[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As they rode with caution toward the back of the camp, Dirand recited a morbid tally, identifying those dead or wounded they passed, and in doing so quickly spied a dark shadow slipping steadily around those engaged in battle, though he could not tell for certain who it was. The old man lifted his sword, silently pointing the figure out to the sharp eyed hobbit who sat in front of him, and who squinted down the length of the blade raised so close to his cheek, before extending his view past it and through the haze. Carl soon saw that a man, with boots and rather more substantial clothing than that of his companion, was headed straight for the cluster of boulders where the hobbit knew so many of the vulnerable in his group lay hidden. His gait was a swagger that was altogether unfamiliar.

Pulling hard on the left rein, Carl succeeded in changing the horse’s direction, and headed now for the stealthy figure, hoping to run him off. But the slaver, who sensed their approach, and who turned to face them, seemed not in the least bothered by this new development, but firmly stood his ground, as the horse bore down on him. “What are you doing?” the old man whispered urgently, and the hobbit explained that the shadow was in fact, the enemy. “Well I'll be confounded, if that slaver doesn't think we are one of his own!” Dirand exclaimed. This came as a painful revelation to Carl, who realized in a flash that the slaver wouldn't be alarmed by their approach, and that they might actually get very close. Dropping the reins, Carl quickly ducked his head as he unslung the bow from his shoulder.

The hobbit had had no practice shooting from horseback, and struggled to fit arrow to string while being jostled about like a sheep carried to market. Finally ready he raised the bow, but before he could shoot he heard the man in front of him bark something. The horse evidently heard it too, for his ears pricked forward listening as he slowed considerably. “Oh, this is not going to be good, not by a fair margin,” Carl groaned. Dirand too, steeled himself. And letting go his iron grip on the back of the saddle, the grizzled man hunkered down clutching his curved sword with both hands.

At some point the slaver must have grown leery, for he would not be still long enough to let Carl get him clearly in his sites. And he repeatedly called to the horse keeping himself directly in front of it, so that Carl dare not let an arrow loose. When they were but a yard or two away, the horse stopped, and kick as he would, the hobbit could not budge him. Looking up Carl saw the slaver poised with a long knife in his hand, first appearing on this side of the horse's head and then on the other. He quickly took a shot, but missed, and before he could grasp another arrow the slaver sprang at him. Carl tipped his bow down, ramming it unto the slaver's shoulder. The man paused, letting his glance flickered away from the hobbit briefly, but Carl dare not follow his gaze, lest he spring on them again.

As the hobbit pulled back his bow, he heard the ringing of steel behind him. Quickly gathering the reins in one hand, he managed to cause the horse to turn, forcing the slaver and this new attacker onto the same side of them. Carl who had no time to unsheath his knife or even to think, kept busy worrying the men with the end of his bow, while Dirand slashed at them with his sword, catching them with the flat of it more often than not as the horse shifted nervously beneath them. It was only a matter of time before Carl bow was caught, and the little farmer was dragged from his high perch. But letting go of it he rolled between the horse's legs to the other side, and as he turned to stand up, he saw another stout fighter descending on them. Wheeling around, he slapped the horse's flank as hard as he could, thinking to send both the horse and the old man off toward the boulders. But instead the horse reared, pawing the air before coming down with a sickening thud as he landed squarely on the man who had caught hold of his reins, the lesser of the two slavers. Dirand, who had fallen, scuttled away drawing the attention of the second slaver, who followed him. The old man was bravely brandishing his sword as the slaver closed in for the kill. In a twinkling Carl had drawn his knife and attacked. Throwing himself at the slaver's legs, he slit the man's hamstrings, and was still clinging to them as the slaver collapsed to the ground. Dirand scrambled to his feet, quickly driving his sword home.

"There is one more," Carl panted breathlessly. Springing up, he looked around. "A very big fellow too.... Should have reach us by now. Now where has he got to, Dirand? I've grown to dislike surprises!" Suddenly, the horse tossed his head, shuffling sideways. And Carl looked at Dirand, putting his finger up to his lips as he crept silently toward the beast.