Chapter Two: Wanted Dead or Alive

*For a hobbit, the bar was an incredibly messy place to be. For two hobbits, however, the bar should have stood out as a warning signal: ‘do not, under any circumstances, enter this bar’. Which was precisely the reason the two traveling hobbits, Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, made straight for the bar without heed. Both were tired of being on the road.

After finishing what had seemed like the longest and certainly the worst part of their quest so far, the two hobbits felt their eyes needed to be refreshed. They had seen hide nor hair of another being aside from each other for almost two and a half months. That was a long time for a hobbit.

As they entered the bar, they were immediately immersed within the loud ruckus and tall human men. Slowly dragging their way to an empty table, they sat in quiet for a moment. Finally, the one named Frodo spoke.

“Sam, remember we can’t go by our real names. Someone might recognize us.”

“Of course Master Frodo.” The other one, Sam, spoke with a jolly cheer to his reply. Frodo stared at his friend for a moment, then Sam flushed a pale pink.

“Sorry about the whole Master Fro-, well, you know. So do we get to pick ourselves new names?” Sam quipped.

“Sure. I’ll be Durbin.”

“Durbin?” Sam mimicked, laughing. Frodo joined him. It was good to feel safe enough to laugh for a moment.

“It was my great grandfather’s name.” He explained to Sam.

“Well then. I’ll just be Darwin.”

“Durbin and Darwin. Sam, we’ll be found out for sure!” They were laughing again. Frodo stood. “Want something to drink?”

“Ale?” Sam more asked than stated.

“Sounds good to me too. Any money left?” Frodo asked, glancing perilously at Sam as he took out their meager coin purse.

“Enough.” Sam announced, handing the money over. Frodo left him for the bar counter. As he jumped to be seen be the bartender, he realized it was hopeless. The bartender was too busy at the moment to see him.

“Short one, you are far from your home. What brings you to such a place?” A muffled voice drifted into Frodo’s ears. He turned slightly to the side to see a shrouded figure sipping a tankard of ale.

“My business is my own.” He stated firmly. A tiny peel of laughter feel from the stranger’s hidden lips.

“Very well then. May I assist you in getting your drink?” Frodo looked at the figure with a hard, judgmental glance. “Don’t worry short one, I won’t bite. Hard.” More laughter. Frodo’s eyes lit. This person had a sense of humor. Rare in these times.

“Very well. I’ll hold onto the money though.” Frodo relented.

“As you wish. Bartender?” The figure called out with a demanding tone. The bartender looked up from his conversations with men on the opposite side of the bar counter and smirked.

“Something else to your liking, sir?” He sneered.

“One…”

“Two…” Frodo interjected. He could almost feel the figure smile.

“Two tankards of ale.”

“Sure. I hope you got the money.”

“I do.”

“I don’t see it.” Frodo placed his hand on the counter and laid out the money.

“There’s the money.” He said.

“Alright then.” The bartender slipped the money away and replaced it with the two tankards of ale.

“There you are short one. Go back to your companion and enjoy your ale.” The cloaked figure nodded a farewell, and Frodo took off back to Sam.

“Did you get it? What was that man speaking to you about? Was he safe? Did you use your fake name?” Sam’s questions shot at Frodo so quickly he nearly dropped the mugs.

“Here’s your ale. The man helped get the bartender’s attention, that’s all. He wasn’t bad, just had a slight sense of humor.”

“How do you know you can trust him?”

“I don’t. I don’t trust anyone anymore Sam. Well, there are a few exceptions.”

“Exceptions? I’m one I hope.”

“Of course. As well as Aragon, Gimli, Legolas, Merry, Pippin, and Gandalf, if he was alive.” Frodo bowed his head in slight remembrance of the old wizard who had been his friend, guide, and savior till the end of his life.

“What of Boromir?”

“What of him?” Frodo asked. “He was not trustworthy. That is why we left.”

“Oh. Sorry, forgot.”

“You would.” Frodo joked. Sam looked hurt for a moment, then brightened.

“So where do we head from here?”

“As far as I can tell, we continue heading straight towards the mountains.” As he spoke, an arrow flew through the open door, and sailed right over his head, barely missing and nicking him instead. Crying in pain, he ducked to the floor and dragged Sam with him. Using the table as defense, the two hobbits were able to blockade themselves from another, larger volley of arrows. A few of the men next to them weren’t quite so lucky. They fell. First a small trickle of blood dribbled to the floor and rolled towards Frodo. Then the trickle grew, and soon Frodo found himself sitting in a puddle of sticky, red blood.

The men of the tavern had moved quickly to blockade themselves in from the orcs that stood hounding them outside. Picking up tables, they covered the windows and door. A rally of men gathered, and they raised their swords, ready for action when the orcs broke through the barriers. Then, a loud, slurred voice from outside boomed into the tavern.

“Give us the hobbits, the halflings, and we will let you men live!” One of the orcs was offering. A few of the men stepped forward.

“Give us a moment to consider!” He called. There was no response, but the orcs stopped their charging. Three of the men dragged Frodo and Sam out from under the table.

“They wants these babies! We should turn them in!” One man yelled out.

“Yes, turn them over!” Another man shouted. The support of the first man’s suggestion grew rapidly, with shouts from the other men.

“Stop! You cannot just turn them over! You have a responsibility to them!” Frodo looked to see who had spoke for them. It was the cloaked figure.

“What responsibility do we owe to these creatures?” A drunken man slurred.

“The responsibility to aid life, no matter the race of the creature.” The cloaked figure spoke again.

“Look mister, we don’t have any responsibility! We’re drunks!” The crowd roared with laughter, and continued shouts of turning the hobbits over.

“Too late!” The orc voice came again. “We kill all for the Hobbits!”

“No! we’ll give them to you!” The men called.

“Too late! Kill for Hobbits!” Orcs charged again.

“Look!” One man cried. “All they want is the Hobbits. If the Hobbits are not in the bar, they will leave us alone. Who will take them out?” No one answered. Then the bartender spoke up.

“I will pay the person who takes these hobbits to their destination, where it maybe, as long as it is far away from here!”

“How much?” Another man cried.

“10 Shillings!”

“Not worth it!”

“10 pounds then! Who will take me up on this offer, and save us all?”

“I will.” It was spoken so softly it went unnoticed to all but the Hobbits and the bartender. The cloaked figure had stepped forward.

“Very well then. The person has spoken. Take them then!”

“Money first.” The figure negotiated calmly.

“Fine! You’ll be too dead to use it in five minutes anyhow.”

“As you wish to believe, do believe. But the money or no deal.”

“Here, take it and flee!” The bartender shoved the money into the figure’s hand. It disappeared beneath the figure’s cloak. Then the figure spoke.

“Drop the halflings. They are my responsibility now.” The men holding Frodo and Sam dropped the poor boys to floor. They huddled behind the cloaked figure that had spoken for them.

“But sir, how do we get out?” Sam half whined, half questioned.

“Stay very close to me. Behind me.” The figure whispered. “We’ll be making a run for it.” The figure turned to the men. “Hand me three of those serving platters.” The figure gave one to both Frodo and Sam. “Use them as a shield. We don’t know if they have arrows or not. Men, on the count of three move the table blocking the door!”

Moving aside, them men waited for the count. “One. Two. Three!” And as the table was moved, the figure and two hobbits fled. As they ran out, the table was once again pushed to cover the door. There was no turning back.

Orcs raced at them. Only ten, Frodo counted. Not as many as he had seen before. He and Sam both drew their swords, intent on helping the figure slay the vile creatures. Instead, the figure pushed them behind a rain barrel beside the bar.

“Stay hidden till I return. Don’t move before that.” Sword drawn, the figure dashed off to do battle. Not much a fight. Quickly swing the bright sliver blade, Frodo and Sam were awed. The swordsman’s skill was clear. A half crescent slash, then an uppercut. Followed by a gab straight through the heart. Three down. Two messy decapitations followed. Then a larger orc waltzed up. Though he knocked the fighter’s sword from his grasp, the fighter quickly compensated. Dropping low, a spin kick tripped the orc. A knife appeared and the silver blade was driven through the through of the orc. Blackened pools of blood slipped from the slit, and blood sprayed over the figure’s hands. Standing and quickly finishing the rest of the orcs, the battle ended only moments after it had begun.

“You may come out now, short ones.” The figure called. Then he stood. Knocking gently on the table over the door, he shouted to the men within the tavern. “You may wish to leave now gentlemen. The orcs have been finished, but more will return.” The table was rolled back. The dazed men walked out and stood in dumbfounded wonder at the sight before them.

“And by the way.” They all turned to face the faceless and cloaked figure, which Sam and Frodo now stood behind. “I would hone your fighting skills gentlemen.” He picked up his sword and began wiping the blacked and crusting blood from its silver blade. “There is going to be a war, make no mistake. Begin training now, and you just may live to tell the tale. Come short ones, we will leave them to their own company for now.” Frodo and Sam simply followed the figure as he cut his way across the battle field towards a small grove of trees clumped nearby. So many questions, what would they ask first?*