.”

“And even after he tried to stab him,” Tom added.

“And he tried to help that Worm creature, telling him he could stay, or go another way. But Sharkey said Worm wasn’t safe and had killed old Lotho Pimple—”

“And et him too!”

“And he kicked the Worm and turned away, and the Worm jumped up on his back and cut his throat before we could shoot him—”

“So they’re both dead.”

“And the Worm just lay there, like the Ruffians we killed at Bywater, but he shrivelled right up and above his body there was this … thing—”

“Like smoke from a wet fire.”

“Or a cloud.”

“Yes, or a tower of fog.”

“It was huge, way higher than the Hill. But the wind blew it away, so some folks said his curses would come to naught, like Mr Frodo said, but Sam said he didn’t know what all power he’d still had and didn’t fancy taking no chances and in any case didn’t like the look of his rings, not one little bit, so he wrote down the song for us and told us to ride as fast as we could.”

Gandalf had followed the tale despite its leaping pronouns and found himself filled with sorrow. Poor Frodo — that was certainly not the homecoming he had deserved. And poor Saruman, poor Gríma son of Gálmód, to fall so low and to such an end.

“And what was Saruman, this Sharkey” — even as he spoke the name he recognised its origins in the Black Speech — “doing in the Shire to begin with?”

That set off a babble of answers, the Tooks joining Tom and Jolly to report what amounted to an invasion of the Shire months past by Saruman’s creatures, a puppet tyranny by Lotho Sackville-Baggins that had seen theft on an enormous scale and violence even to murder, and a final phase of utter, wanton destruction, a rage against trees and all the bounties of Arda. With every word Gandalf’s sorrow and anger grew, though he let neither show. This news would affect and oppress many, old Treebeard not least, and Aragorn would be both acutely distressed and very angry indeed ; he would also want, rightly, a full accounting of these further evils to be laid to Saruman’s charge, as would Éomer. And Sam — bless the hobbit — was surely right that if Saruman had sunk to dabbling in Ring-craft any results were certainly wizard’s business.

By the time Goldberry called them to a table laden with breads and cheeses, fresh greens, wrinkled but sweet fruits, chutneys and pickles, Tom was back with the other Tooks, who hastened to assure Derumbold that their ponies were all rubbed down, watered, and enjoying their own food. While the hobbits set to with gusto, Gandalf drew Tom aside, recounting briefly what he had learned and mentioning the possibility of fleeing ruffians or worse things.

“If they have dared the forest paths with tree-sap on their fingers the trees will not be kind to them nor let them trouble others.”

“So I imagine, and from what you were saying before Old Man Willow is very wide awake.” So much so that something might have to be done about that too, and sooner rather than later. “But if any make it among the Barrows and are caught there …”

Tom nodded. “Hungry wights are bad enough and well-fed ones the bolder. Tom will keep his senses sharp and watch for any trouble.”

“Thank you, my friend. I’d hoped all ills were past for now, but plainly some yet linger. And this summons to Hobbiton is not one I can ignore.”

Gandalf turned to the hobbits, putting enough power into his voice to draw their attention from their food.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your well-earned repast but Sam Gamgee was quite right to tell you to make haste. Your ponies must rest for a while yet before you start back, but my horse is fresh and would far outstrip them anyway. So I will make my way to Hobbiton, but from all you’ve said it would be wise for one of you to accompany me, to assure the guards you say Merry and Master Saradoc have posted at the Brandywine Bridge, and any others we may meet. And I promise you that I can and will protect that one from any ruffians we come across.”

After a speaking glance with his brother and another with Derumbold, Tom Cotton nodded.

“That’s me, then, and I can’t say I’ll be sorry to be back with my Marigold sooner than I’ll be expected, the way things are. But we’re supposed to deliver another letter, Mr Gandalf, to any of the Ranger folk we can find at Bree, or elsewise to leave it with a Mr Butterbur at an inn called the Prancing Pony if there’s no Ranger there yet.”

Gandalf’s eyebrows rose again. “A letter from and to whom? And do you know its contents?”

“Oh yes. It’s from Mr Frodo to a Lord … Halladan, I think Sam said, to ask if he’ll send us some trustworthy men to take charge of all the Ruffians we’ve captured and see they face the King’s Justice.” At Gandalf’s look of enquiry he went on. “There were about thirty when we left, but that will have gone up by now, I reckon. Sam and Mr Merry and Mr Pippin were going to have them bound and kept in the new Shirriff house or one of them great sheds Lotho Pimple had put up, but we can’t hardly keep ‘em there for very long.”

Thirty and more captured men to deal with? And being kept bound by hobbits that they might face the King’s Justice? The implications got worse and worse, but Tom’s eyes were twinkling.

“If it’s Ranger folk you need as soon as you may find them I can show you where to look. I know where they’ll come riding, and Fatty Lumpkin needs a trot. Eat up! and when you’re rested we’ll speed your message on its way, as sure as rain and sunshine.”

That was a worry less, and to Gandalf’s surprise Tom Cotton was already rising, taking a last apple and tucking a spare roll or three into his pockets with blushing thanks to Goldberry. If sensible hobbits were willing to hurry from a table that was still well-laden … well, Shadowfax would not disappoint them.

* * * * *

From his breathless squeaks Tom Cotton had not believed that any animal could move so fast, but on the grassy downs Gandalf gave Shadowfax his head and it was barely dusk when they reached the Brandywine Bridge and the ugly new gate. Several hundred yards short of it he slowed the horse to a walk, and muttering under his breath held up his staff, from which a soft radiance began to fall. Fifty yards short he pulled up and called out in a clear voice.

“Guards at the gate, Gandalf the White comes in answer to the summons of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, to do what is needful with Sharkey’s rings and remains. Tom Cotton of Bywater who helped bear the summons rides with me, that you may be reassured.” Tom sat up as much as he could, waving. “The others who rode out rest their ponies, so we have made all haste and come ahead.”

While he was speaking figures had emerged behind the gate, one climbing its bars to peer over the top and then wave them forward. As they approached the gate was swung open just enough to let them through, and Gandalf pulled up again, raising his staff and brightening its light.

“Saradoc Brandybuck? Does the Master of Buckland mind his own gates?”

“He does at need, Master Gandalf. My son” — the Master’s voice cracked a little — “sent a note to say he hoped you’d be arriving, and some of the King’s Men after” — the voice became dubious — “to take in charge these Ruffians he has locked up in Hobbiton.”

Gandalf remembered Merry’s father as a sensible hobbit, and the Master of Buckland was clearly coping, if equally clearly not much pleased with what he was having to cope with. Tension sang in his face but Gandalf nodded briskly.

“Just so, Master Saradoc. Hobbits have little reason to trust any Big Folk just now, I gather, so you have my thanks for your courtesy, and your countenance. I am sorry troubles have so affected the Shire but there have been troubles everywhere. Still, better times are returning. I assure you there is indeed a king again, though how soon his men will be able to come to your aid I cannot say — some days at least, I fear, and maybe longer.”

Saradoc’s face was grim, and in the deep tiredness and grief mixing with the relief in his eyes Gandalf could see that the tale of Sharkey’s doings had not been exaggerated.

“Merry says the imprisoned Ruffians are all hog-tied twice over, so I expect we’ll do well enough for as long as we must. And times could hardly get worse. But I’ll believe you that they’re looking up, with my son and the Thain’s back at last.” Resentment bubbled into his voice. “Could they not at least have sent word they were safe? The last year’s nearly been the death of Esmeralda, and of Paladin and Eglantine.”

Gandalf sighed. “It was not for want of caring, Master Saradoc, I assure you. Until Sauron was defeated it was safer to pass no word, for many fell creatures sought news of hobbits — things worse than ruffians by far. And once he had fallen, there was much yet to do, and many wounded to care for. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin returned as soon as they were able. Longer explanations must wait, but I tell you that you and Thain Paladin and all hobbits should be proud of what those four have accomplished.”

Saradoc’s face was a study but his voice stayed level enough for all the strain in it. “And what was that?”

“The falls of Sauron and Saruman both, and the return of the king of Gondor and Arnor. They saved the world, Saradoc Brandybuck, as well as delivering the Shire from tyranny on their return, from what Tom Cotton tells me. I realise your worries have hit hard, but forgive them for not sending risky and confusing word from a thousand miles away and in the midst of war.”

Under other circumstances the look on Saradoc’s face would have been amusing, but much of the charm of hobbits — besides their innate kindness, excellent cooking, and splendid pipeweed — had been their insularity and innocence of great deeds, as of great evils. But that too had come to an end, with so much else, and as Gandalf urged Shadowfax back into a swift canter he could see in the last of the daylight damage to buildings he remembered and new buildings thrown carelessly up, ugly and unhobbitlike, as well as trees wantonly felled and left to lie. Saruman had indeed had much to answer for.

After a while he felt Tom Cotton twist carefully round to look up at him.

“Did they really go a thousand miles?”

“Oh yes, and that’s as the eagle flies. As the hobbit walks or the pony trots, they went further. And Sam and Frodo furthest of all.”

Tom swallowed. “And they saved the world?”

“Not alone, but yes. What each did was necessary for the victory that was won, and none save Aragorn did more.”

“Aragorn?”

“The King, Tom Cotton, who is returned. The heir of Elendil and Arvedui Last King, whom you will have to rename. He has fought this war all the days of his life, for longer than most hobbits have been alive, and his part too was critical, and more. But without Frodo and Sam all would have come to naught.”

“Oh.” There was a thoughtful pause. “So what did they do, then? Rosie will be wanting to know.”

Gandalf laughed, feeling the better for it. “You are almost as full of questions as Pippin was when he rode where you now sit. But only almost, so I suppose I should count my blessings. The tale will come better from them, though, when they are ready to tell it. Much of it is beyond all previous hobbit experience, and will not be easy for most to believe. Suffice now to say that they endured beyond hope, and because they did all are now delivered from the great shadow of the past two ages of the world.”

“Oh.”

But Tom was not entirely quelled, and as they passed swiftly along the road, through Whitfurrows and Frogmorton, hobbits giving cries of alarm but falling silent at the sight of the shining, illuminated horse and the hobbit waving assurance from its back, Gandalf found himself answering questions enough about the King Elessar, and Gondor, and Rohan and the mearas, and the many things that might be attributed to Ent-draughts, and a deal more besides, until he was quite relieved to reach Bywater and turn onto the Hobbiton road, despite knowing what awaited him there.

* * * * *

Sam was just glad to be back at the Cotton farm, with Frodo sitting in the warm, well-fed and regaining some colour at last. The two-day ride to Michel Delving and back had been tiring in itself, and made painful by the dug-out smials, collapsed or burned-out houses, and wantonly felled trees they had passed. And what they had seen there had been just as bad. The idea that hobbits had sat by, orc-fashion, doing nothing while their fellows were locked up to rot in those old tunnels, was enough to turn anyone’s stomach. And what Frodo must have thought seeing Mr Freddy, old Flour-dumpling, and Mistress Lobelia so hurt and ill and starved Sam couldn’t begin to imagine.

He also had very mixed feeling about Mr Frodo being made Deputy Mayor. There was no doubt someone was needed, for it would plainly be a good while before Will Whitfoot would be fit enough again to do his job, and no doubt either that Mr Frodo was the best hobbit for the job, far and away. But it was going to claim a deal of his time and more energy than he had to spare, besides obliging him to face up to every detail of what had happened in the Shire — and the more of those Sam learned the worse they all got. A great deal of stolen jewellery and coin had already been found on captured Ruffians and in Bag End itself, enough to make it obvious that the thefts lay more at Lotho’s door than Saruman’s. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it seemed plain that most of the missing hobbits had been murdered, and if it looked like Ruffians and those ugly half-orcs were mostly to blame there were still hobbits who’d informed on their fellows and stood by, grinning excitement, while those murders were done.

It didn’t bear thinking on but it had to be, and they hadn’t been able to avoid discussing it either, for the Cottons had naturally enough wanted to know what had passed. And Frodo had had little enough to say, his weariness and sick dismay evident to all, leaving Sam to do his best to describe events even when it was Rosie asking the questions. Her eyes had been warm on him, making him blush, and young Nibs had had questions too, some better neither asked nor answered in Sam’s opinion. But in his heart he knew that sort of thinking wouldn’t do any more, and that the changes that had come on the Shire in his absence had swept away more than Gamgee notions of what was proper.

Still, none of that meant he shouldn’t count his blessings. Missus Lily’s meal had been as wonderful as it was welcome, genuine hobbit food at last — far better than all those fancy feasts in Gondor. The fire was warm on a chilly night, and at least those rescued from the Lockholes had been alive to be rescued, unlike so many. How long Mistress Lobelia might last was another matter, given how she’d looked when Frodo had had to tell her her son was dead, and while he’d never liked the old bat any more than Mr Bilbo had done he’d rejoiced at her declaration that she’d never return to Bag End and Frodo should take it back, and he dreaded to think how Frodo would take her death now. On their ride back from Michel Delving he’d even been saying how sorry he felt for her and Lotho Pimple, and it had been all Sam could do to restrict his answers to noncommittal grunts.

“A penny for your thoughts, Sam.”

He looked up into Rose’s smiling eyes and couldn’t help smiling back.

“Oh I don’t know as they’re worth that much, Rosie-lass. I was only thinking my Gaffer had the right of it and spilt milk can’t be got back in the jug.”

“You thinking of some milk in particular, Sam?”

“Well, the trees, especially. That’s a sore blow.” The sight of the Party Tree lying dead in the field had near to broken his heart.

“Oh I know. I couldn’t stop crying after I saw what they’d done.” Her eyes took on a determined look. “We can plant new, though.”

Sam nodded. “True enough, Rosie, and we will. But it’ll be years before any hobbit sees them as they ought to be. And that’s true for more than trees, I reckon.”

Tolman had been listening and sat forward. “How d’you mean, Sam?”

“I don’t know as I can explain very well, Mr Tolman, but too much has changed.” He nibbled on a piece of cheese, thinking. “The whole world’s changed, what with Mordor falling and the King come back, and that’s all for the better. And I’ve changed too, while I’ve been gone — no help for it with all the things that have happened. I knew I had, but coming back and seeing all that’s gone on here brings it home somehow, even more than seeing Merry and Pippin inches taller than they’ve any right to be, entdraughts or no. But mostly I was meaning that we can redig smials and patch-up houses and replant trees all we like, but the folks who move back in to where they should be won’t be the same whatever we do.”

Tolman nodded sadly. “You’ve the right of that, Sam. We’ve not lost our home like so many, but seeing how some of us have behaved, well, it takes the breath out of a body. We’re all in for some hard times yet.” His eyes became shrewd. “And you talk of Mordor falling and the King coming back as if you’ve seen those things, Sam.”

Sam glanced at Frodo’s drawn face and at Rosie’s worried one, then back at his host. “That’s so, Mr Tolman, but it’s a tale for daylight, if you don’t mind. Well, the Mordor bit, leastways. I don’t mind saying as we all saw the King crowned, and everyone cheering his return.”

“Who’s everyone?” Nibs asked, “And where was all this, Sam? Where’s he the king of?”

“He’s the King of Gondor and Arnor both, Nibs, and Arnor’s us and all the land about. What Arvedui was the last king of, if you know that old tale. And everyone was all the people of the city, thousands of them, and a heap of guests besides — Men from all over Gondor and from Rohan and Dale, where Mr Bilbo went, and Elves from Rivendell and Lothlórien, and Dwarves and Hobbits too.”

“Elves? Go on with you, Sam.”

Frodo smiled, looking more cheerful. “It’s quite true, Nibs. Do you not believe in Elves?”

Nibs looked dubious. “Well, I’ve never seen one, Mr Frodo, for all Sam’s been dreaming about them for as long as I can remember.”

Sam gave him an indignant stare, making Rosie smile. “And now I’ve met lots of them, Nibs, and I dare say you might one day too, if you’re lucky. All else aside, the King’s married to one, and they both promised to come north when they can. Her brothers too, I expect.”

Nibs’s eyes opened very wide at this information and his mouth would have followed, but Frodo raised a hand, face suddenly intent.

“There’s an unshod horse coming up the lane.”

Tolman sat up. “I don’t …” He cocked his head. “Yes, I do. That’s sharp hearing.” He gave Frodo a speculative glance. “Nick, Nibs, get your knives but keep well back. Sam, would you—”

“It’s alright, Mr Cotton.” Frodo had stood but his face was relaxing again. “It’s Shadowfax, Sam.”

“Right, then.” It didn’t occur to Sam to question how Frodo could tell, and his voice had been certain. “Tom and Jolly must have made good time, bless them.”

He hurried out, Frodo and the Cottons behind him, and felt his heart lift as the great horse came in sight, Gandalf sitting tall on his back and Tom waving excitedly as he saw them. In a moment Shadowfax was turning into the yard, snorting as he pulled up and looking curiously at Nibs who’d instinctively come forward to hold the reins and stopped in bafflement as he realised there was neither tack nor saddle to be seen. Gandalf swung down, using his staff, and turned to lift Tom down, releasing him to a swift, relieved embrace from his father. Sam ducked his head.

“Thank you for bringing him safe, Mr Gandalf, and for coming so swiftly. I’m sorry to have interrupted you at Mr Bombadil’s but—”

“No, no, Sam, you were quite right to do so, and I’m relieved to find you and Frodo safe and well here after seeing Bag End.”

“You’ve been to Hobbiton?”

“Yes, and a heartbreaking sight it is, I must say.” Gandalf crouched to look at Frodo, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Frodo — I thought there might be some trouble for you and the others to deal with. We knew Saruman had sent some men north, though not where. But I had no idea it would be anything like this.”

Frodo nodded, eyes as sad as Sam had ever seen them. “I didn’t suppose you did. Who could think Saruman would stoop so low?” He shivered in the chill air. “But he has paid all he can, and maybe more besides. The Valar rejected his spirit, I think. It just blew away.”

“So Tom and Jolly told me. But tales must wait a little. Farmer Cotton, may I beg the use of your barn? We’ve come from well beyond Buckland since lunchtime so Shadowfax is in need of a rub-down and some hay and oats, if you can spare them.”

The great stallion nickered as Tolman’s eyebrows shot up at this indication of his speed, earning him a thoughtful look before he nodded. “Of course. He’s a bit large for us to handle, but we’ll help as we can, if he’ll let us. Nick, get the barn door, will you? And Nibs, sort out a brush, a blanket, and some feed.”

“Oh he’ll be no trouble. He bears me for love, and tells me he finds the Shire a fine land to tread, however damaged just now.”

Gandalf’s tone was entirely matter-of-fact and Sam found himself amused at the lads’ goggle-eyes before wondering, not for the first time that day, what had become of him. Meeting Elves was every bit as wonderful as he’d ever imagined, but all the old tales said in warning was true, and talking horses the least of it. Catching Frodo’s eye he smiled ruefully and shepherded him back inside, with the Cotton lasses and an exhausted if excited Tom. He was also starving, of course, and Sam saw Rosie seated by him beside the fire before helping Missus Lily whip up another two plates of stew and vegetables while Tom warmed himself and exclaimed about Shadowfax’s astonishing speed, and how the song had made Tom Bombadil’s cottage appear out of nowhere, and how very strange but kind its owner seemed. He was enthusiastically describing Goldberry’s breads and greens and pickles to Frodo’s quiet amusement and Rosie’s amazement when Tolman and the lads came in with a stooping Gandalf.

“All settled?”

“Yes indeed, thank you, Frodo. Shadowfax is well content with a warm barn and some feed, and so shall I be if that stew is half as good as it smells.”

He took the bench seat, folding his legs beneath his robes and setting his staff on the floor. Tom sat opposite, and both tucked into their stew. Nick and Nibs waxed almost poetic about Shadowfax while Tom dealt with one plate and most of another, and Gandalf, shaking his head as ever at hobbit appetites, nevertheless made short work of his own. He refused seconds, though, contenting himself with an apple and some cheese, and sat back with a sigh, eyes resting curiously on Sam as he filled his pipe.

“Thank you, Mistress Lily. That was very welcome, and very good. If Aragorn has the least sense he’ll make sure Annúminas has a legion of hobbit cooks when it’s rebuilt.” Frodo spluttered but Gandalf ignored him. “Now, tell me, Sam, what made you suspicious of those rings?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t rightly know, Mr Gandalf. Two of them are just gewgaws, I reckon, but the plain one … well, it made me shiver inside, somehow.” His eyes met the wizard’s. “Trying to imitate his master, was he?”

“More or less, fool and traitor as he had become. You were very right to send for me. And I should hardly be surprised that you can sense such a thing, though I am, and not at all sure I like it.” Gandalf sighed, though perhaps only Sam and Frodo heard the real pain in it, and puffed out a smoke-ring. The Cottons had fallen silent, listening, and he spoke to all. “To make an object of power you must put power into it, and Saruman was too jealous of his dwindling power to let enough pass from him. But yes, the plain ring was meant to be a ring of power. Once he was snared through his use of the Orthanc stone Sauron may have enticed him in part with the lure of ring-craft, unless he got it from his study of Celebrimbor. In any case, it has malice enough to do harm, in a small way.”

“Sauron’s malice?” Frodo’s voice was sharp, his eyes distressed.

“An echo of it. But do not alarm yourself, Frodo — it is a weak thing, and tomorrow by sunlight it will be destroyed.”

“You can melt it, then?”

“Oh yes.” Gandalf smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I can and shall banish it entirely from the world. It is to the other as a broken hovel to Minas Tirith. Truly, Frodo, we do not have to go in search of Orodruin again.”

“And this curse that Saruman laid on us all? I don’t think it had any real power in it either, but …” The Cottons’ attention sharpened, and Gandalf spoke carefully.

“I do not believe it can have had any true power, but tell me exactly what was said.”

Frodo started the tale, but in the end Sam did most of the telling, with the Cottons who’d been there chipping in now and then. Gandalf listened intently, making sure he had the words right, and finally sat back, looking thoughtful.

“More prophecy than curse, then, both times.” He looked carefully at Frodo. “Did his words have any feel of truth?”

Frodo shrugged. “When he spoke to me directly, some, I think. But he said that was not his doing, and that is true enough. When he spoke to all saying if he died here the Shire would never be healed, I don’t think so. He was just using his voice to hurt. I said so at the time and I meant it, but his malice was plain and his words have scared people.”

“I imagine they have.” Gandalf attended to his pipe in silence for a minute, smoke-rings clustering about him. “Well, despite that ring I am sure he had no real power left, for I had broken and drained his staff and he had no means of replacing or recovering what it contained. And whatever malice he may have wished on land or people will be dispersed when the ring is destroyed.” He shook his head firmly. “No, there is no curse, and he has already done his worst. A wanton revenge, on Hobbits and Ents alike, who had the temerity to deny him what he desired.”

The Cottons looked relieved but then surprised, and Tolman shook his own head. “If only hobbits had denied him, Mr Gandalf, but by the time he came here we were already overset by the Ruffians.”

“Maybe so, Tolman Cotton, sorry as I was to learn of it, but hobbits denied him all the same, as they denied the master he had chosen. His orcs waylaid Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, dragging them half-way across Rohan before they escaped, and all it brought him was the wrath of the Ents, which was no part of his planning or desire. And Frodo and Sam destroyed what he most wanted in the world, and then took the pleasure from his revenge. He should never have become such a mean spirit, but I fear he was lost to his true purpose long ago.”

Gandalf’s attention returned to his pipe and the Cottons exchanged puzzled glances that ranged across a silent Frodo and settled on Sam, who shrugged. He could hardly be more close-mouthed than a wizard.

“I said as he wasn’t a Man, no more than Mr Gandalf is, so what happened to him is worse. Long and the short is, he was supposed to help, against Sauron and all, and at first he did — way back, before the Shire was founded. But somewhere he went wrong, and then rotten right through, until he kicked his own servant when he was down. You know what happened then. Anything else is still too long and sad a story for tonight, and my bed’s calling me. We’ll all be busy tomorrow.”

* * * * *

Halladan, newly minted Lord Steward of Arnor, had ridden north with a painfully full and sorely tried head. It was all very well — entirely proper, in fact — for his blessed Lord Cousin to appoint him to the post his elder brother Halbarad would have held, and the Valar knew there was a great deal for a Lord Steward of Arnor to do, up to and including organising what would have to be a vast co-operative effort to rebuild Annúminas and Amon Sûl, with their linked watchtowers, all presently no more than tumbled stones. And certainly a far-flung, smooth running network of trade with Dwarves and Elves and Gondor and Dale would make it all much easier ; when one existed, which meant after he had organised it into existence, along with all the other things that made up a functioning kingdom, like the one he had just visited, and unlike anything he’d grown used to in Eriador over the last sixty-odd years.

He couldn’t dispute that Gondor’s own needs were pressing, her resources strained and depleted, nor that Arnor’s rebuilding must wait on Gondor’s recovery. And to be fair, Aragorn had managed to find more resources for him than he’d expected. Besides those who’d died with Halbarad at the Pelennor, or before the Morannon, six other Rangers who’d ridden south had stayed in Minas Tirith, familiar faces for the King amid his new court, so Halladan led only seventeen back, and thirteen Rangers was a severe and sorry loss. At least news of the deaths had preceded him by messenger, and with Lord Elrond, so he was spared telling the bereaved they were so, though he would have to report on funerals and the markers Aragorn had planned. But to boost depleted numbers he also led a large group from Faramir’s newly formed White Company of Ithilien, all Ranger trained, and a scratch company of other Gondorian veterans who’d volunteered. Most of the latter were unmarried or widowed, some with nowhere to return to, and had been more than willing to take the terms the King had offered. They seemed good men all, though still something of an unknown quantity. And to his considerable surprise there was also an éored of sorts from Rohan, collected from Edoras and Dunharrow — riders in the same position as the Gondorian volunteers, but among whom there was a strong feeling of duty returned and gifts rewarded about the idea of guarding the country of the holbytlan who had come to them out of legend, bringing victory unhoped for. That was going to be interesting, and they all seemed good men too, though like the Gondorians trained to open battle rather than unseen patrolling, and only a handful had their letters. The additional horses Éomer King had given them as remounts and pack-animals would also be an invaluable boost to Arnor’s resources, in themselves and through their foals.

But all of that in turn meant that the party had both assembled and travelled absurdly slowly, or so it still seemed to one more used to solo travel and small patrols. Foraging for several hundred men and as many horses would have stripped the land around the road for miles, starving future travellers, so they were held to the speed of provender wagons anyway, and running repairs had been required both to axles and to the road. Even now the wagons were getting empty, fifteen or twenty miles was an excellent day’s progress, impatient as it left him. It was already the second week of Hithui, and they had only turned onto the Greenway four days back and had their first sight of the Barrow Downs yesterday.

Halladan devoutly hoped they’d have no trouble from that quarter — he’d been blunt in his warnings to the Gondorians and Rohirrim at last night’s camp, and he thought they’d all heeded him well enough. Quite a few had experience of the Dwimorberg, from one side or the other, if not on the order of his own, and the Ithiliens knew all about Minas Morgul and the works of the Witch-King. The late Witch-King, praise the Valar, the Lady Éowyn, and Meriadoc, now as gone from the world as the Oathbreakers of Erech. The world was after all good, startlingly so whenever he let himself think about it, however the effects of Angmar’s sorcery still lingered here, menacing the Greenway.

Some of the nearer barrows were visible now, and on the other side of the road the South Downs were rising, forming the long, climbing valley of the Andrath through which the road ran, but the sun was high, the wind only playful despite its late autumn chill, and Halladan could sense no menace. His own brethren had the van and flanks, and the men had fallen watchfully silent as the Greenway climbed and the safety of open vistas disappeared. Even without any waking threat from barrow-wights the atmosphere had a weight that could be felt, and beyond the familiar clop and creak of hooves and wheels, with the occasional clash or jingle of mail, the silence seemed deeper than usual. But that was often true near the barrows, animal life having learned to tend its business swiftly and silently, and cleave again to shelter. The effect was markedly diminished the closer one was to Bree, and lost in thoughts of what to say there on the morrow Halladan was unprepared for the sudden shout to halt from young Gilbarad, riding on the left flank. Nor was he remotely expecting what he could faintly hear as the snorting of surprised horses and the rumble of wheels faded into a tense silence.

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,

Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.

Ho! there, my honest lads, homeward-bound and strangers,

Moon-men and city men, horse-folk and Rangers,

Stay your steps a moment here! Bold hobbits come a-riding,

Bearing news and asking aid to right what has been sliding.

The distant voice was a jolly baritone, and despite a jaw that wanted to drop like a child’s at some new wonder engrained habit had Halladan snapping orders not to draw or nock, while turning his horse to canter to Gilbarad’s side, where his nephew’s sidelong look had him shrugging.

“No, I’ve never met him, Gil, any more than you. But we both heard what Gandalf had to say, and the Ringbearer and his companions.”

Gil nodded, eyes wide. “So we did, Uncle Hal. I still didn’t expect to hear him singing over Tyrn Gorthad. Nor yet announcing that hobbits have sent to meet us. And how did he know who rides with us? Is it like the Elves’ landsense?”

“And how should I know when Gandalf himself said …”

His voice trailed away as the singer rounded the slope of the nearest down, dressed much as he’d described himself and riding the fattest pony Halladan had ever seen, yet seeming to rise almost from the earth. He was trailed by no less than eleven well-mounted hobbits, ten of them with bows and belt-knives and all looking as surprised to see the cavalcade as he must look himself. He could hear startled murmurs among the men too, soft Gondorian oaths and Rohirric exclamations at the sight of holbytlan and their strange guide, who had fallen silent as he neared but was grinning over a bushy brown beard and urging the eleventh hobbit to the fore — a young one with a sturdy, open face, however filled with trepidation. With a glance at Gil to follow he walked his horse forward a little to meet them, offering a bow.

“You are Master Bombadil, sir? Lord Mithrandir spoke of you, but I had little thought to meet you, nor such company.”

Blue eyes twinkled in a weathered face. “Little folk have need of you so Tom has brought them hither, safe from wights and ruffians, across the ling and heather. Now then, my Jolly lad, here’s the one you’re seeking.”

The young hobbit beside him gave an awkward bow, clutching at his pommel, and took a deep breath. “Jolly Cotton of Bywater, sir, at your service. Would you be Lord Halladan?”

“I would, Mister Cotton. I am Halladan son of Halahad, and Lord Steward of Arnor.” It was the first time he’d introduced himself as such, and the words sounded strange in his ears. “How may I aid you? I had not expected to see hobbits so far from the Shire.”

“Nor we hadn’t expected to be here, sir, and will be glad to get home again, but I have an urgent letter for you from Mr Frodo Baggins.” He held out a slightly crumpled paper, looking anxiously up as if he wasn’t sure Halladan would know the name.

“From the Ringbearer?” Questions teemed in his mind as he reached to take a simple sheet twice folded and sealed with an unmarked drop of ordinary candle-wax that he cracked off easily with his belt-knife. He had seen the Ringbearer learning to write again with his maimed hand and recognised the clear Sindarin script, but the contents were a greater shock still.

Hobbiton

4^th day of Hithui, 3019

My Lord Steward,

I am sorry to trouble you when you must have more to do than I can imagine, but we returned to find the Shire in a desperate state. Exactly what happened is less than clear, but it seems Saruman had been exercising control here for some months, sending bands of Ruffians and half-orcs to terrify and steal, and lately came himself, seeking to rule and inflicting much wanton damage. We have put a stop to that and he is now dead, killed by his own servant, while nearly 80 Ruffians were slain in his cause. Our problem is those we have arrested. They presently number 31, though that figure will rise as more are rounded up, and we have them under lock and key in Hobbiton, but as you will know imprisonment is no practice of we Periannath and we will be glad to hand them over to face the King’s Justice as soon as may be.

Alas, I must also ask that the men you send bear as much of their own provisions as possible. Great quantities of food were confiscated by Ruffians, leaving many hungry, and while we hope some may be recovered I fear there will be shortages of much throughout the winter.

You will find a new gate with guards on the Baranduin Bridge. They have been warned to expect a party of King’s Men large enough to take charge of the captured Ruffians, but it would be wise to approach carefully — feelings about Men are running sadly high.

My apologies again for so untimely a request, but I am persuaded it is the best course to follow. And it may be that our seeing those who have done us harm taken in charge by honest Men will in the long run do more good than can yet be foreseen.

Yours in honourable supplication,

Frodo Baggins

Acting as Deputy for Mayor Whitfoot

Halladan’s head was spinning long before he finished. The traitor Saruman had invaded the Shire and been killed there? And hobbits had slain eighty Ruffians and half-orcs — a term that earned a shudder all of its own — with more under lock and key, needing to be collected? Aragorn would be both heartsick and furious at this news, and must be informed, but the practical came first — though how exactly was a nice question. He looked up to find Jolly Cotton intent on him and Tom Bombadil’s eyes twinkling again.

“If King’s Men have need in haste to reach the Brandywine, the shortest way is as we came, between the wights’ old dwellings. They have no power to trouble Tom nor any riding with him, and he will guide you safely there if you are brave and willing.”

Halladan blinked. To use Tyrn Gorthad as a shortcut went against everything he knew, but whatever Master Bombadil might be he was right that it would be the quickest way, for the Greenway was already bending east to Bree, and from there the East–West Road looped north on its way to the Baranduin Bridge. And Gandalf as well as the Ringbearer and his cousins had been clear that this strange being really did have power to dismiss barrow-wights and their enchantments, while this request called for all speed. So much for his careful warnings the night before. And yet …

“You are sure, Master Bombadil? Ever I have been taught to avoid Tyrn Gorthad, and though the sun is now high night would find us still among the barrows.”

“Tom can keep you safe enough, day and night together, hill and dale, sun and stars, fine and stormy weather. Wights are naught but Morgul-spells, cold bones in old chambers. Tom he knows the words for them. And if we do not dally night will find us nearly home, where the Withy seeks its valley. Then north along the forest eaves, led by trusty hobbits, and you’ll be at the Brandywine before tomorrow’s sunset.”

Halladan took a deep breath of his own, and nodded. “My warm thanks then, Master Bombadil, in my own name and the King Elessar’s. And indeed we shall not dally, yet it will take some little while to decide who comes and who goes on to Bree, so if you will excuse me?”

He turned to an astonished Gilbarad and gave the first orders. It did take a while, and some forceful if brief explanations, but sooner than he’d hoped a small company was organised. His own folk would be needed as guides for the southerners in Bree, so only five would come with him to Hobbiton, but the Rohirrim had been eager to answer this call and he would take twenty, with one of their officers and several laden pack-horses, as well as two squads of the White Company. He had been concerned about the potential number of prisoners to escort, but to his renewed surprise the leader of the hobbit escort, while making it plain he could not speak for Thain Paladin, thought a muster of twenty or more Tookish archers would be forthcoming if there were more Ruffians than the Men could safely handle. He had also said enough about the charges those prisoners would be facing, in short, hard sentences shot through with a bitter loathing entirely outside Halladan’s experience of hobbits, to make him suspect executions rather than escort might well be needed, but that horror must await the event.

There had been less alarm about riding through Tyrn Gorthad than he had expected. He had ruefully admitted the joke was on him after his dire warnings, but the Rohirrim had only grinned. Had he not himself dared the Dwimorberg, not only living to tell the tale but seeing its haunts recruited and then dismissed? And had not another legend risen from the grass, holbytlan in tow, to guide them in the Ringbearer’s need? The men of the White Company were less fey but no less determined, and reassurance from the rather charming Jolly Cotton and other hobbits that they had passed the barrows in safety allayed their fears. The irony was not lost on Halladan, but as he found himself leading Gilbarad and the others up among the Downs, following a singing Tom Bombadil and eleven hobbits, he found himself wondering if the marvels he had seen in Gondor might already have had more effects in Arnor than any Dúnadan had been thinking.

* * * * *

To Sam’s dismay the day had dawned dull and overcast in Hobbiton, but Gandalf had been unperturbed, promising the sun would shine when it was needed. Even Frodo hadn’t been entirely sure what to make of that, but rain or shine that ring needed dealing with, and the shrivelled hand on which it rested, while all who could ought to see Saruman’s curse set at naught. So after riding to Hobbiton to check on the Ruffians being kept in one of the sheds and their grim-faced hobbit guards, he and the Cotton lads spent the morning spreading word that Mr Gandalf had come to deal with Sharkey’s remains and curse, bringing Tom back ahead of his brother, and that all who could manage it should assemble around the Hill after lunch. There was some suspicious muttering about one old conjuror being no better than another, to which Sam gave short shrift, but also, despite everything, considerable curiosity.

“So we’re to come to the Hill, are we? And what shall we be seeing there, Samwise Gamgee? You seem mighty knowledgeable about it all.”

“Do I, Mr Harfoot? No more than you about growing pipeweed, I’m afraid.” The listening hobbits laughed, for Gaffer Harfoot’s frequent attempts to grow his own weed and save himself the price of decent South Farthing leaf had never yet produced anything but sorry and unsmokeable results. “All I know is that the one you knew as Sharkey wasn’t no Man, whatever he looked like. He was a wizard, like Mr Gandalf, but he went all to the bad and tried to curse us afore he was killed, as you know, so Mr Gandalf, who’s all to the good as he ever was, has come to sort it out. Beyond that, we’ll have to wait and see.”

Sam was soon heartily bored with making the same speech and fending off enquiries about his travels it would have taken him all day to answer, so he was relieved late in the morning to get back to Hobbiton. Amid a considerable bustle he found that Merry and Pippin had just returned from the North Farthing with thirty Took archers, reporting the deaths of eleven Ruffians from the gang there who hadn’t believed ‘little rat-folk’ could withstand them and escorting another twenty-two as prisoners. Their hands were bound in front of them and tied to one another’s belts, and they were both shocked at the turn of events and sweating from the brisk pace the mounted hobbits had set. Despite everything, Sam found himself glad to see that the wounds some bore had been tended, and that their escort were treating them to a freezing silence rather than the insults they had earned. As soon as they were safely stowed with their fellows, Merry and Pippin rode on to see Gandalf and Frodo, leaving the extra archers to boost the guard and Sam, rather to his surprise, in charge of seeing the prisoners given some food — very short commons by hobbit standards, but they had only themselves to blame. A somewhat reluctant Bordo Chubb, one of the local healers, was also set to checking and rebandaging their injuries.

When all was done Sam had his own lunch, sitting with the off-duty guards, and was again surprised when he found himself expected to sort out the duty rosters and in doing so accorded the same authority as Merry and Pippin, his protests overridden by a grinning Took.

“Just a gardener, Mr Samwise? Pull the other one. We obey the Thain, and he put Mr Peregrin in command — Captain Peregrin, I should say — and he deputed you, so it’s all proper. And even if it weren’t, I don’t think there’s many as would argue about it.”

“No?” Sam scratched his head. “There was plenty willing to argue this morning when I told them they should come to the Hill after lunch if they want to see whatever Mr Gandalf does.”

The Took grinned some more. “They’re hobbits! And feeling the relief of being able to talk back without fearing a blow, or worse, I dare say. But they’ll be here, all the same. Some have come in already. And we all know who we’ve to thank for taking the Shire back from the Ruffians.” Sam blushed a little, demurring, but the Took was looking thoughtful. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the shed doubling as a prison. “What did you say those squinty-eyed ones was called? Them as you had us bind more securely?”

Sam shook his head. “Half-orcs I said and half-orcs I meant. They look it, at any rate, and I’m taking no chances. Orcs are stronger than most men and nastier than you want to think about.” He gave a sidelong look. “You might know them as goblins, maybe, like in the tale of the Bullroarer and old Mr Bilbo’s stories.”

The Took’s eyebrows shot up amid a surprised murmur and Sam realised that all of the hobbits present were listening. “Orcs and goblins are the same?” Sam nodded. “Huh. I remember as a tween not believing in goblins and being set right by the Thain himself — Thain Ferumbras, that was — and told to learn my Took history. So I did. But I always thought from what I was told you could see at a glance what a goblin was. How d’you tell these half-bred ones from ordinary Ruffians, apart from their looks?”

“Well, their looks is bad enough, and you wouldn’t miss a real one, believe me. There’s no mistaking them, ugly and cruel as they are. But you saw the one that’s got the arrow-wound in his forearm? Notice his nails? More like claws. And Men’s blood’s not usually that dark, muddy colour — it’s just red, same as ours is, and Dwarves’ too. But Orcs’ blood is black, black as soot.”

“It is? How d’you know that?”

“I’ve seen enough of it.”

“Have you, now? And spilled some yourself, maybe?”

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. “When I had to. Orcs don’t give you much choice.”

“Ah.” There was a ruminative pause. “I expect Captain Peregrin knows about that sort of thing too, then?”

“Oh yes. We all do, I’m afraid. Wasn’t no help for it. But his tale’s his own to tell.”

“Ah. And we’ll be hearing it properly soon enough, I expect.” The Took shook his head. “It’s all a bit much to take in, Mr Samwise. Captain Peregrin weren’t but a tween when he left, and by rights he still ought to be. But he’s come back taller than any hobbit I’ve ever seen, for all he’s not of age, and a sight in his armour and that picture-coat he wears with the tree and stars. And he surely knows how to use that sword of his, him and Captain Meriadoc both. I wouldn’t hardly know him if it weren’t for his face, if you take my meaning.”

“I surely do. We were doing different things for a while, away down south, and when I saw him again I couldn’t believe he’d grown so much, him and Merry both. Thought I was still asleep and dreaming.”

A note of caution entered the Took’s voice. “They say it’s on account of they drank something a talking tree gave them.”

Sam laughed. “Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I didn’t know what to make of it myself until we met him on our way back — Mr Treebeard, he’s called, or Mr Fangorn sometimes. And once you’ve met him … well, there’s not much that seems impossible.”

“So it’s true?”

“Yes it is. But talking tree’s not quite right. He’s an Ent, properly speaking, what the Elves call onodrim, and from what the Lady said when I asked about them their job is being tree shepherds, so of course they walk and talk. Wouldn’t be much use otherwise.” Sam shook his head — every answer he gave just begged more questions, and time was passing. “There’s a lot more things out there in the world than hobbits ever knew of yet, good and bad, and I dare say you’ll all be hearing about some of them by the by. But if you’re all happy with those rosters, I’d best be getting up to the Hill myself. Mr Gandalf should be along soon.”

He left with most of those off-duty trailing behind him and found the paths and fields around the Water already thick with hobbits seeking good vantage points to see the road that curled up the side of the Hill to Bag End. Without being asked the guards moved up to escort him and clear his path, then fell back as he came to the stretch where the remains of Saruman still lay, covered by a blanket with stones holding down its corners. Wormtongue had gone into the common burial pit with all the Ruffians who’d been killed at the Battle of Bywater. Mosco Burrows, who’d been making sure no scavenging birds or curious teens disturbed the blanket, stood as he approached, but Sam waved him to sit again, and took a place beside him.

“No trouble, then?”

“None, Mr Samwise, for all there’s a nasty feel about it.” He gestured towards the blanket and Sam nodded. “I heard from Pogo Goodbody who was on last night that Mr Gandalf turned up on a great white horse to have a look, and had Tom Cotton with him. Otherwise there’s been some crows wanting a peck, but that’s all.”

Sam grunted. “Surprised even they’d bother. Well, it won’t be long now and we’ll be shot of him for good.”

Inevitably, Mosco asked more questions about wizards and what Sharkey had really been up to, and Sam had just about managed to divert the talk to the more sensible topic of things that needed doing when a stir started among the crowd down by the ugly new mill. Standing he could see it was a larger party than he’d quite expected — not only Gandalf on Shadowfax, with Frodo, Merry, and Pippin on their ponies behind, and all of the Cottons, but another group of mounted hobbits. As they came nearer he realised it was the Thain, no less, with his cousin and deputy Mr Ferdinand as well as an escort. Pippin’s face was set and his father’s less than happy, and Sam whistled under his breath. He’d wondered if there’d be trouble in that quarter, with Pippin being underage, and plainly there was, but today wasn’t the day for it.

Leaving Mosco he went to open the gate into the party field, receiving a nod from Gandalf as he swung down and turned Shadowfax loose, thanking him, though his face was drawn as he looked at the felled tree. The Thain’s escort stopped on the road, and the rest of the riders followed the great horse into the field. Sam helped Rosie to dismount from one of the Cottons’ plough-ponies, smiling at her as she went to her father’s side, and then Frodo, seeing the strain in his eyes.

“Do you want him unsaddling, Mr Frodo?”

“I don’t think so, Sam. Gandalf doesn’t think it’ll take very long. You know Thain Paladin and Ferdinand Took, don’t you?”

Sam nodded, feeling a certain trepidation. He’d seen the Thain several times at Bag End, and Mr Ferdinand once or twice, but not to talk to. “Thain Paladin, sir, and Mr Ferdinand, sir.” He ducked his head, and found himself the object of intent scrutiny.

“Mr Gamgee.” The Thain’s voice was deeper than Pippin’s but held a reedy note Sam didn’t remember. “I can’t say I understand or approve of your leaving the Shire with Frodo and my feckless son and nephew, but I’d be a fool not to be glad of the effects of your return. And you have my thanks for your care of Peregrin.”

He offered a hand and a startled Sam took it, meeting the Thain’s eyes. “We cared for each other, sir. As hobbits should.”

“Huh. First sensible thing I’ve heard today. And you’ve always seemed a sensible hobbit, as your father is. But I can’t say I’m happy to learn you were a party to inviting more men into the Shire — it’s the last thing we need. What were you and Frodo thinking? These Ruffians should just be shown the bounds — we’ve no business locking them up.”

No wonder Frodo as well as Pippin looked strained, and Sam felt his own irritation rise. The Thain was supposed to know better.

“Well, begging your pardon, Thain Paladin, sir, but would you be happy for the men of Bree, or down south, to bring their villains to the edge of the Shire and turn them loose on us? Because that’s what we’d be doing to them if we just banished this lot.” The Thain looked very surprised and Sam saw a glint of amusement in Frodo’s eye. He was half-aghast at himself, speaking to the Thain that way, but there was no help for it now. “Besides, sir, I thought the Thain was the King’s representative in the Shire. Isn’t that so?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And you must have heard that the King’s come back, so we didn’t think you’d want to start off by upsetting him and ignoring his Justice. Thatwouldn’t be sensible at all.”

“Indeed not, Paladin Took.” Gandalf’s large hand rested on Sam’s shoulder. “You’d do well to listen to Sam. But just now, given how many spectators he has drummed up, I’d be glad if you’d make sure your escort keep a firm grip on their ponies. What I must do will startle them, and though Shadowfax will soothe those in the field we need no accidents.”

“Right you are, Mr Gandalf.” Ferdinand swung around, giving orders, and Sam saw the loose ponies had all clustered around Shadowfax towards the bottom of the field, where the felled tree lay, but Gandalf was steering him back out to the road, muttering under his breath.

“Fool of a Took.” His eyes met Sam’s, flickering with amusement and a certain exasperation. “And no, I don’t mean Pippin, for once. Paladin has never been the most imaginative hobbit and is refusing to understand almost everything. He’ll come round, I expect, but I’m afraid Pippin’s in for a hard time meanwhile.”

“Well, he is underage, Mr Gandalf, and I don’t suppose he left any word, no more than any of us did.”

“There’s that, Sam. But even so Paladin is being blinded by his own relief and resentment.” Wizardly eyebrows drew down. “If he hasn’t seen it for himself, it can’t exist, apparently, no matter what anyone who knows better says.”

Sam nodded, unsurprised. “There’s plenty who think that way, Mr Gandalf. But if that’s the problem perhaps he’d better be given a look at what’s under that blanket.”

He received a sharp glance. “He’s seen bodies enough, surely?”

“Not like that one. Didn’t you see it last night?”

Gandalf shook his head. “No, I just looked at the rings to be sure there was no immediate danger.”

“He’s all shrivelled up, like Gollum was, only worse. Much worse.” Gandalf came to a halt, staring down, and Sam shivered slightly. “It was after his spirit or whatever it was blew away in the wind. His body just shrank to bones and skin, like he’d already been buried for a year.”

The wizard leaned on his staff, brow creasing. “Well now, that’s interesting. I wonder …” He seemed distant for a moment, then shook his head, sorrow plain in his eyes. “I fear Frodo was right that the Valar rejected him, as he had forsaken them, but whatever the cause it makes no difference now. And I agree the sight might be salutary for Paladin. As Thain he shouldstand witness in any case — that’s a good line you took with him. Go and fetch him, if you would, but come back yourself.”

“Of course, Mr Gandalf.”

The Thain did indeed respond better to an official need than a private request, calling Ferdinand to join him, but to Sam’s dismay Frodo felt that as Deputy Mayor he too should witness. Protesting would do no good, and Sam didn’t need to ask Merry and Pippin to flank Frodo, so he led five hobbits back up the road. Mosco had removed the stones securing the blanket but left it in place, and Gandalf sent a keen glance at the Thain and another at Frodo.

“This will not be pleasant, I’m afraid, but needs must. Sam?”

Carefully Sam and Mosco lifted the blanket away, exposing the horror Saruman had become. Averting his own eyes he saw Frodo stare at the ringed hand and the Thain and Ferdinand go pale as he took the blanket, shook it out for what little good that did, and set it aside.

“But he’s only been dead a few days! How …”

The Thain’s voice trailed away as Pippin put an arm round him, as much in support as comfort. “He looked like that within a few minutes, Da. You see why we wanted a wizard to deal with it.”

“Yes, yes — what an awful thing.”

“So it is, Paladin Took, and yet it is not the husk of the body that is the problem, but what it bears. Frodo, do you feel anything from those rings?”

Frodo shook his head, white-faced. “Not really — just a sense that I don’t want to touch them. But I don’t want to touch any ring ever again.”

“Hmm. I suspect it has so little power besides the other that to you it is only a tickle where you expect a blow. For me also it is dim, though I can sense it, but I think it was deliberately masked from me. But you feel it still, Sam?”

“Oh yes, Mr Gandalf. Just looking at it makes me think I’ve muck on my hands or something. I’d not touch it for anything.”

“I didn’t feel it the other night before Sam said anything, but I do now.” Merry’s eyes were troubled as he stared down at the skeletal hand and its burden. “And he’s right — it feels, I don’t know, sly rather than powerful. Like poisonous gossip you can’t pin down or get away from.”

Gandalf nodded. “Yes. He made it to boost his voice, I fancy, and perhaps with Hobbits in mind. It will be best if no-one touches it, I think. And I will need a flat stone it can rest on.”

“There’s a broken brick here, Mr Gandalf, sir.” Mosco fished it from the verge. “Will that do?”

“Very well. Set it down, if you would, and all stand back a little.”

Watched closely by all the hobbits Gandalf stooped, and used the tip of a belt-knife to ease the two decorated rings in turn over the desiccated fingers, before picking them up with a handkerchief.

“These are but jewels, tainted in their wearer but not in themselves.” He peered closely. “One was made by elves, long ago, the other more recently by dwarves. They may have been among the treasures of Orthanc, or gained some other way.” He looked up. “If Thain and Deputy Mayor agree I will bear them back to Orthanc, and see them delivered to the King with whatever else is found there. He and Éomer intend what wealth Saruman still had to go towards repairing the harms he wrought on Rohan, but when they learn of the harms he has wrought here I am sure they will allow the Shire a claim, so their value should come back to you, in time.”

Sam wasn’t sure the Thain had understood much of that, but Frodo nodded. Gandalf wrapped the rings in the handkerchief, knotting it and putting it away somewhere, before again stooping and carefully working the other ring free. Using the knife still, he set it on the broken brick with a look of distaste, and straightened, seeming to grow taller than usual as light gathered about him. Surprised, Sam glanced up to see the thinning overcast was suddenly shredding away, as if a wind blew up there that couldn’t be felt on the ground. The pale Blotmath sun broke through with unexpected warmth.

“Hobbits of the Shire.” Gandalf’s voice stilled the murmuring that had swelled with the light. “As you have been told, the one you knew as Sharkey, elsewhere called Curunír and Saruman, was of my own order. Five were sent three thousand years past to aid the Children of Ilúvatar against the evil of Sauron, but alas! my brother lost his way and fell into treason and darkness, seeking to rival Sauron, not to defeat him. And so he has ended in dust, slain by his own in hatred and despair. But he left behind an object of power, this ring, crafted in poor imitation of a greater and infused with his malice, and he spoke a curse it seeks to fulfil. Therefore it shall now be utterly destroyed, as if it had never been, and with it the power of his curse will be broken for ever.”

Throwing back his head and raising his staff high he called out words Sam thought were in Quenya, though he recognised only the names — Manwë Súlimo, Varda Elentári, Yavanna Kementári, Aulë. Sunlight thickened, seeming to pour into glowing staff and wizard alike.

“Sí vanwa ná Curunír Valimar!”

Gandalf brought his staff down hard, its shod tip striking the ring straight and true. A fountain of sparks flared, making Sam blink and others cry out, and then a great wash of light poured from the staff, flowing out far too swiftly to avoid. Sam’s feet tingled as it brushed over them, and he saw that it gathered fiercely around what little was left of Saruman yet seemed inexhaustible, spreading as far as he could see over the earth, road and fields and smial gardens alike. Horses snorted and stamped, hobbits were yelping and dancing in surprise, and the Thain’s mouth was as wide as his eyes, but beneath his own startlement Sam felt both the abrupt absence of the ring’s dirty pressure and the profound blessing of the light. The earth smelled as it did after rain at the end of a dry spell, sweet and fruitful, and a laugh rose unbidden in his throat. Frodo was smiling, and the light seemed to cling to him. Others were laughing too, Mosco and Ferdinand and Pippin, his sweet note easily heard above Merry’s gruffer one and the richness of Gandalf’s. Slowly the light faded, not vanishing but absorbed by the earth and plants, and Gandalf’s voice rang out.

“All honour to the Lady Yavanna, who blesses her children.” He lifted his staff, looking down, and then laughed again, stooping to lift the broken brick and examine it. “Here, Sam, I think you’ll want this.”

“I will?” Sam gingerly took it as Gandalf held it out, and felt the same tingling in his hands the light had created in his feet. Of the ring there was no trace but in the surface of the baked clay was a circle of fine, intricately interwoven lines that gleamed like mithril and were somehow as comforting as the ring had been foul. The other hobbits crowded round, even the Thain, and Sam half-reluctantly passed the brick to Frodo, looking up. “Glory and stars, Mr Gandalf. What is it?”

“The Lady Yavanna’s and Lord Aulë’s signature on their gift, you might say. A reminder of your blessing in years to come, when memory fades. And they have taken care of the rest, I see.”

He gestured and the hobbits looked round to see that where Saruman’s bones had lain in his dirty robes there was now nothing at all but the bare, packed earth of the road welcoming the sunlight. Then something else caught Sam’s eye, and he stared.

“Where …” Thain Paladin cleared his throat. “Where has it gone?”

“Away.” The wizard’s tone did not invite further questions. “It is the living you rightly hold captive who are the trouble now, but I believe some King’s men will be here sooner than you might expect. And it will behove us to … Sam? What is it?”

“The blanket. I thought we’d probably have to throw it out, but it’s … well, it’s like it’s been fresh laundered, and mended too.” He held up the blanket he’d retrieved, inexplicably neatly folded, his face a picture as wide-eyed wonder struggled with a look inherited straight from his father. “I know everything’s gone topsy-turvy but I never expected the Valar to take up housework!”

It was several minutes before Gandalf could stop laughing.

* * * * *

Halladan had thought that after the last year he was beyond being astonished by almost anything, what with the most ancient prophecies having been spectacularly fulfilled, the Dark Lord himself fallen at last, with all his works, and the highest of High Elves walking openly again among the Secondborn — not to mention Aragorn’s marriage. But the brief night he and his men had spent camped by the house of Tom Bombadil and his equally wondrous, unearthly Lady had been more like stepping into a dream than anything he had ever known in waking life, and the palpable menace of the looming trees as they rode north again was worrying as well as startling. The Old Forest had always had a reputation among the Dúnedain as a strange and dangerous place, but not in the same way as Tyrn Gorthad, and not with any report he’d ever heard of the sort of brooding anger and threat he’d sensed this day. The hobbits didn’t seemed much affected, though they were plainly wary of the trees and kept well clear of them even as they let the forest eaves guide them. But both the Rohirrim and the Ithiliens felt it acutely, muttering uneasily among themselves and keeping all to the fastest pace the hobbits’ ponies could manage.

Only when the line of trees bent westward and the Downs fell away behind them, letting them ride further from the eaves, were the men willing to halt, and by then the ponies were clearly feeling the strain. While the hobbits set about producing hot food, with two of the Ithiliens helping and the rest watching with interest, the Rohirrim tended to the animals, talking among themselves and calling over their officer, Déorwine. The surprisingly good meal stilled conversation for a while, but once he had finished eating and thanked the hobbits in his accented Westron, praising their skill, Déorwine spoke more bluntly.

“Master Jolly and Master Derumbold, and all holbytlan, your ponies are great-hearted but they will hurt themselves trying to keep up if we ride as swiftly now as we should. Yet if you will you let Riders of the Mark bear you before us on our horses, as our White Lady bore Holdwine, while your ponies canter unladen, I deem they might safely keep the pace.”

The hobbits looked at one another, surprise evident on their faces, and spoke among themselves for a moment until Jolly shrugged and looked back at Déorwine.

“It doesn’t seem quite right, Mr Déorwine, sir, but that’s how Mr Gandalf carried my brother Tom, so I suppose it’s proper. And you’re right about the ponies — even I can tell that. Who’s this Holdwine, though, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Déorwine blinked. “Meriadoc, of course. Did he not tell you?”

“Meriadoc? Merry Brandybuck, you mean?” Seeing Déorwine’s look Jolly hurried on. “I can’t say what he might have told anyone else, Mr Déorwine, but he didn’t have a chance to tell us anything much except how to fight the Ruffians. And then right after Sharkey was killed we were sent to find Mr Halladan.”

“Ah. I am sorry — I had not realised you would not know. The Lady Éowyn named him so after they had slain the Dwimmerlaik at Mundburg. It means loyal friend in our tongue. And Éomer King named him a Knight of the Riddermark on the Field of Celebrant, as the King Elessar named Peregrin a Knight of the City, for the great valour of their deeds.”

Hobbit eyebrows were high, their faces at once uncertain and curious. Jolly shook his head a little, as if to clear it.

“Well, he certainly didn’t say anything about any of that, nor Mr Pippin neither that I heard.” He looked at Derumbold. “Does the Thain know?”

Derumbold shook his head. “I don’t think so, Jolly. Mr Peregrin didn’t say much at the Great Smials except that he was back with all four who’d gone missing, and Hobbiton and Bywater had risen up against the Ruffians so he was calling the Muster, and double-quick. And since then it’s all been doing, not chat.”

“Huh.” Jolly looked back at Déorwine. “What’s a dwimmerlaik, then?”

Suppressing a flicker of amusement at the renewed look on Déorwine’s face Halladan leaned forward. “The Dwimmerlaik, Mister Jolly. Sorcerer-wraith one might render it in Westron, and he is no more, thank the Valar. And Lady Éowyn and Meriadoc, named Holdwine of the Mark for that deed. You might know him in old tales as the Witch-King of Angmar.”

Hobbit faces paled. “Merry Brandybuck killed the Witch-King?”

The shock in Derumbold’s voice was plain and Halladan nodded solemnly. “He and the Lady Éowyn together. But tales must still wait, I’m afraid.”

The hobbits were muttering among themselves as they doused the fire and made ready, and were clearly uncomfortable being lifted by tall Ithiliens to sit before not much shorter Rohirrim, as well as worried about the ponies. But Déorwine reassured them.

“I have not the grace of Éomer King, but I am accounted skilled with horses and ponies alike. And I knew these had met the Lord of the Mearaswho bears Gandalf Whitehame before Master Jolly spoke to confirm it. Do you holbytlan but relax and allow yourselves to be held and all will be well.”

Halladan wasn’t sure if the hobbits ever quite relaxed, but they did become calmer as they felt themselves secure and saw that their ponies were indeed keeping up on their own. Another two hours of cantering, slowly leaving the forest eaves behind them, brought them to the East Road, kept in decent repair between the Shire and Bree, and on the harder surface they made better time, so the fitful sun was still above the horizon when they came in sight of the Brandywine Bridge. No guards were visible, but mindful of the Ringbearer’s advice in his letter Halladan called a halt a good hundred yards short of the new gate, dismounted, and lifted Jolly and Derumbold down to trot forward before following them more slowly with Déorwine and Gilbarad, each ostentatiously laying aside their weapons and approaching the gate with hands held open and wide. The two hobbits were talking intently to others who had appeared beyond the gate, and as the men neared it was opened to let a group of hobbits through. Most were plainly guards, with arrows nocked but pointing at the ground, but in their midst was an older hobbit who looked very like Meriadoc, with the same eyes and hair. Hearing Déorwine’s sharply indrawn breath Halladan gave a deeper bow than he’d quite intended and rephrased what he meant to say.

“Master Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland and father of Meriadoc, Holdwine of the Mark?”

The hobbit blinked. “All of those, I believe, though what a Holdwine might be I have no idea. You are Lord Steward Halladan?”

“I am, Master Brandybuck. Halladan son of Halahad, at your service. I come in answer to the summons of the Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins, concerning men in the service of the traitor Saruman who have been arrested here in the Shire. With me are five of my fellows from among the Rangers of Arnor, some of our southern brothers from Ithilien, and others of the Rohirrim, who name your son their Holdwine, or loyal friend, and are led by Déorwine son of Déorláf. And this is my nephew and aide Gilbarad son of Gilhael.”

The Master of Buckland seemed to consider this information briefly before offering bows to Halladan and Déorwine and a shallower one to Gilbarad. “How should I address you, sirs?”

Halladan couldn’t help grinning and saw Master Saradoc’s eyes gleam in response. “Properly, I suppose, I am my Lord Steward, but Master Cotton and the others seem to have settled on Mr Halladan, sir, and that is agreeable to me. Déorwine holds the rank of captain.”

The hobbit let a slight smile show. “We have no tradition of titles in the Shire besides Thain and Master.” The smile faded. “Though perhaps that is changing with everything else. In any case, Lord Steward, and Captain Déorwine, be welcome to the Shire.” He shook his head. “A week ago I could not have imagined welcoming Men in, for it was all we could do to keep those already here out of Buckland.”

“So I have heard, and rejoice that you succeeded, as I am sorry there has been such suffering elsewhere. We Rangers have been stretched very thin during this last year of war, with many called south to our leader in Gondor and others fighting further north, against orcs from Mount Gundabad. And so it was our watch on your borders failed when it was most needed, alas. Yet now we have victory unlooked for, with king and kingdom restored and a great evil vanquished for ever.”

He watched Master Saradoc digest this, frowning slightly.

“So you Rangers did guard the Shire, as Frodo said. We did not know.”

“Such was our charge from Gandalf Greyhame, as he was then.”

“You take Gandalf’s orders?”

“We take the King’s orders, Master Saradoc, but being wise he has ever hearkened closely to the advice and requests of Lord Gandalf. He should have preceded us, as I understand.”

“He did. Rode through with young Tom Cotton three days back on a horse the like of which I’ve never seen, headed for Hobbiton.”

“Ah! That is good to know.” Halladan felt a wash of relief — he hadn’t liked the thought of so many of Saruman’s creatures guarded only by hobbits, capable as they seemed, but if Mithrandir was there all would be well. “And we should be headed for Hobbiton also. Master Cotton and Master Took tell me it is some fifteen leagues still from here.”

Master Saradoc nodded. “About that, yes.” He glanced up at the sun and then at the waiting men and horses. “Do you need supplies?”

“Heeding the Ringbearer’s warning we have brought all we might in the time available, but it will not last us more than a few days.”

“Fair enough.” Master Saradoc nodded again and his voice became brisker. “I can see from here your horses are lathered and the ponies near to blown, so I think it’s best if you rest here a while while I gather remounts for Jolly Cotton and those Tooks. Given this matter of King’s Justice I shall be accompanying you. We can ride as far as Whitfurrows this evening — there are reports of Ruffians still thereabouts, mind — and an early start will get us to Hobbiton tomorrow afternoon. If all that’s agreeable, Lord Steward?”

“Entirely so.” Halladan had heard from the Ringbearer and his companions that the Master of Buckland was a good leader of his people, both kinder and quicker-thinking than the present Thain, and found himself impressed by the hobbit’s calm authority.

“Then let’s get those beasts unsaddled and you folk inside.”

Déorwine smiled in appreciation of the priorities and within a few minutes the men had all passed the gate and crossed the ancient bridge. On the north side of the road the once welcoming Bridge Inn had been replaced by an ugly, ill-built brick house that already looked dilapidated, but an open-air kitchen had been set up to one side, and a field beyond had good grass for the horses. On the south side the lesser road that served Buckland was barred a few hundred yards away by an earthwork that ran from the end of a great hedge to the river, though Halladan could see hobbits working to reopen the way. The Bucklanders were shy and clearly suspicious at first, but as they saw Jolly Cotton and the Took archers working alongside the strange men, both to cook and to tend the animals, they thawed and began to join in. Master Saradoc was nowhere to be seen until he reappeared with more hobbits leading a string of ponies whom the Rohirrim greeted with appreciative interest, and then Halladan saw him collared and taken aside by Jolly and Derumbold, both speaking urgently.

Halladan busied himself for a while with quiet warnings to the Gondorians and Ithiliens. Never having entered the Shire before himself he was unsure what to expect, but they lacked even the basic knowledge of hobbits and their ways that Ranger lore had given him over the years. Then food was served, too soon after luncheon for most of the men to want more to eat until they tasted the apparently simple but entirely delicious fare the hobbits had produced — though even then their own appetites paled before those of their hosts, and they wound up watching the hobbits eat with astonished attention. Replete himself, he was amused to think that bit of legend was true while quietly speaking to Déorwine and Damrod, the senior Ithilien, when Master Saradoc appeared before them with that alarming hobbit quietness.

“Lord Steward, a moment of your time, please.”

“Of course, Master Saradoc. Alone?”

The hobbit hesitated. “Perhaps not. I believe Captain Déorwine may be of help. And for all I know, this other gentleman.”

“Damrod son of Finrod at your service, Master Saradoc.”

“Saradoc son of Rorimac at yours, Master Damrod. My apologies if I err in your title.” The hobbit hesitated again, then looked squarely at Halladan. “Lord Steward, those who have ridden and had speech with you tell me you declare my son a hero of some sort, as Gandalf did.” His gaze swung to Déorwine. “And that your people, Captain, particularly a White Lady, whoever she may be, and your King, have named him both friend and knight of your people. They also say that he had some part in killing the one we speak of in old tales as the Witch-King of Angmar, though how that may be I do not understand.” He swallowed. “I have yet to see Merry since he returned to the Shire, for he passed the Bridge unexpectedly and has yet to return to Buckland, though he has sent several messages from Hobbiton. And I find my ignorance of his deeds a burden. Might one of you enlighten me?”

Halladan looked for a long moment at Déorwine and nodded. “Of course, Master Saradoc. Most of this tale is properly Déorwine’s, but some older explanations are needed.” A deep breath. “Do you know the old verse that begins ‘Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky’?”

The hobbit shook his head. “I have never heard it.”

“Then hear it now. It tells of what Sauron of Mordor wrought in Eregion in the Second Age of the world, three thousand years ere Marcho and Blanco of the Fallohides crossed the Brandywine.”

It took a while, but Halladan managed to avoid the seventy-eight-year presence in the Shire of the One Ring, concentrating on the Nine and the Arnorian history that had led to their Black Númenórean chief being sent north to Angmar. Then Déorwine could take over with a short version of the Rohirric tale of the Holdwine of the holbytlan, reflecting songs of the court bard in Edoras but spiced with details that could only be known to one who had been there, though he was scrupulous in the way of the Rohirrim to distinguish what he had himself seen and what he had only heard told afterwards by the survivors of Théoden King’s personal éored. Halladan completed the story with a brief explanation of the Black Breath and the healing hands of the King. Master Saradoc had gone pale as he listened but looked relieved at this last.

“Then Merry has recovered from this affliction and bears no lasting hurt?”

Halladan spoke carefully. “For the most part, Master Saradoc, though the King believes he may always know some weakness in that arm from time to time, as any old wound may ache in bad weather. Such great deeds are never without cost, and you have heard from Déorwine that the blades that pierced Angmar withered and vanished. None here saw that, for it followed swiftly on the act, but their hilts were recovered from the Pelennor and are kept in honour in Minas Tirith.”

“Thank you both for your tale and your honesty. We had feared for Merry’s life, having no word all this time. But Gandalf told me none could have sent a message from so far, amid war, and I see he was right.” Saradoc shook his head, half-rueful and half-wondering. “Perhaps it was indeed for the best, for had we known what he was doing our fears would have been worsened, not relieved. Holdwine of the Mark, yet.” His gaze sharpened suddenly. “And does this title mean he has duties to your king, Captain Déorwine?”

Déorwine smiled. “Were he a subject of Éomer King, Master Saradoc, he would indeed have duties as well as honours. But he is friend, not subject, and they are set aside. The same is true of Peregrin and the King Elessar, as Damrod can confirm.”

The Ithilien nodded. “Indeed so, Master Saradoc. I saw the Ernil I Pheriannath granted indefinite leave from the Tower Guard as part of the ceremonies attending his departure.”

“You saw the what?”

Halladan smiled. “It was what the people of the city called Peregrin — the Prince of the Halflings.”

Damrod nodded. “I am told it was because he spoke so freely to the Lord Denethor they believed he must be of high blood.”

“Peregrin Took a prince?” Saradoc laughed. “That’s a good one. And my nephew will speak freely to just about anyone, so that sounds likely enough.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Though he is Thain’s Heir, of course, so I suppose it’s right enough in a way, not that we use such a title. I would ask what deeds he did also, but my curiosity must wait if we are to reach Whitfurrows tonight.”

The hobbits’ saddles and gear had been transferred to fresh ponies, Halladan saw, and what must be Master Saradoc’s escort were also assembled and waiting. His own men had made ready, and in a short while all were on the road again, following a rise above the valley of a small river to the north that Master Saradoc said was called simply The Water, and ran through Hobbiton. In the last of the light Halladan could see the gently rolling land was rich and fertile, though presently marked with signs of neglect and more deliberate damage, and as they rode west he saw more trees felled and left to lie as well as abandoned dwellings. Mindful of the possibility of stray or fleeing ruffians the Rangers and Ithiliens had their bows strung, as did the hobbit guards, and the Rohirrim rode with spears high. As night fell the column also tightened up, though Halladan would have been surprised if any ruffians seeing them would do anything but run as fast as they could, and indeed they saw nothing for some two hours until they came to Whitfurrows. There Master Saradoc and his escort rode ahead, and by the time the others followed the centre of the village, where a watchfire burned, was filled with wary but curious hobbits, some armed with bows.

Very conscious of their stares Halladan dismounted to stand beside Saradoc and spoke briefly, introducing himself, Déorwine, and Damrod, and explaining their mission, adding that their numbers were needed to ensure a proper guard could be kept on the many ruffians who had been captured. As murmuring broke out among the hobbits Saradoc nodded.

“That was well said. Any fool can see that you are very different from men we’ve seen over the last year, but you are a large party and we are unused to seeing weapons borne openly. And I am told the small gang of Ruffians who gave trouble here two nights past were driven off with stones, and last seen heading south towards Woody End.”

Halladan frowned. “How many were they?”

“Some half-a-dozen, I believe.”

“Should I send men after them? Is there aught they might harm there?”

“Not really — it’s truly a wood, covering the eastern end of the Green Hills. There’s the Yale, and one small village, Woodhall, but the Boffins and all from there fled to Stock or Buckland and have yet to return. Otherwise there are no dwellings until Willowbottom, six leagues south, or Pincup, ten leagues west on the far side of the Hills, and Paladin will have some of his people there by now, I’m sure. Unless …” Saradoc frowned in turn. “My father once told me old Bilbo told him before he went away the second time that there was an elven place of some kind in the Woody End, near Woodhall. I didn’t know what to make of it, and put it out of my mind, but if there truly are such creatures perhaps we should try to send some warning to them.”

Halladan shook his head, smiling. “A noble thought, Master Saradoc, but unneeded. I assure you there are indeed Elves yet in the world, and some of the wandering tribes I have met have mentioned a hall in the east of the Shire they use when they journey to Emyn Beraid in the Tower Hills. But if any are there now they will need neither our warning nor our aid to deal with any ruffians. The Eldar will pass unseen when they can and willingly offer violence to none, but neither will they suffer it, and at need they are warriors beyond compare.”

“Very well. Then we’d best get some food in our bellies and our heads down if we’re to be up before the sun.”

There was surprise and disbelief among the hobbits when they found the men wanted little if anything to eat, though also some relief for supplies were indeed strained, as Frodo had warned. Conversely, there was bemusement among the men as they saw the Tooks and Jolly Cotton happily settle to their third meal in six hours, pressed on them by locals. Some, it seemed, would sleep in the homes of kin or friends, others in a barn, and the visitors were also invited with some apologies to use barns, there being no beds large enough even if the ceilings permitted men entrance. Nor could the horses be easily stabled, but there was a field with good grass and a drinking trough, while some extra hay was brought out by a ruddy-faced farmer and slung in feeding-nets over the fence. Having seen a watch established and those taking it introduced to the hobbits who would share it, Halladan sought his own haybales, on which Gilbarad had laid a blanket, but though he was glad to rest his body from the saddle he found his mind busy for a long while.

They did not quite ride at dawn, for the hobbits insisted on a large breakfast if they were only to have one, but the shadows were still long and the dew fresh as they set out westwards again, passing a rutted lane running north that Master Saradoc told him led to a village called Scary and a quarry where many Ruffians had been based. The road continued to follow a rise above the shallow valley of The Water, the day was clear, and away to the south Halladan could see a patchwork of fields and paths, and beyond them the dark line of woodeaves rising on the skyline into what must be the Green Hills. The air was brisk but sweet, fair Hithui riding weather, and they made good time with the sun growing warmer on their backs. No hobbits were visible, save once, to the north, where a small group fishing the river stared and waved back doubtfully when Master Saradoc and his escort gestured in reassurance.

After some two hours they crested a slight rise to see the village of Frogmorton a mile or so further on, low houses clustering about the road, and rather further to the south, crossing a field, a group of figures too large to be hobbits. Riding beside Halladan Déorwine rose in his stirrups, gazing hard.

“Men, beyond question.”

“Yes. Collect them, please, whoever they are.”

This open land was well-suited to the Rohirrim, who had also seen, and Déorwine had only to raise a hand in a sweeping gesture for them to pour off the road, urging their horses on and without a single order that Halladan heard forming into a narrow column that spared the fields they were crossing at a fast canter as much as possible. Master Saradoc had come up beside him, staring, and nodded approval. The distant figures had started to run but had no chance — to the horses of Rohan hobbit walls and low hedges were easily jumped, and as the Rohirrim closed the distance they split into two curving lines of riders who went to the gallop to flank the group and then circled in, spears lowered. Saradoc whistled softly.

“They are superb riders. Are all their people so skilled?”

“For the most part. It is said in Gondor they learn to ride before they learn to walk, and as soldiers these have all but lived in the saddle for much of their lives.” Some riders were dismounting, taking rope from saddle-horns while others kept their spears lowered, and it was clear the fugitives had surrendered. “Good. They at least will make no more trouble. We might as well ride on, Master Saradoc. Déorwine will bring them to the village.”

As at Whitfurrows the hobbits went ahead, and when the Rohirrim did ride in, seven of them with trussed men slung across their horses’ withers, it was to a noisy reception. There were cheers as Halladan formally thanked Déorwine and his men but also some jeering at the captives that held a note of real anger, and as they were hauled down to stand in a dazed group a moment he heard Master Saradoc bark a sharp command and saw several stones sheepishly let drop.

“We’ll have none of that here, Maldo Shortburrow. Self-defence is one thing, and that’s quite another.”

From the conversation that developed Halladan gathered these men were probably those who had been driven off from Whitfurrows, and had taken and killed a sheep the previous night. They still had some pieces of cooked mutton with them, so their guilt on that score was plain enough, but they had not been part of the gang that had been used to oppress Frogmorton and what else they might have done only proper questioning might reveal. They were a scruffy bunch, and had borne only three long knives between them, but clear sight of one had Halladan’s heart sinking. Crossing to them he looked more closely at the sallow, squinting features, seeing the muddy darkness of the eyes and the heavy, ridged nails on each finger. Déorwine joined him.

“Make sure this one is well secured. He has orc blood in some measure.”

To his surprise he received a glare and a whining protest.

“Can I help that? I didn’t ask Sharkey to breed me, nor reject me after.”

“To reject you?”

“Not big enough or strong enough for his Uruk-hai, not clever enough to be useful.”

Halladan found himself fighting down unexpected pity as well as a surging anger and disgust at what Saruman had done in mingling men and orcs. “But strong and loyal enough to be sent to bully and steal from hobbits?”

The voice was grudging. “Pretty much. I had no choice. But I’ve killed none, I swear, and we only took that sheep to eat.”

Halladan shook his head, feeling a grave disquiet. Orcs were slain out of hand, always, and with good reason, but these tainted half-breeds Saruman had wished on the world spoke Westron and reasoned, however slackly. Their fate would be a sore puzzle, another matter on which the King’s own judgement must be sought.

“Perhaps so, but it was not yours to take, and you are all guilty of invading this land and doing what was done here. And for that you will face the King’s Justice.” He raised his voice, speaking to them all. “If you behave your needs will be seen to peaceably until you can be fairly tried. If you try to escape you will be shot or ridden down.”

Turning away he found Master Saradoc beside him.

“And what’s to be done with them right now, Lord Steward? It’s seven leagues yet to Hobbiton and we don’t want to be kept to walking pace nor have seven horses overburdened.”

“No, we don’t, Master Saradoc. A squad of Damrod’s men will bring them on behind us as fast as they can walk, if some of your Bucklanders or the Tooks will bear them company.”

Unexpectedly the hobbit smiled. “Surely, though I don’t think it’ll be needed. There’s several from here who are coming on to Hobbiton anyway — family heads who want to see King’s Justice in action and make sure their witness is heard.”

“There are?”

“Oh yes. Merry and the others came through here like a wind that second night they were back, by all accounts, and with messengers back and forth to Buckland ever since they’ve been all agog. And both Hobbiton and Bywater are already packed, it seems. Thain Paladin’s there too, I gather, to find out why so many of his Tooks are needed as guards. It’ll be a relief to see him again, though I doubt my sister will be there. We’ve never been so long apart.” Saradoc’s pleasant face darkened. “But the number of Ruffians being held is now over fifty, not counting these seven, with a further fourteen reported killed — eleven up in the North Farthing when they fought Merry and Pippin with the main Took contingent, and three south of Waymoot who were making for Sarn Ford with a bag of loot and ran into the Tookborough guard.” He shook his head. “Tried to rush them and bully through, it seems, and were shot down.”

Halladan had whistled at the number of prisoners now awaiting him and found himself wondering what exactly he should do in Hobbiton. With so many senior hobbits attending, including Thain, Master, and the Ringbearer as Deputy Mayor, a proper hearing and justice promptly rendered seemed the wise course, but it was plain there would almost certainly be capital sentences and hobbits no more practised execution than imprisonment. Nor did he think the Ringbearer would readily consent to anything of the kind, at least within the borders of the Shire, and while Frodo Baggins had refused any formal rank Aragorn had been very clear that his word was to be heeded as a command in any matter concerning hobbits and as little less in anything else.

“Then we had best be getting on, Master Saradoc. Let me speak to Damrod.”

Arrangements were quickly made for the seven prisoners on hand, and though there was — inevitably — a further slight delay while hobbits ate, arguing among themselves whether it was a late second breakfast after all or an early elevenses and ruefully agreeing that either way it would have to do for lunch as well, he got the ever-enlarging party underway again soon enough. At the far end of the village they passed another of the ugly brick buildings the hobbits scathingly referred to as Shirriff houses, its shutters and door hanging askew. The prisoners were set a tiring pace but soon fell behind, as did most of the hobbits from Frogmorton, though a few had ponies good enough to keep up and pepper Jolly Cotton and the Tooks with all manner of questions about where they’d been and how they’d found all these men. The answers Halladan could hear were open, and when disbelief was expressed about Tom Bombadil and his lady a chorus affirmed their existence, though explanations of Gondor, Ithilien, and Rohan revealed a certain vagueness that drew in some of Damrod’s and Déorwine’s men with good-humoured corrections. And really, he thought, Gandalf was right in that saying about hobbits always being able to surprise one for all their simplicity — as he’d realised what they had undergone at Saruman’s hands he’d expected to have to do a good deal more to earn their trust, but they had accepted Master Saradoc’s assurances without serious question, and responded to the laughter of the men with swift laughter of their own and yet more questions.

The trot they maintained wore down breath eventually, though, and as the sun neared its zenith the voices fell silent. Soon after that the number of dwellings along the road began to increase, mostly houses but some smials where the ground encouraged it, and hobbits came out to stare at them in astonishment. Saradoc called out each time, and various of the other hobbits when they saw those they knew, but they did not stop and not long after noon came to a tall stone set upright beside the road.

“That’s the Three Farthing Stone,” the Master told him, “so we’re now leaving the East Farthing for the West. Bywater’s another five miles or so, and Hobbiton a couple beyond that.” His look brightened. “With any luck we’ll be in time for a late lunch.”

* * * * *

Sam had found the last few days an increasingly sore trial. That he seemed to be assumed by all and sundry, as Frodo’s self-appointed carer, to be also the Deputy Deputy Mayor, and so the person to ask whenever instructions were wanted, he could accept, however improper it was and however much his poor old Gaffer stared and muttered. He did know, by and large, what Frodo wanted doing and what he didn’t, and for the rest common sense and a bit of willpower could take a body further than he’d ever supposed. But Gandalf’s insistence on starting to question the captured Ruffians and build up a record of exactly what had happened, where, when, who, and why, had begun to set out loud and clear all the horrors that had passed. Five of the prisoners were now being kept apart from the others for the confessed murder of hobbits, and if that wasn’t bad enough the evidence against some hobbits — including Ted Sandyman — had mounted to the point where they too had been sought out and arrested, if only to keep them from the building anger of the crowd who had come every day to fill and surround the Party Field, listening attentively to all that passed. Frodo was grimly distraught by the whole thing, recognising the need but torn between his own loathing of what had been done, his fears for what the Shire might become, and — for Sam’s money — a ridiculous sense of guilt that he hadn’t drawn away all this trouble by fleeing the Shire in the first place. And Merry and Pippin still had to be out and away for most of each day, though their discoveries of great stores of food in Michel Delving and elsewhere was about the only good news there’d been.

Nor was Thain Paladin helping in the least. Plainly still furious with his son and nephew, and none too pleased with anything that was happening except the fact of the Ruffians’ defeat, he was being by turns snappish and sulky. In a teen or tween Sam would have swatted it down by now, even one of the gentry, but with the Thain one really couldn’t, though Gandalf’s temper was wearing that thin he thought fireworks might be expected soon, not that they’d do much good. A part of Sam actually felt quite sorry for the Thain — Paladin Took was a solid hobbit who’d done his best when he had to succeed his second cousin Ferumbras, and it was hardly his fault he found himself so badly out of his usual reckoning. But he was out, unable or unwilling to see that what had happened in the Shire was only part of a much larger picture, or to credit what he didn’t understand as having any bearing on anything, and the hobbits who heard his interruptions were becoming aware both that he didn’t much like proceedings and that he didn’t really see where they had to be headed, no matter who liked or disliked them. Ferdinand was quicker off the mark and doing all he could, but as Sam knew all too well there were limits to what you could persuade a disgruntled master to do and say, or not say.

And then there was Rosie. He’d made his unchanged feelings for her plain, but as she saw him making decisions and giving orders she’d become rather withdrawn, and Missus Lily told him she was afeared she wasn’t good enough for what he’d become, which near set him to tearing his hair. Gandalf had watched with calm amusement and no sympathy to speak of, saying only that Sam had drunk his own entdraughts, and if he chose to summon wizards from their well-earned rest he must abide the consequences. Nor had Mr Tolman been of much use, observing blandly that lasses took a while to settle to any changes, and there’d been a whole lot of them to settle to, but he expected his Rosie would come round in time. Sam didn’t disagree, but time was moving awful slow while he waited.

This morning’s proceedings had been particularly grim, involving a half-orc whom Gandalf’s remorseless questioning had driven to admit no less than three murders, two hobbits and a fellow Ruffian who’d somehow crossed him over stolen coin. The evidence had brought outbursts of weeping from among the listeners, and the eventual, snarling confession that the dead hobbits had been eaten and their bones burned brought a sick repugnance. Frodo’s pain-filled statement that Merry and Pippin had told him Saruman’s prize orcs, the Uruk-hai, had boasted of being given man-flesh to eat, and that all the orcs he had seen in Mordor had a clear tendency to kill one another at the least provocation, did not help much, however thoughtful the look on Gandalf’s face. Sam was only glad Rosie and Missus Lily weren’t present today, though he didn’t doubt word would spread fast enough. And to cap it all, the Thain started to protest that his son couldn’t possibly have knowledge of anything so vile, so messengers had to be sent asking Pippin and Merry to return as soon as they might to give testimony for themselves.

Fortunately or otherwise they were no further away than Bywater, overseeing the recovery of a large quantity of food that had for some reason been hidden in one of the deserted and half-collapsed smials on the south side of the Pool. Lunch was taken while everyone waited, Thain Paladin still grumbling to Ferdinand that what Frodo had said was ridiculous as well as disgusting, and after a short internal debate Sam sighed and made his way over before speaking quietly.

“Thain Paladin, sir, I’m sorry to speak so, but you realise you’re just setting yourself up for a fall? Of course it’s disgusting and I understand you don’t like to think about Mr Pippin knowing of such things, but wishing don’t make anything so.”

“It cannot be true.”

“Can’t it? Don’t you believe that half-orc did what he said, after Mr Gandalf wrung it out of him?” No-one could have failed to realise the creature had spoken true, and relatives of the dead hobbits had already gone in search of their buried bones to set them to a proper rest. “Well then, if there’s one, don’t you think there are more? And yes, I’m afraid both Mr Pippin and Mr Merry did meet those Uruk-hai, down in Rohan, and spent three days as their prisoners before they managed to escape.” The Thain paled. “So you can believe they heard a whole lot of orc-talk, right enough. And seeing as they don’t lie, no more than Mr Frodo or me, that’s what they’re going to say when they get here, loud and clear.” He took a deep breath. “So, to be blunt, Thain Paladin, sir, speaking as you did didn’t do no-one any favours, especially yourself. And there’s others beside me who are thinking the same.”

He had expected anger but the Thain looked more bewildered than anything, and Ferdinand laid a comforting hand on his cousin’s shoulder before looking up.

“Thank you, Mr Gamgee.” Troubled Took eyes met his. “Or Samwise, if I may, though I am increasingly sure you are anything but.” Sam flushed. “It’s been a bad year in the Tooklands — the Ruffians had us bottled right up and pressed us hard. We lost some good hobbits, and Pippin’s absence was a sore blow as well as a dreadful worry. And now with him back, so changed, and everything upended so fast, well, it’s a lot for Paladin to take in.”

“It makes no sense, Ferdi.” The Thain’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Men don’t eat men.”

“But he isn’t just a Man, Pal. He’s half-goblin, and it’s horribly plain that goblins — orcs, it’s the same thing — do eat men, when they can. And hobbits, seemingly.”

“It makes no sense.”

Sam shrugged, again feeling more pity than anger, though the words about Frodo still rankled. “Except it does, Thain Paladin, sir. It’s just not hobbit sense. It’s orc sense.”

He ducked his head, more in habit than respect, and left them, feeling both Frodo’s sad and Gandalf’s shrewd gazes on him. And perhaps his words had done some good, for the Thain was silent when what Gandalf called the hearing resumed and Merry and Pippin both confirmed, shuddering, what they had heard an orc named Uglúk say during their captivity. After the reason for the question was explained their faces went hard, and Merry asked for the prisoner to be brought before them. When he was, clawed hands bound behind him and legs hobbled with rope, they both crossed to stand in front of him, looking carefully. And they could look him in the eye, pretty much — he had the slightly bowed legs of an orc and wasn’t more than half-a-head taller than them.

“He’d be too small for Uglúk’s lot.” The prisoner snarled and spat. “But he has the look of an Uruk. And the manners.”

“Doesn’t he just, Pip? And I wonder … Hold him tight, would you?”

The guards gripped his lower arms, bracing themselves, and with a look of acute distaste Merry reached to undo the upper ties on the shirt the creature was wearing and pulled it down from his left shoulder, exposing not only dirty, pitted skin and corded muscle but an ugly brand.

“And there it is — the White Hand.” Merry raised his voice so all could hear him. “It is the sign of Saruman’s orc servants, as the Lidless Eye is of Mordor’s. Was. So yes, this one is from the same pits in Isengard, and has probably eaten men’s flesh as well as hobbits’.”

“If he could get it.” Pippin’s voice was flat, though it too carried, and the half-orc cursed vilely.

“You think the fighters shared their treats with me? They didn’t even leave the bones.”

“And so you ate hobbits instead. Oh, get him out of my sight, will you please, before I lose my own lunch.”

Looking more than a little green themselves, the guards complied, hustling the creature back down to the shed while Merry and Pippin leaned into one another for a long moment. Gandalf sighed.

“Thank you, Merry, Pippin. That was enlightening, however unpleasant. Did all the Uruks bear that brand?”

“All we saw.”

Pippin nodded. “They boasted about it being more painful to have done than the Eye of the Mordor orcs, as if that was a good thing. Didn’t you see it at Helm’s Deep?”

“The huorns left no bodies to examine.”

“Oh, right. Gimli did say, but I’d forgotten that. And the Rohirrim burned all the ones who captured us so Strider probably doesn’t know about it either.”

Gandalf smiled austerely. “I shall make sure he is informed. And Éomer, Merry. Now, with that settled we had best move on.”

Sam had been watching the crowd of listening hobbits closely, thinking that while they hadn’t understood the half of what they’d just heard, they were realising that was their ignorance, as the Thain seemed unable to do. Which also meant their questions to him and Frodo were going to become more pointed and less easily satisfied or put off — including Rosie’s, and knowing how to answer her properly was a sore puzzle to him, the truth having so many hard bits and things he had no heart to speak of to her, though there’d be no help for it in the end. He sighed, welcomed Merry and Pippin when they came to sit next to him, and thought they were all thankful that the next prisoner Gandalf and Frodo questioned seemed to have done no worse than petty theft and the bullying all the Ruffians had enjoyed.

Even so it was a relief as much as a surprise when with the bare notice of distant shouts a great column of riders came into view on the Bywater road, hobbits on ponies riding in front of many men of horses, and everyone came spinning to their feet, eyes wide. As they passed through Hobbiton and turned to cross The Water some of the men came forward as some hobbits dropped back, and banners became visible. Turning to Merry, Sam grinned.

“Mr Halladan’s come a sight sooner than I expected.”

“There are Rohirrim among them!” Merry was as pleased as he was surprised. “What ever are they doing so far north, I wonder.”

Pippin was shading his eyes. “And isn’t that your Da?”

“It is! Oh—”

Sam thought Merry was about to dash down the road but Gandalf’s hand landed on his shoulder. “I know you have yet to see him, Merry, but we will need some formality before warmer greetings.”

“And somewhere to put all those horses.” Sam scratched his head, not noticing Gandalf’s smile. The Thain’s ponies and others being used by the guards had been shifted to the common grazing in the first loop of the road up The Hill, though Shadowfax always stood in the Party Field by the fallen tree, watching over Gandalf and being given a respectfully wide berth by hobbits. But the common grazing wasn’t anything like large enough for the new arrivals as well and the Party Field would be wanted still. “There’s the Side Field, I suppose — it’s been cleared of rubbish but those little hedges won’t hold horses if they don’t choose to stay.”

“I doubt they’ll give any trouble, Sam, but ask Shadowfax and he’ll see they don’t stray.”

“Ask him?”

“Yes. He understands Westron as well as Rohirric and Sindarin.”

“Well if that don’t beat all.”

He felt a proper fool walking through a crowd of murmuring hobbits to go up to a horse and bow, even if it was Shadowfax, but the bright intelligence in the great stallion’s eyes and the nod he returned brought a sudden silence. Sam took a very deep breath.

“Mr Shadowfax, sir, the only field we have for these horses as are coming, over there, hasn’t no hedges to hold them, and it runs up to some gardens round the west of The Hill where there’s still muck and bricks and things.” The task of clearing Bag End had barely begun, never mind its poor gardens. “Might you warn them? And make sure they don’t eat anything they shouldn’t?”

Shadowfax nodded again, and then cocked his head for all the world like a hobbit asking a silent question. Sam took another deep breath.

“This way, then, if you would, sir.”

The silence remained profound as the stallion accompanied him up and across to the road and the gate into the Side Field, broken only by the sound of hobbits moving aside and the clop of the approaching riders. By the time Sam had the gate open and had told Shadowfax that the ground was too dry for crocus or cowbane but there were certainly bracken and acorns, and probably horsetail and privet in the hedgerows, receiving another nod and what he’d swear was an approving look, the leading group were past the common grazing and rounding the last bend. One face he saw brought a surprised smile to his lips, and though he hadn’t the least idea of it many in the crowd were gaping at him as much as at the cavalcade that came to a halt before him. He ducked his head.

“Master Saradoc, sir, Mr Halladan, sir, and Mr Damrod — very good to see you again, sir.” He looked up at the tall Rohir with them. “I’m sorry I don’t know your name, sir. But if you’ll all put your horses and ponies to graze in here, Mr Shadowfax will look out for them.”

Master Saradoc’s eyebrows were near his hairline and his eyes wide but he only nodded, swinging himself out of the saddle. “Thank you, Mr Gamgee, we will. I’d been wondering what to do about the beasts. And I see no introductions are needed, save one — this is Captain Déorwine, son of Déorláf.”

The men had also dismounted, and the Rohir bowed deeply.

“At your service, Ringbearer. I bring you the greetings and salutations of Éomer King.”

Sam flushed but bowed back. “Samwise son of Hamfast at yours, sir, and your family’s. That’s right kind of Mr Éomer. But that’s Mr Frodo’s title, not mine.”

Blond eyebrows were raised. “I heard the song at the Field of Cormallen, Ringbearer, and I heed it.” He bowed to Shadowfax. “Lord of the Mearas.”

The stallion whickered and horses eagerly pulled away from their dismounted riders, greeting Shadowfax and turning into the Side Field of their own accord. Halladan smiled, giving Sam a bow himself, as did Damrod.

“An unexpected welcome, Ringbearer. And it is good to see you again, also, however unhappy the reasons.”

“You’re right about that, sir, I’m afraid. And today’s been full of them. But there’s people waiting, if you’ll follow me.”

Some of the other men who’d dismounted fell in behind Halladan and his captains, and as he fell in himself beside the Master, leading them all, Sam dropped his voice to an urgent murmur, receiving another startled look.

“Master Saradoc, sir, Mr Merry’s out of his skin to see you again, but the Thain needs all the help you can give him and won’t give Mr Pippin the time of day, nor anyone a lick of common sense. Look to Mr Ferdinand for that.” He heard what might have been a soft Buckland curse.

“Like that, eh? I’d wondered. Thank you, Mr Gamgee.” A swift sideways look. “Or Ringbearer, maybe I should say.”

Sam tried a glare — it seemed to be his day for glaring at gentry — but received only a bland Brandybuck smile, and there was no time for more. The crowd had parted before them, Frodo and others were standing, and he stood aside as Master Saradoc came to the fore and found himself caught up in his son’s arms and lifted clean off the ground.

“Oof!” Set down again at arms’ length the Master managed both to beam and to look thunderstruck. “You’re so tall! I’d heard, but … oh, it is good to see you again, Merry mine.” Their renewed embrace had tears threatening Sam’s eyes, but he was desperately aware of the bleak look on Pippin’s face, the Thain’s blankness, and the worry in Ferdinand’s gaze at his cousins. And perhaps Master Saradoc was too, for he freed himself from Merry’s grasp and went to enfold the Thain in almost as tight an embrace.

“Pal.”

“Oh Sara.”

Sam occupied himself glaring at gawping hobbits, though to be fair many had instinctively turned away to afford those reuniting after long separation what privacy they could. To his consternation he spotted Mr Tolman and Missus Lily among them, with Rosie, Nibs, and a tired-looking Jolly. How long had they been here? But there was no time to find out for Master Saradoc was at last getting down to brisk business.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Pal, and we’ve a lot of catching up to do, but there’s people to meet. Come, now. You must have heard there’s a King again?”

“So Gandalf says.” The Thain’s voice was not strong.

“And he says true, past doubting, Pal. This is Halladan son of Halahad, by the King Elessar’s grace and command Lord Steward of Arnor, who is come at Frodo’s and Samwise’s request to take charge of these dreadful Ruffians. My Lord Steward, Paladin II Took, Thain of the Shire, who is by hereditary right the representative here of the King since the days of Argeleb II, by our records.” Sam blinked, wondering if the Master had always known that. But any which way an almost Gondorian sense of formality was taking over, and there were bows. “And two of his captains, Déorwine son of Déorláf, of Rohan, and Damrod son of Finrod, of Ithilien. That’s a part of Gondor, Pal. And his nephew and aide, Gilbarad son of Gilhael.” There were more bows and the Thain seemed to find himself a little, standing taller.

“Lord Steward Halladan. Captains. Mr Gilbarad. Be welcome to the Shire. My cousin and steward, Ferdinand Took.” Nods were exchanged. “I suppose you already know Gandalf and my second cousin, Frodo Baggins, our Deputy Mayor just now.”

“Indeed we do, Thain Paladin. My Lord Mithrandir.” Yet more bows, and then to Sam’s mingled delight and consternation all the men went to one knee. “Ringbearer. We answer your summons, with all haste.”

Frodo’s cheeks bore flaming spots. “Lord Steward. Captains. I thank you all, but that title has no meaning here. I only act for Mayor Whitfoot while he is ill and I am owed no obeisance.” His voice softened a little. “Damrod, it is a nice surprise to see you again.”

Gandalf’s voice had never sounded so smooth as a gleaming hand rested on Frodo’s shoulder. “My dear Frodo, do you suppose Aragorn would permit any less courtesy to you? Accept it — it is only for a little while.” Sam blinked, but Gandalf was gliding on. “Lord Steward, your timely arrival is most welcome. With Thain and Deputy Mayor I have been questioning the men arrested here, though not all are truly men, alas. And I must tell you the King’s Justice has not been wrongly invoked, for there have been many evil deeds done. There are records you should read before proceeding, and hobbit kin long parted who need to talk, so if the Thain is agreeable I would counsel that we break for today and look to practicalities before meeting afresh tomorrow.”

Looking to practicalities turned out to mean Gandalf taking off Master, Thain, Deputy Mayor, and Halladan with his captains, first to confer and then to see the Ruffians under guard before conferring some more, while Merry, Pippin, and Sam worked out what to do with so many men — nearly forty of them, and a further small party apparently due with seven more Ruffians they’d captured on their way. Despite the unfortunate feel of it the only possible answer was to use one of the ugly sheds, which were at least dry, and much of the crowd found itself summarily recruited, not unwillingly. Most were set to cleaning, others went to dig out as many spare blankets as could be found, and Mr Tolman took over arranging for extra hay to be brought, both as bedding and for the horses, while Sam set Nibs to rounding up any spare teens and tweens to scour both the Side Field and the one below it of bracken and other plants that had no business there and might harm horses.

Merry didn’t know any of the Rohirrim but saw them as his responsibility, and while Sam hadn’t recognised any of the Ithiliens save Damrod he discovered that one — Marondil — had been with Faramir at Henneth Annûn and after some embarrassing courtesies was eagerly told about the volunteers from the new White Company who had come north with Halladan. The men had seen hobbits eat ; now they saw them work, and after a fiercely bustling couple of hours the converted shed was not only a great deal cleaner but beginning to look almost pleasant inside, with bright blankets spread over haybales, some embroidered hangings for the bare walls, a simple stone hearth for warmth that Daddy Twofoot had mortared, and a larger cooking pit dug outside with wood beginning to stack up. The men brought in their saddles and saddle-bags, and the food they had brought on pack-horses. The smials of Bagshot Row were still uninhabitable but their privies were usable ; men had to stoop low on the way in, but after weeks on the road they weren’t complaining, and were effusive in their thanks as well as openly admiring of how much was being done so quickly.

Sam was beginning to think it was about time for some tea when calls from the village announced the arrival of the trailing party, with seven very footsore and tired Ruffians as well as a number of wide-eyed hobbits from Frogmorton. Damrod and Déorwine appeared from somewhere and after seeing the new prisoners secured with the others Sam found himself once again involved with duty rosters. The men would take over most of the guarding, but besides matters of food quite a few of the hobbits wanted to see the job through, so a shared roster was needed. Sam was privately quite surprised how well everything was working out, having expected much more wariness of any men, but the combination of hobbits who’d ridden in with them, including Jolly, who lost no time telling tales to all and sundry, their insignia, already familiar from Merry’s and Pippin’s surcoats, and unfailingly polite and respectful behaviour had already won a long measure of trust. The only people who weren’t pleased were the prisoners, and the strong reaction of some of them to sight of the Rohirrim had had its own effects on the hobbits.

“Dunlendings.” Déorwine’s voice was hard. “Ever they have been enemies of the Mark and many joined with Saruman in his war on us. I will wager it is they who liked to fire your dwellings, for so they do when they raid into the Westfold.”

As some of those he indicated were already known to have set fires that brought sharp nods and then curious questions about this history. Sam left them to it, heading back towards Bag End with Damrod to find Frodo. Detouring to check on the Side Field he found that a fair-sized sack of acorns and a large pile of bracken had been removed, to Shadowfax’s approval, and that Missus Lily and Rosie had taken it on themselves to make sure the hard-working teens and tweens didn’t go without a cup of tea and at least a biscuit or two. Sam thought about the way he’d spoken to both Thain and Master, and that there were now some at least present who knew on their own account about much of what had happened down south, before bowing to the inevitable with a sense of relief and leading Damrod towards them.

“Missus Lily, Rosie, I’d like you to meet my friend Damrod, son of Finrod. Damrod, this is Missus Lily and Miss Rose Cotton. May we beg tea and some of your biscuits, Rosie? It’s been a long day, and it isn’t over yet.”

When they had cups and plates and were all seated again Sam let his gaze rest more towards Rosie than Missus Lily, and took a steadying breath.

“We met Damrod in Ithilien, Mr Frodo and me. That’s a part of Gondor, between the great river, the Anduin, and what they call the Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow, though I expect that name might change now Mordor’s gone. Or Sauron’s gone from Mordor, leastwise. Anyway, it was … well, it was a better time, some ways, because Ithilien’s a fair land, and we’d just been through some places that were barren, and some foul marshes. But it was bad, too, because we were with that Gollum, the same one as Mr Bilbo used to mention in his stories, and he was a real piece of work. Fawning and nasty, all at the same time — Stinker and Slinker, I called him, depending. Then we all got caught by Mr Faramir and his men, including Damrod here, and it was a bit awkward for a while, but Mr Faramir proved a real gentleman and they gave us a lot of help, in the end. I doubt we’d have made it, else.”

“Then we all owe you thanks, Mr Damrod.” Rosie’s voice was firm, her chin up, and Sam’s heart leaped. “I don’t understand the half of it, but anyone who’s a friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine.”

Damrod gave a seated bow that made Rosie blush. “Then you are friends with all Gondor and Rohan, Miss Rose, and all the Free Peoples besides. When first I saw the Ringbearers, back-to-back with their swords drawn, I knew not what I saw, for your people, the Pheriannath, were to us but the vaguest legends. When Lord Faramir ordered their provision and release I wondered greatly, for such was neither our custom in war nor what I knew to be our standing orders. Yet often since I have given thanks to the Valar that he had the sight and courage so to decide, for had he not things would have gone much otherwise, I deem.”

Damrod hesitated a moment, then turned to Sam.

“Ringbearer—” Sam gave him a look and he smiled. “Samwise, then, to my great honour. It may be this is an unwelcome or unfit question, but I have been wondering much of the year, like many who were Rangers with Lord Faramir — Prince Faramir, I should say. The name of Cirith Ungol has been a terror to the people of Ithilien from time immemorial, and save orcs I know of none but you and your master who have ever passed it and returned. I know Lord Mithrandir led Eagles and Elves up there, and Lord Gimli, while you yet slept at Cormallen, and later the evil was declared vanquished and the high tunnels blocked. But what it might have been none ever said.”

Sam’s own eyes had gone wide. “Eagles and Elves? Mr Gandalf didn’t say nothing about that, just that we shouldn’t worry because it had been seen to. And I was willing enough to let the memory fade.”

Damrod bowed his head. “I am sorry to have wakened it, then.”

“No, don’t be. I’m glad to know.” Sam took a breath. “You know what Cirith Ungol means, I take it? I didn’t, then.”

“Of course — the pass of the spider.”

“Well, it was rightly named.” His voice became thoughtful. “Mr Bilbo used to tell about the great spiders he tricked in Mirkwood, big enough to wrap up dwarves and hobbits for their supper. The one up there must have been their great-grandgaffer, because it could have wrapped up an oliphaunt, if it’d wanted.” He forced himself to look at Rosie. “Stinker and Slinker together led us right to its lair — a spider as big as a house, and I made a complete mess of it. Slinker jumped on me, and by the time I’d got rid of him it’d bit Mr Frodo — killed him, I thought, knowing no better. I managed to drive it off but, well, a lot of orcs came by and it was all a bit worrisome for a while before we got lucky again.”

Damrod stared. “You drove off the spider, Samwise?”

Another breath. “I did, Damrod. Took one claw off and put one eye out, and then it tried to crush me and sat on Sting, Mr Bilbo’s elven sword, and didn’t much like it. But it was Mr Frodo’s starglass, that the Lady give him in Lothlórien, that really did the trick. And that’s the only time I ever bore the Ring, because I couldn’t hide Mr Frodo and the orcs mustn’t get it, so I took it from him until I could get things sorted and give it back. He’s the one that carried it, even when I carried him.” Sam shook his head, remembering. “That wasn’t such a good time, neither. But it’s gone now, thank the Valar and Mr Frodo, and I’m glad to know that spider is too. It was a nightmare and no mistake.”

“A spider as big as a house?” Rosie’s eyes were huge and Sam nodded solemnly.

“Pretty much, Rosie.” Memory flared. “And it stank, worse than any midden, like a wound gone to festering. It wasn’t nice at all, nor a lot else that happened, and that’s why I’ve not been saying too much about it. Mr Frodo don’t like remembering it at all, not that he can forget. But what we heard this morning was just as bad, really, and much as I’d like to there’s no hiding that. I expect you heard about it?”

Lily nodded, face drawn though her eyes were also wide. “We heard something, Sam, though we didn’t know what to think. Hobbits killed and … and eaten, Tom said, though he couldn’t hardly bring himself to say it any more than I can.”

“It’s true, I’m afraid, Missus Lily. Neddo Banks from Nobottle and Daisy Oldburrow from Stock, poor things. It don’t bear thinking on. But at least that’s the last of the missing accounted for, so far as I know.”

“But … eaten?  How could anyone do that, Sam, even a Ruffian?”

“He’s not just a Ruffian, Rosie — he’s half-orc at least, and I’m afraid that’s what orcs do, seemingly.”

Damrod had looked shocked at the revelations but nodded. “Alas, that is so, Miss Rose. When we lost men in Ithilien we sometimes found the remains of orc-feasts. It is a bitter thing, and why we show them no quarter. But I am still amazed by your earlier tale, Samwise. To fight off such a terror as you report! The bard did not sing of that when he sang your tale at the Field of Cormallen — only that you had passed through Cirith Ungol to the Plains of Gorgoroth. Nor do I recall any mention of the Ringbearer having a … starglass, you said?””

“Don’t expect he knew, Damrod.” Sam grinned. “I didn’t follow all the Sindarin, mind, but from what I did and the bits in Westron I always reckoned he must have got most of it from Gimli, and some from Strider.” His grin faded. “And I was glad enough there weren’t much detail towards the end. It would have upset everyone’s digestion.”

“They made up a song about you, Sam?”

“Not about me, Rosie — about Mr Frodo. Iorhael na i-lebid they called him, Frodo of the Nine Fingers.”

“But you must have been in it too.”

“Well, a bit, but only because I was there.”

Damrod and Rosie both shook their heads, each smiling to see the other.

“He is far too modest for his own good, Miss Rose.”

“I know it, Mr Damrod. Always has been. So what’s a starglass, Sam?”

“Haven’t you seen it, Rosie? Mr Frodo always carries it — the crystal phial.”

“That? I wondered what that was. But why’s it called a starglass? And how could it drive off that great spider?”

“Well, it can glow right fiercely when it’s needed, as bright as a star in your hand, and the spider didn’t like that none. Acted like the light hurt it.” A thought suddenly struck him with a sparkle of connecting ideas. “Which I expect it did. I hadn’t realised … it’s all a bit complicated, Rosie, but do you remember that story Mr Bilbo told sometimes, about the time before there was a sun or a moon and the world’s light came from two great trees?”

“Course I do, Sam, but what’s that to do with anything?”

“Well, it was true. There really was a time of the trees. I learned that in Rivendell. But remember what happened, Rosie? They got poisoned by a great spider, Ungoliant — same word as in Cirith Ungol. And what’s in that starglass the Lady made for Mr Frodo is the light of Eärendil, what we call the Morning Star, that she caught somehow. But what I just realised was that it’s not just starlight, because Eärendil was set to sailing the heavens with the last of the Silmarils bound on his brow, and the Silmarils — great jewels made by Fëanor, that everyone fought over — they caught the light of the trees.”

“For true?”

“For true, Rosie. Mr Elrond, who rules Rivendell, is Eärendil’s son. So our new Queen is Eärendil’s grand-daughter, and what’s in the glass is really treelight as well as starlight, so if that spider was Ungoliant or its get, I reckon it knew it. It must have come as a nasty shock!”

Something loosened inside him and he laughed at the thought, startled to hear Gandalf’s rich laugh join his own. The wizard had come up behind him, with Frodo, and he was smiling too for all his face was pale and tired.

“I hope it did, Sam. And whether or no, that’s a good thought. I didn’t know you’d used the phial that way.” He looked at Rosie and Lily. “I was unconscious from its bite, you see, so poor Sam was on his own.”

“I suspect Sam is quite right, Frodo. Certainly that creature had a great hatred of light, but the light of a Silmaril would have burned deeply.”

“Huh. And Mr Frodo, did you know Mr Gandalf went up there after it, with Elves and Eagles Damrod says, and Mr Gimli, while we were still sleeping in Ithilien?”

“No!” Frodo’s gaze turned to the wizard, startled and frowning. “You killed it?”

“Yes I did, Frodo.” Gandalf looked at Sam with a faint air of apology and suddenly sat, drawing Frodo down with him. Once they had cups of tea and plates for themselves, he sighed. “I read some of your memories while you slept, Sam. It was not done lightly, but there were things Aragorn needed to know to heal you and we could not make out what had caused the injuries to Frodo’s neck.”

Sam shrugged, a little uneasily. “Did it help?”

“Oh yes. Once he knew it was truly a spider bite despite the size he could do what was needed, with some help from me. And once I knew what you had faced in Cirith Ungol I too wondered if that creature might not in truth be Ungoliant, whose fate even the Wise do not know.” Gandalf sighed again, bringing out his pipe and concentrating on it until he had smoke rings rising to his satisfaction. “Legolas told me the largest spider of Mirkwood of which he had ever heard tell was perhaps six feet long in the body, and plainly what you had met was far larger. I could not let that chance pass, and Gwaihir and his kin felt the same way, so they flew us up there — myself, Gimli, and Legolas with some of his kin well used to spiders that they collected at my request.” A large smoke ring flared pink as it squeezed through a smaller green one. “It was not Ungoliant, Sam, but it was, I deem, one of her own get and the dam of all the spiders of Mirkwood. Sensing her, I asked and was granted full use of the Dark Fire, for of all the evils of Morgoth the Valar most hate Ungoliant’s destruction of the Trees. I set the Fire in those noisome tunnels, and the Elves and Eagles stopped her leaving. The tunnels fell in, and I felt the spirit depart, shredded into the Void.” He shook his head, sadly, setting his beard swinging. “I cannot but regret such a fate but I rejoice she is gone from Arda. And your defiance of her was a great thing, Sam, as the Lady Varda made sure I realised. She sent you words, I believe.”

Sam nodded, remembering. “Yes. Words came to me and the starglass kindled.” He shivered in the growing dusk. “Could I hold it a minute, Mr Frodo? I reckon we could do with some starlight today, and some treelight.”

“Surely, Sam.” Frodo reached into his weskit pocket, frowning slightly. “I don’t know if it’ll shine, though. It did at Michel Delving to light our way in those vile lockholes, but I needed it then.”

“I think it will.” Sam took the phial from Frodo’s trembling hand. “Ah now.” He looked skyward. Eärendil wasn’t visible yet but he spoke aloud just the same. “Just gently, if you would, Mr Eärendil, sir, and Lady Varda, Lady Yavanna. A Elbereth Gilthoniel —”

He had thought to speak the whole verse, bright in sudden memory, but there was no need. At his words the starglass blazed alight, yet the light was soft, reminding him of mithril and the Doors of Durin, and Damrod and Rosie cried aloud. He held the starglass up, basking in the light, and then turned, offering it to Rosie, who stared and then hesitantly took it, her eyes wide. At her touch it pulsed softly and steadied again, brightening further.

“There you go, Rosie — it likes you, or Mr Eärendil or Lady Varda does. Same thing, really. And you can know what I do say I say truly, for all there’s things I don’t care to remember, and shy from.”

Holding the glass aloft Rosie was trembling and Sam wondered if he’d been a complete fool but the moment was broken by Shadowfax, who had come whickering towards the light, brushing past Gandalf to thrust out his muzzle towards Rosie’s hand. Having fed and brushed him in the Cotton’s barn where he stayed overnight she familiarly stretched up her free hand to scratch his poll, and Gandalf laughed again.

“His forebears knew the light of the Trees in Aman and his blood remembers it.” Damrod had gone to his knees but the wizard hauled him up. “Nay, Damrod son of Finrod, this is a debt in small part repaid, not an invitation to worship. Samwise son of Hamfast is beloved of the Valar, though he credits it not, and they are glad when he calls on them. And it’s no good your looking at me like that, Sam, for all you’re doing a good imitation of old Gerontius.”

Frodo laughed with an ease that warmed Sam’s heart despite his burning cheeks. “Oh isn’t he, just, as well as anyone since Bilbo.” He shook his head. “You’ll not be the forgotten Ringbearer, Sam, however you might sometimes hope for it.”

Other hobbits were listening, and for all Sam knew other horses. He could see the Thain and the Master too, standing on the road with Halladan, all gazing wide-eyed at the light spilling from Rosie’s uplifted hand. Gradually it dimmed, and at his gesture she returned it to Frodo.

“Rosie lass, I’m right proud of you. And unless I’m out of my reckoning, you’ve not been introduced to Mr Halladan, who’s our new Lord Steward, nor to Thain Paladin or Master Saradoc. Will you let me make that right?”

He held out his arm and glory be! she took it, smiling and trembling still a little, and he felt himself beam as he led her through a mess of hobbits towards the waiting gentry and men.

* * * * *

Among the Dúnedain of Arnor the formalities of justice had become quite minimal over the long years since the death of Arvedui, and Halladan had no intention of adopting the lengthy ceremonies and protocols that had accreted in Gondor under the Lords Steward, but he did employ a degree of ritual. Each day of the trials was declared open and closed in the King’s name, with a horncall, and he sat beneath the standard of the reunited realms. The evidence already gathered by the Thain — or rather, in his name, by Gandalf and Frodo — was formally accepted, with hobbits who had spoken asked to swear to the truth of their witness and to sign by the relevant portion of the records. And every prisoner was brought individually before him and given the chance to speak ; how and when they had entered Saruman’s service and come to the Shire were established, with the orders each had been given.

The hobbits attended in great numbers, listening carefully if so far as Halladan could tell eating almost constantly, and somewhat to his surprise strongly approved both the ritual and the brisk attitude he had adopted. Sensible and fair, they said to him respectfully, and All very proper, adding to his amused men that if you judged the master by the servant, as was only common sense, then the King must be a shrewd fellow indeed. Nor did they hesitate to ask for clarification if he did or said something they couldn’t follow, and though he kept his answers as brief and factual as possible it stretched things out, and once or twice produced memorable moments.

After he had seen through and pulled apart a pack of lies that one of the Dunlendings sought to tell he was asked how he had known the man was lying, and had to explain both the gifts that came with Númenórean blood and his own family closeness to the line of kings in whom it ran strongest. It was fortunate that he knew the genealogy well for all the hobbits had sat straighter as soon as kin ties came into his explanation, but some of the lifespans involved had them raising eyebrows very high. His eventual, slightly exasperated recitation of the whole line of descent from Elros Tar-Minyatur to Aragorn, with dates, received a burst of applause that quite startled him and had Gandalf, sitting beside him, laughing and shaking his head.

“Hobbits! Bless the absurd creatures. You’ll be asked to do that as a party piece every time you visit, you know.”

There was also a very interesting hour or two after one of the prisoners who had had personal contact with Saruman after his arrival spoke bitterly of the power of the fallen wizard’s voice and ring, claiming he had been compelled by sorcery to his crimes. Meriadoc had all but leapt to his feet, asking permission to speak, and flatly denied that Saruman could use his voice to compel in that way, backing up what he said with a tale Halladan had not heard of Théoden King resisting its spell and casting it off unaided — and that when Saruman had still had his staff. Gandalf was then badgered by hobbit questions about wizards, staffs, and spells into some answers that were, if terse, as new to Halladan as to almost everyone else. But the matter of the ring Gandalf had destroyed was also brought up, and a rather stout hobbit who introduced himself as Vigo Boffin and head of that well-respected family took opportunity to ask why Mr Baggins and Mr Gamgee were referred to so often as Ringbearers, and was this ring anything to do with the one they had presumably borne? Halladan had looked to Frodo, seeing the burning spots on his pale cheeks with concern, but Master Saradoc had stood.

“Well, Vigo, as it happens that’s a question and a half, but it deserves answering. You’ll all want to settle in, for there’s some history involved.”

He then quoted the ring-verse and neatly summarised the tale Halladan had told him in the field by the Brandywine Bridge, with the Nine and the One prominent. An interested and mildly surprised-looking Gandalf gave Halladan a sidelong look before adding that the Three were hidden and the Seven had been recovered by Sauron, to which Saradoc nodded thanks.

“So if you think about it, Vigo, knowing all that, you’ll see there’s only one ring it could be that Mr Baggins and Mr Gamgee carried. Now this bit I can only guess at, but I told you it was lost with Isildur in that great river, and I’m betting that somehow it was the same magic ring that Bilbo Baggins used to tell about in his stories, that he won from the creature Gollum in a riddle-game. Most of you will know them — he told them to enough of us as children over the years — and if you don’t, just ask around. We always thought he was making it up, of course, but seeing as every one of these men, and Mr Gandalf, tells us that Sauron fell for ever in Rethe, and that it’s plain they all reckon Mr Baggins and Mr Gamgee were primarily responsible, it has to be that old Bilbo really did get hold of that One Ring Sauron made and lost, only he didn’t know what it was. How could he? Then he gave it to Mr Baggins when he came of age, and when Mr Baggins learned what it was — and that would have been Mr Gandalf’s doing, I’m thinking?” He gave an enquiring look and Gandalf nodded, sending up an especially large smoke-ring. “Thank you. Then when Mr Baggins learned what it was, and how dangerous it was, he and Mr Gamgee, with my son and Peregrin Took, took it away. And only just in time, for those strange black-robed men on black horses that caused so much trouble Halimath a year back, and killed poor Tom Heathertoes as they rode away, they were some of the Nine — not men at all, but great wraiths, made so by the rings they’d been given. For all I know the Witch-King himself was among them.”

“He was.” Gandalf’s flat statement brought a stunned silence on which Master Saradoc had seized with consummate political skill.

“So there you have it, Vigo. And though you might not have done, I’ve heard Lord Steward Halladan, Captain Déorwine, Mr Gandalf, and more say just as flatly that the Nine are gone too — dead as their master. So the ring that Mr Baggins bore, and Mr Gamgee, was the One, and where they bore it to was Mordor, and the reason they bore it there was to destroy it, which they did.” He took a breath and turned. “Do I have it right, Frodo? I realise you don’t like talking about what you did, nor about the honour all these men show you, and any fool can see you’ve had a very bad time of it and been hurt by more than losing a finger, a lot more, but we have a claim on truth. All else aside, I had to speak to Tom Heathertoes’s folks after he was killed, and tell them I’d no notion why it had happened, but I’m thinking that when I get back to Buckland I can put that right, maybe.”

Halladan had himself in Minas Tirith been sorely puzzled by the Ringbearer’s almost violent humility, and had been told in confidence by Aragorn something of what had truly happened in the Sammath Naur, leaving him deeply thoughtful. Now he held his breath, watching as Frodo slowly stood, flanked as ever by Samwise, offering a hand he doubted Frodo realised he gripped so hard.

“You have it right, Saradoc.” Frodo’s voice was filled with pain. “Bilbo found the Ring where Gollum dropped it, or it had chosen to fall, and when he went to Rivendell eighteen years back he left it to me, ignorant of its true nature. Do not blame him, please — it was asleep, you might say, for he used it little and offered it nothing, and knowing now what trouble and grief it caused he is horrified, blaming himself without cause.”

“Bilbo’s still alive?”

“Oh yes. He is determined to beat the Old Took, and next year will equal him. We were with him for his birthday in Halimath.” Frodo’s smile was genuine, but swiftly faded. “And yes, having sought the counsel of the Wise I bore the Ring to Mordor, for only there, in the place of its making, could it be unmade. It was awake by then, seeking its master, and though I walked with it round my neck, bearing it, it was unbearable.” There was a lengthy pause during which none spoke, and Frodo’s hand clutching Sam’s went white. “Sam bore it too, once in his own right, while I was a prisoner of orcs, until he rescued me, and after that often, because he bore me, weak and useless as I had become. And at the end … at the end …”

Samwise Gamgee looped an arm round Frodo’s waist to steady him, his open voice ringing out.

“What happened at the end was that we got to the place it was made, a great forge in a fire-mountain where even rock melted, and that same Gollum, who’d followed us, attacked Mr Frodo and got the Ring back. Bit his poor finger off, too, so you can imagine why he don’t like recalling it and I’ll thank you all to respect that.” A deep breath. “His Precious, Gollum called it, and he was that crazy with delight, capering about, he stepped wrong and fell, taking it with him down into the fire.  Well, the world just about went mad, as if it hadn’t already, and we got out of there, fast as we could, but the air was bad and we didn’t get too far. From what I was told after, Mr Gandalf came and rescued us. So now you all know, and I expect you’ll all talk it into the ground for a year and a day, and welcome, but don’t expect Mr Frodo or me to be joining in.”

This time the silence was broke by Vigo Boffin hauling himself again to his feet. “Thank you Master Saradoc, Mr Baggins, Mr Gamgee, Mr Gandalf. It’s a lot to take in, but it hangs together, seemingly. Only, how did Mr Gandalf rescue you from such a place?”

At Sam’s look the wizard rose, sighing.

“I called upon the Great Eagles, Vigo Boffin, and they answered me.”

“Eagles? Like buzzards, you mean?”

“No, I don’t mean.” Asperity entered Gandalf’s voice, and a circle of light glowed open above him, an image forming within it. “That is a buzzard — beautiful and necessary, however dangerous to hobbit children.” There were excited shouts at the picture, hobbits, as Halladan had realised, loving a show. “And that is a Great Eagle.” The image changed and there were startled gasps at the size and majesty of the bird. “His name is Gwaihir, the Windlord, and it was he and his brother Landroval, with another, Meneldor, who bore me from the Morannon to Mount Doom and back again, with Frodo and Sam.” He sighed again, voice softening, and the circle vanished. “Think of him as a Shadowfax among Eagles, Vigo Boffin, but more so, much more, for the Great Eagles are the messengers of Lord Manwë and they alone may pass freely between Arda and Aman, between Middle-earth and the lands of the Uttermost West where the Valar dwell. And now that has been cleared up, your curiosity indulged, and the crucial history of the Second and Third Ages related with the fates of all twenty major rings, perhaps we might get back to the business in hand, mmm?”

Back to business they went, Halladan dismissing the prisoner’s claim of coercion with some stern words about the choices and chances Eru granted to all. But the talk that evening, and after, as he heard for himself and his men reported, was quite determinedly of Mad Baggins, who had told many entertaining stories that now needed some careful reappraisal, and had vanished at his own party with a flash and a bang, as any number of hobbits could excitedly testify, including at least some who had actually been present ; of what Frodo Baggins had and had not said, wounded as he obviously was, poor chap, though serving very creditably as Deputy Mayor ; and — Halladan noted with interest — of Samwise Gamgee, who seemed at once to prove and to cast into great doubt very many hobbit assumptions. The general consensus seemed to be that it all had to be true, in some fashion hobbits weren’t likely to understand, and that whatever you thought about rings in whatever number and no matter to whom they’d been given, you couldn’t deny that Frodo Baggins and his friends had not only seen off the Ruffians and their master but taken steps to see them brought up short by authorities they had to answer to, which was worth any number of rings no matter how a sensible hobbit looked at it. Gandalf also figured, with what Halladan thought he might report as uneasy approval, as did the height and vigour of Meriadoc and Peregrin, in the latter case tempered by some confused disagreement about the Thain and whether his evident anger with a tween who had vanished for a year without explanation and his equally evident inability to credit what he was plainly told his son had done during that year were proper or liabilities. Or both, an idea that gave all the hobbits headaches and was therefore, in a mental manoeuvre that had Halladan resting his head in his hands, given a considerable degree of credit. When he sought advice, Gandalf only laughed.

“My dear Halladan, they are hobbits. Their logic could give anyone pause for a century, but their hearts are almost always in the right place, and their hands and kindness right behind their hearts. Paladin is being an ass, but Saradoc, Ferdinand, and Frodo are managing him and whatever proves necessary. With a deal of help from Sam, I might add — how he has grown is a wonder greater than entdraughts, as more than Saradoc have begun to notice. He’s going to make a splendid mayor come their next election.”

“Not Frodo?” Halladan’s surprise showed.

Gandalf shook his head. “I’m afraid not. One way or another he won’t be here by then.” There was a pause that Halladan waited out. “Ah well, the facts will become plain soon enough but this is not for bandying about, as you will realise. At Arwen’s request, seconded by many, he and Bilbo have been granted the right to sail West on any ship. Sam may sail also, if he ever chooses to do so, though I’m not sure he quite took in what he was told.” Halladan sucked in a breath, paling. “But Sam has time, while Frodo does not. A few years at most. I hope and believe he will sail with Bilbo when Elrond departs. But if he does not the damage he has suffered in spirit as much as in body will kill him ere long, one way or another. It is a grievous sorrow, and far more will be heartstruck than he can credit, but there is no helping it this side of Aman.”

Halladan tried to think coherently through his sudden sense of loss and utter amazement at any of the Secondborn being allowed into the West. The last such had been Eärendil — Halfelven himself and wedded to an Elf of royal blood, besides bearing a Silmaril — while Númenor had been drowned on that account. And if clearly brittle in spirit the Ringbearer did not look to be dying. But— “The Morgul knife?”

“That, certainly. And the spider’s venom did damage even Elrond could not right.” The wizard sighed and sat back, lighting his pipe. “But even so his body might sustain him for many years yet. It is his spirit that cannot. He was at the very fulcrum of Eru’s design, Halladan, and he has realised that his final failure was long foreseen. Think about it — you know what truly happened in the Sammath Naur this year, and what happened three thousand and odd years past, or rather didn’t as it should have, when the Ring was cut from Sauron’s hand and took Isildur to save itself and its master.”

Halladan frowned, turning history in his mind, and then felt his face go slack with shock as distant and more recent figures became superimposed. Gandalf smiled, rather fiercely.

“Indeed. Never say that Eru lacks a sense of humour. From Isildur to Gollum — which gives you a notion of what was thought of events last time round. From Elrond to Sam — Elrond was quite indignant for a while but I told him he shouldn’t be and I was right. And, alas, from Sauron to Frodo, who has not enough spirit left him after the scouring of the Ring to deal with the guilt he feels at failing, never mind the scope of Eru’s humour. He will be healed, and know health and joy again, quite soon, but not in Arda.”

“I see.” Halladan drew a painful breath, mind still spinning. “Does Aragorn know?”

“He knows of the Valar’s boon and that though partly restored Frodo was not healed. And he saw the design Eru has made but does not altogether know what he makes of it.” 

“I’m not surprised.” Halladan’s mind was racing through more history. “Was it for this that Hobbits were woken under the sun, then? A new people to achieve what Elves and Men could not?”

Great eyebrows drew down. “That is more than any can say, Halladan son of Halahad, and hobbits are in themselves a great gift to the world. What makes you suppose it?”

“I was thinking of Gollum, whom you say was once of Hobbit kind.”

“Ah.” Gandalf’s voice softened. “That is a question indeed, but not one that can be answered.” He smoked in silence for a while. “And we have more pressing problems, for we are nearly done here, but Frodo will not countenance executions in the Shire however there are those among the prisoners whom you must so sentence.” Halladan nodded, mutely. “There are also the hobbits who have been arrested, at least some of whom are likely to be banished.”

“Yes. Master Saradoc told me that the few missing family heads have been summoned and that when I am done they will sit in judgement. But any who are banished cannot just wander free.”

“Then we had best find Thain and Master. Such a ruling should not be sprung on them.”

Their quest brought them after some enquiry to the Green Dragon in Bywater. The inn had been closed with all others by the unlamented Lotho Sackville-Baggins, but though its stock had been removed, many glasses broken, and its windows boarded-up, it had suffered no other damage, and once barrels of ale had been found among the Ruffians’ great caches of food the hobbits had lost no time getting it open and serving again. They entered, Gandalf removing his hat and Halladan stooping but finding the ceilings higher than expected, to discover a crowded room, including Meriadoc, Peregrin, and two Rohirrim seated on the floor telling old legends of holbytlan that had their audience laughing roundly. Silence spread and the two knights stood, looking their enquiry.

“Ah, we were told the Thain was here.”

Peregrin nodded. “Da’s in the back parlour, Lord Steward. Shall I fetch him?”

“No, no, we’ll attend him, Pippin.” Gandalf had brightened at the sound of the laughter. “I know the way but perhaps someone might bring some more ale through with the two largest glasses you have.”

With the Thain in the back parlour were his cousin Ferdinand, Master Saradoc, Frodo and, looking slightly awkward, Samwise Gamgee, as well as a few others Halladan recognised as family heads. All stood but Gandalf waved them to sit again, pulling over a bench he and Halladan could use if they folded their legs almost tailor-fashion, and a stout hobbit, eyes swivelling with curiosity, came in with a pitcher of ale and two pewter flagons of dwarf make. Once they had been served and the door was shut again Halladan cleared his throat.

“I am sorry to intrude upon your conference but we will hear the last of the prisoners tomorrow, and soon thereafter I must render my judgements — which must satisfy you as well as the King and the established laws.”

After some glances the Thain, who seemed more focused this evening, held up a hand to forestall Frodo. “And how are you minded to judge these Ruffians, Lord Steward?”

“For the most part with sentences of hard labour, Thain Paladin, for a term of ten years, or more where their crimes were more serious — those who set fires, and some others.”

“Hard labour doing what?”

“Building work, I think.”

Samwise gave a snort, then blushed as Halladan looked an enquiry.

“I’m sorry, Mr Halladan, sir, but I couldn’t help thinking they’re not much in the way of builders, judging from the rubbish they put up here.”

There were murmurs of agreement with some smiles, and Halladan nodded, smiling himself.

“Now that is true enough, Mr Gamgee, but I am promised the help of dwarves for the real work. Yet stone must be cut and hauled, and that even these sorry excuses for men can do.”

Looks were exchanged, and the Thain nodded. “That sounds well enough. They will be a long way away, I hope?”

“Some days east of Bree, in the first place, at Amon Sûl — you may know it as Weathertop.”

Frodo stirred. “Aragorn wants the tower rebuilt?”

“Yes, to secure the East Road.”

Frodo nodded. “That I understand. But you said ‘for the most part’. What of the lesser part?”

“That is one of the problems that brings me here tonight.” Halladan took a breath. “I am charged by the King to heed Hobbits’ wishes in any matters of the Shire, and to heed your wishes especially, Ringbearer.” Frodo’s colour rose. “But I am also charged to uphold the laws of Arnor, and for murder there is only one penalty prescribed.”

Halladan had heard Samwise and others speak of Baggins stubbornness and he saw it come to Frodo’s face.

“We cannot have executions here. Cannot and will not. It has never been our way and we will not begin such horror now.” All the hobbits looked troubled, and Gandalf sat forward but Frodo rounded on him before he could speak, voice fiercer than Halladan had ever heard it. “Was Gollum executed for the murder of his friend? And what if he had been? Don’t you remember what you told me yourself when I was stupid enough to wish Bilbo had killed him?”

Gandalf straightened, eyes flashing. “Perfectly well, Frodo Baggins, and I would tell you the same again. Yet you were not wrong when you said he deserved death, as I told you, nor is the Lord Steward of Arnor wrong to enforce the King’s Justice he is sworn to uphold.”

“In this it is not our justice.”

“Those in question are men, not hobbits.”

There was a tense silence, the other hobbits obviously surprised to see Frodo defy Gandalf — though not, Halladan realised, Samwise, who shook his head and looked at him.

“Does the law say the killings have to be here in the Shire, Mr Halladan?”

Halladan blinked. “Ah, no. There is no such requirement, though it is usual for any such sentence to be carried out swiftly.”

“Right. Then they won’t be here, Mr Frodo.”

“And you think that better, Sam?”

“Yes I do.” Frodo blinked. “You’re right we don’t want any such thing in the Shire, but it has to be done, and you know it as well as I do, and Mr Merry and Mr Pippin.”

“I will not witness them.”

“And who says you should?”

Frodo blinked again. “As Deputy Mayor it is my duty.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr Frodo, but no it’s not. Your job’s to get the Shire running properly again. This is King’s Justice, and that’s for the Thain, not the Mayor.” Thain Paladin paled, and Halladan saw Samwise’s gaze meet Ferdinand Took’s. “He can send a witness on his behalf, and Master Saradoc too, if he wants.”

“Um, send them where, Mr Gamgee? It cannot be far from the Shire’s borders.”

The answer was unexpected. “Sarn Ford, I reckon. Never been down that way myself, but it’s our southern bound as the Brandywine Bridge is the eastern. And that’s the way most of the Ruffians came in, so it seems right. And” — he took a breath — “I was thinking that the dwarves Mr Gimli said he’d be asking to come from up north to his new caves in Rohan will be using that road, so I wondered if we might ask the next ones along to carve us a sign. As a warning, like — the Ruffians came here to do no good, and look what happened to them. At least that way some good might come of it, Mr Frodo.”

The other hobbits looked thoughtful, slowly nodding, and after a moment Frodo slumped where he sat.

“I cannot believe any good can come of such a thing, Sam, but I see no-one else agrees and I cannot command Lord Halladan, whatever he or Aragorn says.”

“Not in this, Ringbearer. I am sorry. Thain Paladin, Master Saradoc, is this acceptable?”

Saradoc nodded but the Thain was still hesitant.

“I suppose so, but this matter of witnessing …”

“I will go as your deputy, Pal.”

“No, Ferdi, I need you in the Tooklands, not traipsing off south.”

Ferdinand snorted. “You can spare me for a trip to Sarn Ford, Pal. It’d be less than a week. Or Pippin could go, I suppose.”

“He’s not of age!”

“Which given everything means very little, Pal, as I’ve told you twice now.”

“He shouldn’t see such things.”

“And what makes you think he hasn’t already, and worse?”

The look of shocked enquiry the Thain gave Halladan was fearful, and he chose his words with care.

“I do not believe Peregrin has witnessed an execution, Thain Paladin, but I fear your cousin is right that he has seen much to turn anyone’s stomach.”

It was again Sam’s quiet voice that brought relief to the tension. “We all have, Thain Paladin, sir. Weren’t no help for it where we had to go. But if you don’t mind my saying, why don’t you ask him if he’s willing?”

Meriadoc came with his kinsman, inevitably, and when the problem had been explained by Halladan they looked at one another before Peregrin stared for a moment at his father and Ferdinand, and abruptly nodded.

“Yes, alright. It’ll be perfectly horrid, I’m sure, but easier for me than most. I’ll go.”

Meriadoc had been looking at his father and now slung an arm around his cousin. “We both will, Pip. And don’t look like that, Frodo — just as you can deal with the fact of those half-orcs better than most, because you’ve seen the real thing, we’ve seen battle. And not just the little one here. After Rohan and the Pelennor blood doesn’t look the same. Nor the Morannon, I dare say, though I missed that one.”

“The Pelennor was worse, and the Siege.”

“So that’s settled, then.”

No-one contradicted Meriadoc so Halladan nodded. “Very well. Thank you. Now, the other thing is that I know you are planning your own meeting concerning the hobbits against whom there is evidence of more serious criminal deeds, and I am told it is likely that some at least will be banished the Shire. Is that so?”

Master Saradoc nodded wearily. “That’s what we were discussing when you came in. Two or three at least, and probably all five.”

“Then there is one thing of which you should be aware. Your business is your own, now and always, by the King’s express command as well as long tradition. But when you banish a hobbit from the Shire, as your charge, you banish him into Arnor, which is my charge. And certainly in the cases of these hobbits, knowing of what they stand accused, I cannot allow them to wander at liberty.”

Another nod. “So Samwise made us realise. But what will you do with them?”

“Well, Master Saradoc, that has been puzzling me. But I feel that as they threw in their lot with the Ruffians, their ways might lie together still. Those cutting and hauling stone at Amon Sûl will after all need cooks and cleaners.”

To his surprise there was laughter, even from Frodo, and Samwise shook his head.

“I’ll tell you straight, Mr Halladan, sir, that Ted Sandyman is about as good a cook as those Ruffians are good builders. And a steady diet of his cooking would be a punishment I’d not wish on anyone.” There were more laughs of agreement. “But one or two of those ones can cook a bit, I think, and even Ted can use a bucket and mop, though you’d likely need someone to watch him. He’s lazy as well as mean and plain stupid.”

“I am warned, Mr Gamgee, and thank you for it, but if his own rations depend on his working I believe hobbit sense will win out soon enough.”

“There’s that.”

“Then this also is acceptable to you all?”

After more looks it was Frodo who answered. “In these cases, yes, I think so. What happens when their time of servitude is over?”

“May they then return to the Shire?”

“Not if they have been banished. It is our ultimate sanction, and it cannot be undone.”

“Then they will be allowed to settle somewhere an eye may be kept on them, and found a means to live honestly. In the Breelands perhaps, but I cannot say with certainty.”

“And others, should that happen? The last banishment I recall was that Thistledown from Scary who would not acknowledge a child he had begotten and struck the mother. His family cast him out and none other would have him. But that is not a crime, only an outrage of decency.”

“I see.” Halladan thought hard. “Well, the future remains unknown, but there will soon be more places a hobbit might settle and make his way in Arnor, or in Gondor, come to that. Especially if he is a better cook than Ted Sandyman, or has a skill he can trade upon. And of course that is true for any who leave voluntarily, also. Bree will certainly be expanding as trade is restored and Fornost and Annúminas rebuilt, and though I thought Gandalf was joking when he advised me to recruit hobbit cooks, after ten days of eating your fare I think it a fine idea.”

They smiled at his weak joke but also looked suddenly thoughtful, and after a while during which he looked at Gandalf and received a bland look back, it was again Samwise who spoke.

“Well, there’s an interesting idea. I can’t suppose as many will want to go permanently, but I know you’ve been worrited about tweens deciding they want to see things they’ve heard tell of for themselves, Thain Paladin, sir. What if they had invitations, and folks we can trust looking out for them there?” He sat straighter. “And remember what Mr Frodo was saying about how Mr Legolas and Mr Gimli had promised Strider to bring their own folks to help mend the stone and the greenery at Minas Tirith? Well, what about us mending their cooking and all? They fry and roast well enough, and they’ve some interesting fruits we don’t get in the north, but they’ve no idea about vegetables nor the proper use of green herbs.”

Gandalf gave in to his mirth, quite startling the hobbits who’d been looking interested despite themselves.

“Samwise Gamgee, you are a treasure among hobbits. And if you mend Aragorn’s kitchens in the citadel he and Arwen will bless you all many times over. I will say also that there will be many places at Rivendell ere long, and Bilbo has taught all there to appreciate a hobbit in the kitchen.” At Samwise’s look he nodded. “Many will leave when Galadriel does, Sam, and she will not linger long now she is allowed to return West. Do not be distressed. It has been long and long for her, and others, yet some will stay yet awhile — Elladan and Elrohir until Aragorn passes, at least, for a surety, and Celeborn and Glorfindel for longer, I suspect.”

Samwise nodded, looking sad all the same, and slowly the talk passed to easier things, with many recipes discussed, until Halladan and Gandalf rolled eyes at one another and left the hobbits to it.

* * * * *

Four days later Sam sat between Frodo and Rosie, with her parents beyond, to hear Halladan pass his judgements. The Lord Steward had chosen to wait until after the heads of families had concluded their own meeting, and decided to banish all five hobbit accused, striking them from their family books and declaring them forbidden within the bounds. No-one had been happy about it but neither had they seen any alternative, given that all had been willing collaborators even in the worst the Ruffians had done. Frodo was still very distressed about what was to happen at Sarn Ford, and Sam more than half-understood though he could not himself regret those Ruffians’ fates. The Thain had become remotely blank again, though Ferdinand and Master Saradoc were covering for him, but more important to Sam was that Rosie had accepted that she’d be marrying the hobbit she’d always known and had waited for, however different his duties and experiences might have become. They’d made no announcement but they’d discussed dates, inclining to the first day of Thrimmidge, and he’d found himself breaking into song and grinning for no reason he could yet explain.

The crowd was the largest yet, many more hobbits having come in for the meeting of family heads and stayed when they’d learned all judgements would be rendered next day. The Party Field was crammed, folk sitting closer to a carefully still Shadowfax than ever before, and every other possible vantage-point the subject of jostling competition that stilled only when the horn was blown and Gilbarad announced in a carrying voice that Lord Steward Halladan sat in judgement.

Sam had quietly warned the Cottons of what was to be expected, and there did not seem to be any surprises. The prisoners had been sorted into groups according to the seriousness of their crimes, with the largest group first, sentenced to ten years hard labour, and then a steady rise in the length of servitude for those who had physically injured hobbits or set fires. Then Halladan explained why, though respecting Shire justice, he could not allow any who had transgressed seriously enough to warrant banishment to wander at large without at least knowing what they had done, and that as in these cases the crimes were the same as those of the lower-level ruffians, the sentences should be the same. The menial work that would be expected of the hobbits was explained and the Thain stood briefly to acknowledge that judgement before the banished hobbits were brought out and the additional sentence passed. Sam had wondered how he’d feel seeing Ted Sandyman at last brought low, and as he’d more than half-suspected there was no pleasure in it, only a slightly sick feeling. Sandyman had always been a fool and bully, and the look of bewildered panic on his face both when he’d faced the family heads and now showed he still had little understanding of what he’d done.

There was one brief stir, concerning the oldest hobbit among the banished, a Sackville cousin of Lotho’s who had organised much of the so-called gathering and sharing, and taken whatever he fancied from among the gathered items for himself. Facing the family heads he had protested that he’d only done as he was instructed, and revealed that the first Ruffians to arrive, more than a year before, had brought strict orders to search for and collect all rings. He had simply had charge of them, he said, and many had been sent south ; the few found in his possession were a further collection, and he’d tried to give them to Sharkey when he’d arrived, only to be knocked sprawling and told it was too late. The family heads hadn’t much cared why he’d done anything in particular, and enough gathered property had been found in his South Farthing smial that it made little odds to his guilt, but Halladan, observing with interest, had asked permission to question him and it had become clear that he’d handled a lot of Lotho’s correspondence with Sharkey. Now, explaining this, Halladan announced that this particular hobbit would be sent south to give his testimony directly to those whom the King Elessar and Éomer King had set to investigate all Saruman’s doings, before being returned north to complete his term of servitude with the others. Properly speaking, what any banished hobbit did or said was no concern of anyone’s, but there was a buzz of interested conversation as hobbits absorbed the fact that while their own justice was complete, the King’s would continue elsewhere.

Then Halladan did spring a surprise, inviting Gandalf to sit by him.

“The most serious sentences remain to be given, but as we have broached the matter of Saruman’s dealings there is another distressing thing that must be faced. Certain things Lord Mithrandir has discovered affect my decision, so I have asked him to explain them to you.”

The wizard’s face as he stood was severe, eyebrows looking especially bushy and eyes very deepset. “It may well be that the greatest evil Saruman perpetrated was mingling the races of Men and Orcs. It is not naturally possible — black sorcery is required, and I am surprised he succeeded, but he did. When the ents took Isengard they drowned all his caverns and workshops, so no investigations can be made there, but from other things I have learned, here and elsewhere, it seems he tried both ways, grafting mens’ stock to orcs’ as well as orcs’ to men, with very different results. The orcs known as the Uruk-hai, whom some of you heard Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took describe encountering in Rohan, were clearly mostly orc, and had the qualities Saruman sought. They were larger, stronger, more disciplined and intelligent, and endured sunlight without flagging, as creatures of Mordor cannot. Most if not all were slain in battle. But the half-orcs you have suffered here are mostly men, however tainted with orc-blood — smaller in stature than most, if strong, and with some dislike of sunlight — and it is plain Saruman considered them failures, fit only for lesser tasks. What matters here, though, is that they are sterile, as mules and other crossbred animals are.”

In the deep silence he sat again, and Halladan continued. “That being so, I need do nothing further. But had it not been so, I would order them gelded, not as punishment but as necessity. In the one who murdered two of hobbit kind you have seen what orc behaviour can be, and the spread of orc blood among men cannot be allowed, nor risked. It is therefore my formal order to the Thain, as the King’s representative, which I will also give him in writing, that any further such who are discovered or encountered must be arrested and brought before me.” Halladan’s face was troubled but determined. “In truth these creatures are a sore puzzle, for they are not orcs, to be slain out of hand, and seem in some cases weak and unhappy persons, accursed in their begetting through no fault of their own, yet carrying a taint that is an abomination to all Free Peoples. It may be there are some who pose no greater threat than any man, or it may be that the quarrelsomeness and barbarity of orcs will become manifest in age — though what their natural span may be cannot be known. Hence my order, for while no violence should be done to any who themselves offer none, the whereabouts of such creatures must be known.”

Before returning to the most serious cases Halladan took a break, allowing tea to be brewed and elevenses consumed against the day’s chill. Listening to the hobbits who came to talk to Tolman, mostly farmers, Sam found they had a better understanding of Gandalf’s words than he had himself, and amid much discussion of mules and hinnies he learned several things he realised he had seen in plant hybrids and cultivars he had tried himself down the years. The implications for what Saruman had been doing didn’t bear thinking on any more than they ever had, but the shared pattern among living things was one to ponder. When Rose asked him why he was looking so thoughtful he explained, sticking closely to his experiences with vegetables and flowers, though it was clear she saw the implications too — she was after all a farmer’s daughter, and if she lacked his experience of orcs nevertheless knew full well what must have happened. But Frodo was shivering, as much at what he would see as Halladan’s ruthlessness as at the cold, and besides making sure he had a second cup of tea Sam fished out the Lórien cloak he’d carefully stowed in the pack he’d brought for both of them, and made sure he was well wrapped.

When Halladan resumed all was deathly silent. In the end there were seven whose crimes had proved capital — the six Frodo and Gandalf had discovered in their hearings and a Dunlending who had set a fire in which hobbits had died. Each was individually sentenced to be beheaded, and when the last had been taken away Halladan explained that at the strong request of Thain, Master, and Deputy Mayor these sentences would not be carried out within the Shire but beyond its southern bounds, at Sarn Ford, and that Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took would stand witness for the Shire, for Thain, Master, and the kings to whom they were sworn. The stone Sam had proposed would be carved as soon as it might be done and would, Halladan hoped, help to deter any future man with evil designs on the Shire. That brought nods, and all that remained was for Halladan to say that the party travelling to Sarn Ford would leave after lunch, led by Captain Déorwine, and that once they returned he and his men would leave for Bree, taking the prisoners to their proper fates. Prompted by the Master, the Thain rose briefly to give formal thanks to the Lord Steward for his help, and seemed surprised by the genuine applause that broke out. Halladan also seemed taken aback, though he acknowledged the thanks gracefully before declaring proceedings closed. Gilbarad blew the horncall for the last time, and that was that.

Lunch with an understandably grim Merry and Pippin was a sombre affair, soon over, and bustle began. The party for Sarn Ford departed with their prisoners lashed on to spare horses for speed, and in their wake hobbits began to depart as well, heading home to spread news of what had passed and resume the labours of repair and restoration. Thain Paladin and Master Saradoc left too, taking their escorts, though many of the Took muster remained to bolster the men’s depleted guard on the remaining prisoners. Gandalf announced that he would shortly be on his way back to his interrupted talk with Tom Bombadil, and then south to Orthanc. Even Frodo decided he should get back to Michel Delving to continue sorting out the Town Hole, but asked Sam to stay to see to whatever might be needed. His farewell to Halladan was courteous but stiff, and after he had headed off with Gandalf for the Cottons’ farm to collect his own pack, Sam crossed to the Lord Steward, talking to his nephew with a rather set face.

“Mr Gamgee? Is there something I can do?”

“I just wanted to say you shouldn’t worry about Mr Frodo, Mr Halladan, sir.” Sam shook his head sadly. “He’s always had that stubborn Baggins streak, but these last months, well, he’s still so hurt inside on account of all the Ring did to him he’s not himself. Even when we was still in Mordor he was that sick of fighting and killing he wouldn’t bear a weapon. And getting back to find all this going on was cruel hard on him.”

“I understand that, Ringbearer, and am sorry I could not grant mercy to all as he seemed to wish. And doubly so to distress him when he is already distressed, and less healed than I would have hoped.” Sam gave the man a sharp glance, but had known in his heart since Frodo’s illness on the anniversary of his stabbing that what Strider had feared was proving true, and dreaded what was to come. Halladan met his look with sympathy, his own grief showing. “And I will take the chance to thank you also, Samwise son of Hamfast, for all you have done. The King shall know of it.”

Sam shook his head. “That’s right kind of you, Mr Halladan, but there’s no call for that. Poor old Strider’s got enough to be doing, I reckon — he don’t need any extra.”

Gilbarad tried to stifle a smile but Halladan didn’t bother, giving Sam a grin.

“I’m sure he agrees, but he will not count reading your news and proper praise as a burden, you know. Quite the opposite. And I am sure he will be writing to you and others here as soon as he hears what has happened. Messengers will be passing between Gondor and Arnor monthly at least, and he will want reports of how the Shire recovers. Which reminds me I have been meaning to ask if there is anything I can do to help. I have been assured that recovered foodstuffs are sufficient to see you through the winter, and I will of course inform Thain, Master, and Mayor of anything that is decided about the wergild due from whatever is recovered at Orthanc. But are there other wants of which I am ignorant?”

Sam scratched his head. “I’m not sure. There’s things lost we may have to trade for — heavier metalwork than we can do, and jewellery for marriages and the like.” He blushed. “But that’ll be dwarf business, mostly, when some come through or at the Midsummer Fair.”

“Indeed. I have formal messages from the King for the dwarves of the Ered Luin, and will make sure they know the Shire is likely to have need of their services.”

“That’s right kind of you.” Two thoughts suddenly struck Sam. “Will you be sending aught to Rivendell?”

“Certainly.” Halladan raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“I was just wondering if I might beg some seeds or starts of the athelasMr Elrond has in his herb garden. And some other things, maybe, that we don’t have or we’re short of.”

“Of course. I will be glad to see any letter sent on as soon as may be.”

“I’ll write tonight, then. And I was thinking — those men are no use as builders but they knock stuff down well enough. And we’ve a problem in that way.”

“Oh? What?”

“That great ugly thing.” Sam pointed to the dreadful new mill, no longer pouring out smoke for its machinery had been silenced but still an eyesore and affront every time he saw it. “Sheds and shirriff houses we can deal with, I reckon, but that thing’s way bigger than hobbits ever build and how to have it down safely is a puzzle. We could ask dwarves to help, I suppose, if they’d take what payment we could offer, but maybe the prisoners could get started over the next few days, while you’re waiting for Mr Déorwine to get back from Sarn Ford.”

“I don’t see why not. Will you not need a working mill, though, ugly as that one is?”  

“The millstones are still in place, and the gear for the waterwheel, though the wheel itself was smashed. But we can make a new one quick enough and fit it if we can get all that other machinery out of the way.”

“Very well.”

And so Sam had the satisfaction over four days of seeing the eyesore dismantled, with its machinery, by prisoners who seemed to welcome a change from the boredom of confinement and worked willingly enough under the guard of archers with arrows nocked, while eager hobbits began to fashion a new wheel and prepare the geared shaft on which it would rest. Less fearful of water than hobbits, prisoners also dredged the millrace, recovering many of the worked stones of the old mill and other rubbish Sandyman or others had allowed to clog it. Without the wheel it still didn’t sound quite as it ought, but the restored flow over the breastwork sounded sweet to more ears than Sam’s, and as the last of the walls were cleared and it could be seen that the old foundations remained there was a real sense of cheer in Hobbiton and Bywater alike.

By the time Frodo came back from Michel Delving, tired but easier in himself and warmer towards Halladan, the first new courses of proper shire stonework were rising, and he was warm in his praises for all that had been achieved. Bagshot Row was also greatly improved, and Sam had made a good start on the gardens of Bag End. To his surprise and gratitude Damrod had organised off-duty men who were willing — which was all of them — to begin clearing and cleaning the smial itself. The way carpets had been stained and torn, and furniture smashed, was enough to bring tears to Sam’s eyes, but at least the old place was on its way to being habitable again.

Six days after they had left, the Sarn Ford party returned. Merry and Pippin declined to give details, saying only it had been swift and clean, however horrid. Whatever Déorwine told Halladan he kept to himself, and after one last gathering, on which the hobbits collectively insisted, feeding the men until they groaned by way of thanks, a bright morning saw them all on their way back to Bree, prisoners tramping among them. Merry and Pippin went with them, headed for the house at Crickhollow Frodo had given them, and suddenly the village was almost back to normal, saving continuing work to dismantle ugly new construction and repair or redig the old. Much of Sam heaved a long sigh of relief, but he was also surprised to find how empty and small Hobbiton sometimes seemed with only its own hobbits on show.