-1 Of Farbarad, Trolls, Mind over Matter, and a Brawl in Combe
Disclaimer: I (rather obviously) do not own Lord of the Rings, that belongs to JRR Tolkien and the Tolkien Foundation.
Notes: This story is set in the year 3004 of the Third Age, (putting it at some 16-odd years before the 1st Year of the 4th Age and maybe 14-15 years before the War of the Ring, give or take a year), and can be considered something of an A/U for a number of reasons.
First, in this story, the Rangers of Eriador are more numerous than they were in the books. (at least by my reading) Not massively so, perhaps maybe 70-72 or so fighting men spread out throughout Eriador.
Second, the date given for the tale puts it a ways after the Battle of the Five Armies in The Hobbit, but the AU part comes in in that the Orcs of the Misty Mountains, while broken and scattered, were still able to reinforce their numbers with warriors who escaped the fall of Dol Guldur and new troops sent to the mountains after the Nazgul reclaimed the fortress. This still small but growing army has led to a struggle in succession among the Orcs after Bolg's death, and Orcs from various factions have strayed into Eriador further than they had before in their search for plunder and slaves to maintain their troops.
Emphasis on this being a small army though, say in the areas of 400-500 on one side and maybe 300-350 on the other from the Mountains, and maybe another three hundred and fifty from Dol Guldur, so it's nothing like what fought at the Battle of the 5 Armies.
This puts a lot more work on the Rangers, but they are still able to keep the Orcs away from the people of Eriador, for the most part, and so the folk there still have the typical Bree-lander mentality we saw in the books.
Third, Imladris is more of a small town than the impression I got of it from the books. Yes, the House of Elrond is the largest building and the town center, if you like, but there are some other houses and trade-shops in Rivendell, and it has its own little roadways.
Finally, the bandits are a slightly bigger problem than they were in the books.
It is also an AU because it centers around a Dunedain who is more mercenary and less noble than the regular men of Numenor. He still has his honor and principles, and will do the right thing, but duty and noble behavior are not concepts he's overly friendly with.
These are notable departures from the Tolkien official canon, hence the alternate universe classification, though I hope this won't deter any of the audience from enjoying the story.
Okay, very long-winded Author's Note done, on to the tale.
Mornings in Eriador were a special time, and those who rose early enough to watch the sun rise over the Misty Mountains were in for a special treat. The sun's light would bathe the snowy mountain tops in color, and the morning air felt cool and fresh in one's lungs.
Mornings also reminded the average traveler that Eriador was probably one of the safest places to be in Middle Earth, provided that one stayed clear of the Troll-Shaws at the foot of the Misty Mountains, or the large roads the bandits frequented, or the Barrow Downs, which were rumored to be haunted by the spirits of men long-dead.
The remaining territory, and there was plenty of that, was closely guarded by the rangers, and thus fairly safe, and men from Bree and its surrounding towns and hamlets could go about their work without too much need of arms.
The idea that some enemy may attack them was almost unthinkable to the folk of the Shire and of Bree-land, though there had been rumors of other folk of other lands being harassed. Orcs had been so rarely spotted in anywhere close to Bree-land that most who lived there thought them to be almost legendary specters of evil than anything else, and few Trolls ever ventured far beyond their fells to trouble the townsfolk of say, Combe or Archet. There were bandits in the area, but these were continually hunted by the rangers, though the Dunedain rarely received thanks for this from the men of the land.
Yes, mornings were a time to reflect on the blessings one had in living in such a land. Unfortunately for some, morning was long past and evening was coming. For those living in western Eriador, that meant watching a gorgeous sunset, eating a good meal, and getting a quiet night's sleep. But for the rangers and other folk who guarded Eriador, especially its eastern lands, it meant a night of hard work.
"Bah, night's coming, and it's raining as well. Wasn't the night bad enough?" The speaker turned his weary gaze on his companion, a small, fat, russet pony, and sighed. "I never should've come out here tonight, Card'." The man shuddered under the rain and cold of the early November night, and glowered at the sky.
"Farbarad, old boy," Farbarad continued, "you should be in a warm bed, with a nice mug of hot milk and wine. Why are you even out here? Ah yes, because brother Haduil wanted to see you. And why did he pick such a Valar-forsaken night for our meeting? " He gave no answer to his question, choosing instead to curse the weather and his brother with complete impartiality.
The Dunedain, Farbarad, as he called himself, was a somewhat shady, though outwardly respectable figure, known in several towns for his lively wit and willingness to lend a helping hand to anyone who had something to offer him, and for his penchant for sleight of hand and strong drink. He was reasonably well-liked by the folk of Bree-land, and much less so by his Dunedain kin.
It was truly ironic, Farbarad mused: the men of this land were so willing to extend their hospitality to a man willing to get drunk with them, help them find a missing pin or lost chicken, to make foolish jokes, to cheat them and be cheated by them, yet they scorned and mocked the rangers who never failed to keep watch over all their little towns, keeping the servants of the Enemy at bay.
"Brother." The voice caused Farbarad's spine to stiffen, and the tall, lanky man to whirl in his tracks, staring darkly at the dark-clad man before him. "Are you going to spend the whole night complaining to your pony?" there was a hint of amusement in the other man's deep voice, and the two Dunedain stared at each other disapprovingly.
"I do't know, brother, perhaps I shall. After all, one cannot hope for better company than Cardolan here. What did you call me out here for? I would assume you come to me seeking my help, strange as it may seem that the mighty High Captain Haduil, leader of eleven sturdy Rangers, should come begging his brother's aid in a task."
Haduil shook his head disgustedly. "I don't, won't, and never have begged you for anything, Farbarad. If you don't wish to aid me, then I will find another who will. I'm sure that there are other warriors in this land less burdened with pomposity and more aware of how little they actually possess."
Farbarad spine, which had relaxed, stiffened again, and gave his kin a tiny, self-mocking smile. "You thrust the point home, Haduil. I will willingly admit that a gambler such as myself lives from hand to mouth. How may your humble servant be of service? What forced you to ask you to meet me here in the Chetwood?"
Haduil's eyes narrowed slightly. "One of my scouts in the Chetwood reported seeing a score of Orcs and two Trolls in the heart of the woods about last nights. I don't claim to know how they managed to sneak past my fellow rangers, but they did. My men caught them roaming the woods last night. I and the four under my command ambushed them, killing many of the Orcs and wounding one of the Trolls, but the affair cost us. Tervail and Turemir were both moderately wounded, and others under my command have new scars to bear.
"I'm sorry to say that at least a five Orcs escaped us, for all the carnage. My best guess is that they scattered to the east, so at least the men of Bree won't have cause to fear them. I detached those of my men that were uninjured to pursue the Orcs, and sent the rest to the nearest of our outposts. This leaves the issue of the Trolls. The other half of my ranger detachment in the area, five men under Captain Borbarad, is two or three days away, and I'd rather be rid of the beasts tonight. I tracked the Trolls down after the battle, and found that the Orcs had built the beasts a secure underground hold in the northern part of the Chetwood."
Farbarad frowned, but reserved his outburst until he'd shared what information he had with his brother. "Ah, so that explains why the farmers around Archet and Bree have been losing so many sheep and cattle."
Haduil looked up sharply, and raised a dark, bushy eyebrow. "Indeed it would. Tell me, brother, how long have the farmers been complaining about their missing livestock?"
"Since last Monday, by Shire-reckoning. I've also found what was left of some bandits. I say what was left because there was nothing there but a few limbs, their weapons, and a great deal of blood. It appears that the Orcs and Trolls have been busy here a bit longer than they should, but it's obvious that they didn't want to alert you to their presence too soon."
"Too true. Farmers have lost livestock before, and few folk here will report the deaths of few bandits. The Orcs are operating rather cunningly for being simple slaves of Sauron."
"Aye, that is also true." Farbarad chewed on his lower lip and gave Haduil a none-too-kind stare. "So you felt I could handle a pair of Trolls on my own, eh?" Haduil grunted and shrugged. "Well, I must say in all modesty that I'm one of the better warriors you know of in the area, and you did right to come to me first. Ah, I can't say that mocking smile of yours warms the brotherly cockles of my heart, but I will try to destroy these beasts as a special gift for you. The Valar know that I've no more love for Orcs or Trolls than you do."
"That is well and good, and thank you for giving this a try. You may keep whatever catches your fancy from the Troll-hoard. Despite our difficulties, I do hope that you find something in that hold that will help you make something of yourself…or at least keep you in wine or cards for a few weeks."
"Ah, Haduil, you know me far, far too well." Farbarad laughed. "I just spent my last copper this morning, and the thought of finding silver or gold in coin or otherwise is a pleasant one to be sure. I'll begin the transfer of those goods from their claws to our hands posthaste, and will be long gone by the time you meet the other rangers and move out to destroy the lair."
Farbarad and his pony broke company with Haduil and headed into the forest, though their speed slackened somewhat when they entered the forest proper.
"I'm not overly eager to spring into battle with two Trolls, my bravado notwithstanding. I have some plans for a trap, but putting them into action will eat up what time I have. I must work fast. I shall leave you here, brave Card', you're too fine a pony to end up in a Troll's belly; the pasturage there is bad, to say the least."
True to his word, Farbarad tied the pony to a tree at the edge of the forest, and pushed on on foot towards the Chetwood's northern area, where he set to work with what tools he had in his pack. He'd managed to set up what he assumed to be a fairly effective Troll trap: a long piece of rope, stretched taut at about a foot up from the ground, with three upright stakes, formerly fallen branches, set into the ground about six, eight, and ten feet from the rope. The whole task took some time, but he felt it was worth it, and it was not bad work for having been done by the light of the lantern hanging from a strap over his shoulder.
"There we go, there's one Troll done for, provided I can get him to run in a straight line after me. After that, well, after that I'll just have to make do with what comes to hand." Farabard took a shaky breath and walked back over to the other side of the rope, where he'd laid his spear and longbow before he'd started on this project. He slung the bow over his shoulder, and took up the spear, twirling it idly between the fingers of his right hand.
"The thought of fighting a Troll here is no welcome one. The woods are denser in this area, which means more places for me to hide, but less space to dodge once the battle is joined." He kicked at a rotting stick and swore, freezing as a deep growl sounded behind him. "Looks like works starts early tonight."
He turned slowly, clutching his spear in long, thin, pale fingers. There was a Troll not forty yards away, with his broad nose tilted up into the air and one hand raised to scratch at a boil at the side of its scaly neck. It had obviously caught wind of him, but seemed almost confused by his presence. It turned its head towards him and fixed the Dunedain with a gaze consisting of equal parts of stupidity and malice. A hefty wooden club hung in its other hand, and it seemed to be tapping it against its side as it studied him.
Farbarad had always had an impatient streak, and it showed itself at the worst times. He flung his spear in the direction of the beast, cursing as it landed in the dirt between the Troll's legs. His cursing escalated in noise and sheer volume as the burly Troll threw back its head, screamed a war-cry to the sky, and charged.
Farbarad considered himself a fairly good runner, but this Troll, with its long legs and surprising agility, was making him look like a snail. He barely kept ahead of the great beast's club, sprang over the rope stretched before him, and dived off to the right just as the Troll's legs met the rope right where thick leg met toeless foot. The Troll tumbled forward with a bellow that ended abruptly as its bulk fell on and forced three ugly stakes through its gut, its lower chest, and its neck. The beast moaned feebly, thrashed once, and went still.
The vagabond of a Dunedain was still shaking as he walked over to the bloody body, and he ran trembling hand through his air, his nose wrinkling at the stench of the Troll before him.
"I cannot say I'm sorry about this, my foul acquaintance. I cannot risk you getting up, and you probably won't feel it, anyway." Farbarad's hands dropped to the double-headed war-axe hanging in a loop on his belt, and he pulled it out, swung it over his head with both hands, and brought it down on the Troll's skull. The axe was a fine weapon, designed to be used either two-handed or alongside a shield, and it had a keen Elven edge to it. Farbarad's muscular arms slammed one head of the weapon deep into the Troll's head, drawing one last convulsive shudder from the Troll.
Farbarad wrenched the weapon back out of the beast's head with some disgust, hacked down into the thick forest soil to clean the head, and glanced about the clearing. "It appears that all's quiet for now. All that remains is to retrace this brute's steps back to his den and wait for the other beast to show." He glanced down at the big Troll and chuckled darkly. "And this was the uninjured one. I suppose the Valar are smiling on me tonight." His eyes soon picked up the oddly shaped tracks behind the Troll's body, and he was off like a shot along the trail.
He hadn't gone more than twenty or thirty steps before hearing heavy, erratic footfalls headed straight towards him, accompanied by another, softer patter. "So, all the Orcs fled east when your men attacked them, eh Haduil?" He breathed a curse at his absent brother and snatched the bow off his back. He nocked an arrow and let fly just as a huge form half-limped, half-charged into the circle of light provided by his lantern. Farbarad was an extremely skilled archer, and probably could've been famous as a hunter. Hs skill served him well tonight.
The steel point pierced the bandage wrapped around the wounded monster's leg, and the Troll reeled back, bellowing in pain and fury. This gave Farbarad just enough time to drop his bow, take up his axe again, and spin to confront the Orc lunging at him.
Farbarad may have been a skilled archer, but his skills in melee combat were somewhat lacking. He had the strength and the stamina needed for the trade, but he'd never been truly proficient in the art of attack, parry, and counter-attack, or the subtleties of using a shield in battle, and so he'd taken to using a weapon that could debilitate or kill in one strike. This, at least partly, counterbalanced his lack of skill in melee combat. He blocked a wild swing from the Orc's mace, and spun his arms in a broad circle, throwing the Orc's weapon arm wide. A solid downwards chop took that arm, and a second slammed into the Orc's collarbone, smashing through flesh and bone to rend its vitals.
He ripped the axe free of the dying Orc just before an enraged bellow and a massive strike to his side repaid Farbarad for neglecting the Troll. The Dunedain flew through the air, nearly dropping his axe as he slammed into a tree. He caught himself from sliding down the trunk with some effort, and dropped a hand from the haft of his axe to his belt to draw an eket. The Troll brought its arm back to swing, and the Dunedain's legs dropped. The blow shook the tree, and Farbarad darted at the Troll's leg. Eighteen inches of good Dunedain-forged steel drove towards the Troll's wounded leg, right by the arrow Farbarad had shot into beast's worthless carcass.
The strike was a hard one, a minor miracle in and of itself, and it went into the broad, festering wound on the leg almost halfway; the Troll stumbled back with a howl of agony, and Farbarad threw himself at the staggered creature, cleaving wildly with his axe, trying to put it down before it could recover. A fist caught the Dunedain in the stomach, doubled him, and sent him to the ground. The now truly enraged Troll raised its club to deal the final blow. "Now you die, tarhk, now I eats proper for once!"
Farbarad had no intention of becoming a meal for a beast of Sauron. After all, he would be unable to impress the women if he were dead, and he would not be able to enjoy a hot meal at his favorite haunt in Combe if he was in a Troll's belly. With a speed he never knew he had, he scrambled through the Troll's legs. The Troll's blow just missed his feet, and the Dunedain was on them a split-second later. He brought the axe back over his shoulder and struck the brute in the back of its injured leg. The Troll screamed and dropped to its knees, cursing and trying to regain its footing.
It never got the chance; the top of its skull was introduced to the sharp edge of a heavy axe. The great beast swayed stupidly on its knees for several seconds before finally falling on its side with a wet thud. Farbarad dropped to his knees beside it, coughing and trying to convince his wildly protesting stomach to calm down.
He pulled his axe his axe from the Troll's skull and his eket from its leg, and he stared down at the Troll, shaking his head. "That was far too close for comfort. Far too close, far too close." He swallowed hard, sucked air in through his nose, and stared up at the sky. "Now for the den."
The wanderer rose from his knees, recovered his bow, and turned back to following the first Troll's tracks back to the hold. The Troll-den was a simple hole in the ground, with several great boards of wood laid over the top, huge, roughly cut boards that even a Dunedain's strength couldn't budge He shook his head and swore viciously, scowling at this new obstacle.
"I go to the trouble of fighting and killing two Trolls and an Orc, and now I can't even get into their den, tonight is truly a night to remember.." He tapped a finger against his jaw and frowned. "This is where Cardolan could well earn his keep."
Farbarad retrieved the ever-faithful Cardolan and ran a line of rope from pony to board. He stepped ahead of his pony and grabbed two handfuls of rope before shouting "Pull!" Farbarad heaved at the rope with all his might, and he could feel the pony hauling away behind him.
Slowly but surely, pony and man pulled the boards away from the mouth of the hole, and Farbarad whooped when he and Cardolan dragged the last one away from the entrance.
"Well done, my good sir!" he cried, clapping the pony on the back. "I shall return shortly with our reward. Stay here and watch the area while I'm gone." The pony glanced tiredly at his master and snorted.
Farbarad was too enthused at being alive and with his reward within his grasp to really care what a pony thought of him. The Dunedain raised a clenched fist into the air and disappeared into the Troll-hold with a whoop.
The Trolls had probably hailed from the part of the Shaws closest to the mountains, because Farbarad saw a great deal of garb and gear that looked like it came from heedless travelers from Rhovanion, travelers who survived the travel through the High Pass only to be slain by Trolls when they took a wrong turn. There were over a dozen bottles of fine wine from Mirkwood, likely borne by traders from Dale, as the men of the town still did quite a bit of business with the Elves. There were also a few fine weapons, including an Elven sword and Elf-made eket, a weapon that had more than likely been made for one of the Dunedain and was being delivered, either by an Elf or a man when the Trolls took it. There was a box of trinkets, some of which looked like they were made of silver, and there were also plenty of foodstuffs, sausages, cheese, and the like, but Farbarad was uneasy about eating food that had spent who knows how long in a hole in the ground.
There was some clothing, but it was badly ripped and bloody, and Farbarad saw no point in removing it from the lair. That, however, was not the case with the chest of silver and gold he found in the back of the cave. Farbarad wanted the eket, and all the bottles of wine, but he knew that his brother would not be happy and less likely to give him any further jobs if he took those and a full half of the coin. To that end, he left two thirds of the coin behind. In that same spirit of giving, Farbarad left the barrel of good mead and other barrel of ale that he'd found in the back of the den.
There were also shovels, most Orc-sized, though there were two that were massive, and these and the wooden boards explained how the Orcs had brought two Trolls with them over the open country. They would have traveled by night, stopping to dig a pit deep enough to cover the Trolls and whatever booty they brought with them, and had the Trolls pull the boards over the tops of the pits to keep the sun out. That these beasts would have thought this far in advance was unnerving. Orcs were getting far too clever for anyone else's good.
He shook himself and turned back to the plunder. Haduil had told him to leave whatever he didn't want in the den, and that the Rangers would take care of any bodies, so Farbarad's remaining work was very light. Being the meticulous sort, he listed what he'd taken from the den as follows.
Obtained from the Troll Den in the Chetwood
1 eket of Elven make
12 bottles of fine wine from Mirkwood, four of Dorwinion vintage.
5 bottles of red wine from parts unknown, labels indicate that it hails from one of the fiefs of Gondor
1/3 of a medium sized chest of gold and silver coins, estimated weight of my share at 8 pounds.
1 full length weather coat, dark brown, made of a good wool and in excellent condition.
2 swords, both of Dunedain make.
Even eight pounds of coin was unlikely to last the Dunedain long, as he was not a thrifty man and loved to gamble. But the taking of the wine was a great prize. The owners of the inn at Combe were good friends of his, and would gladly put the wine in the section of the cellar that he had rented from them.
The trip back to Combe was a slow one for Farbarad, laden as he was, but it was a trip that was blessedly uneventful. He pulled into Combe after a few days of arduous walking-Cardolan was carrying enough as it was-and smiled to see how little it had changed in the time he'd been gone.
That was yet another perk for living in Bree-Land: things never changed, and one could almost forget all the trouble that loomed off to the east, one could almost forget that Sauron ever existed.
Farbarad took a deep breath of air and exhaled slowly, grinning about himself at the town. Truth be told, his decision to avoid joining the rangers had had as much to do with the fact that he wanted the world to leave him alone as it had to do with him being spiteful and sour. He wanted a normal life, a hometown to come back to, and neighbors who at least seemed glad to see him. Combe provided all that for him, and he was happy to let everyone else get themselves killed chasing glory and honor. Farbarad, son of Farlung, had every intention of doing whatever he could to avoid living up to whatever expectations his folk had for him.
It was evening in Combe, and Farbarad was looking forward to washing down the dust of travel with a good mug of beer and a chat with the innkeeper, perhaps he could even enjoy a nice, luxurious…
The Dunedain stumbled as a young man flew out of the doors of the inn's tavern and slammed into him. "What on…? What do you mean by running into me? Explain yourself, man!"
The youth wiped at the blood running from his nose and coughed. "The blacksmith's eldest son is drunk and on a tare, sir. He's been goading almost everyone in the tavern, and he's already wrecked parts of the bar in his brawls."
Farbarad's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean to tell me that "The Blue Comb of Combe", the finest tavern in Bree-Land barring the "Prancing Pony", is being wrecked by a man not twenty-two winters old? Where is the blacksmith? Where is this pup's mother?" The youth stared up at him blankly. "Ah, I see. You don't know. Well, wait here, lad. I'll take care of the situation, as I always do." Farbarad shook his head in disgust and stormed into the bar.
The sight that greeted Farbarad as he walked through the swinging doors of the "Blue Comb" was a nasty one. Patrons were sprawled every which way, bearing bruises and bloody noses, chair were smashed, broken wineglasses littered the floor, and the bartender, a young, normally bouncy Hobbit, huddled in the corner of the bar, watching the brawl taking place in the center of the room in utter disbelief. Farbarad made his way over to the part of the bar closest to the Hobbit, and plunked down one of the coins from the troll-hoard.
"A mug of your finest ale, bartender." Farbarad frowned as the bartender didn't spare him or his coin a glance, preferring instead to mumble and occasionally glare at the brawl. Farbarad snapped his fingers in the barkeep's face. "Dudleigh! Dudleigh Proudfoot, you have a customer, can't you see that?"
The Hobbit glanced at Farbarad and laughed. It was a high-pitched, nervous sound, devoid of humor, that carried a strong hint of stress and the fact that the Halfling was three seconds away from ripping his own hair out. "The bar is closed, Farbarad. That young oaf has closed it down, don't you see."
Farbarad leant against the bar. "Yes, I can see that. When did this start?"
Dudleigh turned his head back to the fighting and huffed at the damage.
"The blacksmith's son got drunk and insulted another man's mother. That man hit him, the blacksmith's son hit him back, harder. The offended party had companions willing to fight for him, and things got worse from there."
"I see." Farbarad turned his attention to the fracas and frowned. The blacksmith's son, a young man almost as tall as Farbarad, was like a cliff at the seaside, albeit a drunken cliff, if such a thing was possible. His fists dealt tremendous blows to anyone who dared to try throwing him out of the tavern. Farbarad watched as the drunken man sidestep a punch from an even more intoxicated cobbler, grabbed the unfortunate man, and hurled him against a convenient wall. Another challenger had his cheek split by a vicious hook, and still another took an uppercut that sent him clean off his feet and onto a table.
Farbarad growled in disgust as the table shattered under the latest casualty. "Very well, it is high time for this to end." The Dunedain pushed himself away from the bar and swaggered up to the blacksmith's son, taking care to stand as tall as he possibly could. "Lad, you're making a mess in here, and the barkeep asked me to talk to you about it." The young man turned to face him, the smith's son's face a study in confusion.
"There's nothing to talk about. The first wretch hit me…I cannot remember quite why he did now, but the point is that I am going to clean this entire town of drunken louts."
"Then perhaps you should start with yourself. You're three sheets to the wind, friend, and I do not think your father or mother would be very proud of what you've done." Farbarad stepped back just as the drunk man threw a punch at him. "I see, so you decide to fight. I hope you're happy living with the consequences, then."
That last bit was more bravado than anything else. Dunedain were stronger than most men, and Farbarad was no exception to that rule, but he knew very little of fist-fighting, and he'd always relied on his size and musculature to cow his enemies. Trying to intimidate a drunk man, especially one who had just had his pride stung, was not a good idea.
Farbarad's head snapped back as the young man drove a jab into his face. The Dunedain recovered quickly, and sent a broad hook into his opponent's jaw, sending him to the ground in an awkward heap. "Had enough, lad?" Farbarad crouched to haul the young man to his feet for another punch, but the blacksmith's son kicked him in the chest with both feet, sending him on his back.
"No, I haven't…" the lad slurred. "But you will." Farbarad rolled out of the way just as the drunken man lunged at him from the ground, and the Dunedain somehow managed to gain his feet a split-second before the drunk did. Farbarad wove away from a few punches before finally getting the chance to grab the blacksmith's son by the belt and the back of his shirt and whirl him around and around before tossing him through the air.
The blacksmith's son landed hard and didn't get up, which set a worry-pit festering in the Dunedain's stomach. All he'd intended to do was rough the lad up a little. He'd had no intention of really injuring him, and he got the sinking feeling that he might have. He dropped his guard and walked over to the young man, stopping dead in his tracks as he caught a flicker of movement from his opponent.
"Ai." Farbard groaned, falling back into a ready stance as the blacksmith's son struggled to his feet and rushed him. The two locked arms around each other, and crashed from one end of the bar to the enough.
For all his strength, Farbarad was knocked to the ground. His enraged foe pinned him to the ground with a leg, and drove fist after fist into his face and chest. Being drunk hadn't affected this one's ability to fight as much as Farbarad had hoped, and the Dunedain felt himself slipping off into the dark land of blessed unconsciousness, a land where he would be free from the white fire that shot through his veins every time a punch landed. S
Suddenly, there was a new sound, a swinging, creaking sound, and the thud of boots on the floor. And then there was a soft, yet strong voice. "You've beaten him already, lad." There's no honor or glory in hitting a man who has had his feet bucked out from under him." There was an angry reply from the blacksmith's son, and then the crushing weight that was Farbarad's attacker was gone.
The Dunedain dragged himself into a sitting position to see a shortish, very broadly built man throwing the blacksmith's son into a wall. The lad, however, hadn't had a reputation in Combe as a brawler for nothing, and he lurched back towards the newcomer, swinging his fist in a powerful arc. The newcomer simply ducked and returned the attention with a vicious series of punches, including a jab to the gut that doubled the younger man. The spawn of the blacksmith was hurt, but still had fight in him.
The two went from one end of the bar to the other and back again, grappling, hurling each other about, and hitting much as Farbarad and the young man earlier, but it was obvious that the newcomer was handling himself far better than Farbarad. The bow-legged newcomer seized the blacksmith's son around the waist and hurled him through the open door and into the street.
"You are drunk, boy. Sleep it off. I'll see you in the morning when you fix the mess you have made." The newcomer walked back over to Farbarad and sighed. "You shouldn't have tried to break a horse so wild, friend."
Farbarad blinked at the man, taking in his features: his shoulder-length red hair, clear blue eyes, but most importantly the bowleggedness of his gait, the insignia worn on the man's shirt, and features worn from a life on the open country. "I thank you for your help and your advice, friend. However, I can't help but wonder what a man of Rohan, one of the Rohirrim unless I miss my guess, is doing in Combe."
The man smiled. "That, friend, is a long story, and one best told after you get some rest. Come, I'll help you to a room." The Eorling helped Farbarad to his feet and looped the much-larger Dunedain's long arm around his shoulders. 'I trust that you have a key to your room on you." Farbarad groaned out the negative, and the stranger shot a worried glance at him, a glance that shifted to Barkeep Proudfoot as the Hobbit cleared his throat.
"Yes, Master Hobytla?"
Proudfoot pulled a key out of his pocket and pressed it into the man of Rohan's hand. "Room 14 is where he usually stays, sir. And I go by barkeep. No need of fancy titles with me, sir."
"Thank you, barkeep. Come along, my bruised friend, we'd best get you to bed." Farbarad groaned again, and did his best to walk alongside the Eorling, but his beating had left him walking very shakily.
It is safe to say that Farbarad was greatly relieved when the Rohirrim laid him down on his bed, laid the key by the bedstead, and left him to sleep with a muttered. "Good night, Master Bruised-and-Battered. We'll meet again in the morning."
Farbarad muttered something barely intelligible in reply and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Postscript:
Okay, what is an Eorling doing in Eriador? Well, I know he's far from home, but bear with me, there is an explanation for all these. It covers many chapters, but there is an explanation.