Aragorn hugged the injured hobbit to his chest, hoping that a firm hold might spare Frodo some of the jarring as he ran. His occasional glance at his passenger showed Frodo's face screwed up against the pain, though no sound escaped his lips. Gandalf had been right again—not that Aragorn should have been surprised. For all Frodo's gentle manners and well-bred looks, the little hobbit was proving himself to be tougher than Aragorn had ever dreamed he might be. Aragorn no longer doubted that this small and comely exterior housed a core of pure steel.

Aragorn kept his ears cocked for the sounds of pursuit. He easily distinguished Merry's footfalls and, farther behind, the overlapping patter of the remaining hobbits, forced to abandon their habitual lightness of step in the imperative for speed. Beyond them Aragorn heard nothing, as yet. He hadn't the keen nose of Bill, but he was only too certain what enemy pursued them. He hoped that the pony's warning had given them sufficient time to save themselves. It would be regrettable if the dependable Bill ended up sacrificing his life for theirs. Yet Aragorn would be thankful, if it came to that. A wandering troll would be less likely to pursue them, once he had eaten his fill of pony.

Unless he wanted revenge. Aragorn recalled the footprints he'd seen in the clearing earlier that day. Did a passing troll happen across some of his compatriots by chance, and laugh, perhaps, at their fate? Or did he visit by design to greet old friends or kin, and feel the rage rise anew in his breast? The answer might well mean life or death for some or all of their little party.

The terrain was rough. All these days, it had worked against them. Now, Aragorn hoped that this feature might aid them. As they descended the mountainside, Aragorn had noticed a fault in the ridgeline to the east. Such a structure might produce caves or cliffs that they could use for cover. At the least, it would allow Aragorn to put rock at his back, so he needn't ward off an attack on all sides. Still, if there was more than one troll, Aragorn doubted that their party, such as it was, would be able to hold them back for long.

Bill, Aragorn thought, you have been a faithful friend. If it is your fate to save the life of your new master, by laying down your own, then I will bless you for your sacrifice.

The only response was the pounding of Aragorn's heart. He plunged into the deepening night, hoping that the other hobbits would not fall too far behind.

-0-0-0-

Pippin had never been so scared in his life. Well, there had been the barn fire, years ago, but that was a different kind of fear than this. And he'd been terrified by the Black Riders, but that was their own particular magic. They used fear as a weapon. Strider had explained that, in an attempt to console Pippin for his cowardice at flinging himself to the ground during the attack on Weathertop. Merry hadn't been happy about his own behavior that night, but Pippin thought that Strider must be right. The fear from the Black Riders had seemed to come from outside of Pippin—almost like a cloak that covered his body, and left him cold and shivering under its blanket.

What he felt now was a whole different kind of terror. This was terror from inside—the terror of the hare, the panic of the pursued deer. Pippin had hunted many creatures in the woods and fields of Tuckborough. He'd always felt a compassion for them, and trapped or took them with fast-flung stones as humanely as possible. Now Pippin was on the receiving end of the hunt. Too well he could imagine the despair of the cornered prey awaiting a final, killing blow, or feeling its life squeezed out between crushing jaws.

Sam puffed beside him, struggling to make his stout body move faster than it usually did. He gripped his salvaged sword awkwardly, like an axe. Pippin supposed he'd never held such an instrument before in his life. Pippin had, of course. The Tooks had always possessed an armory, "In case of need," his father had said. Merry had fenced with him on occasion, since Pippin was quite a lad. Pippin wondered how he might do now, in a real engagement against a real enemy. Would he have the courage to stand up to whatever unnamed foe might at any moment be snapping at their heels? Or would he shame himself yet again, covering his eyes and trusting the more experienced members of the party to defend him?

Pippin set his jaw. He would not shame himself. He meant to protect Frodo this time, and if it cost him life or limb in the process—so be it.

-0-0-0-

Aragorn didn't slow at the sudden appearance of a steep-sided gorge, a stark reminder of the heavy spring runoff earlier in the year. It was barren now, with crumbly sides and pale patches that might be stones jutting from the earth. Aragorn had more pressing things to occupy him than the finding of his feet. Without consciously thinking about it, he made for what looked to be a firm bank on the farther side, relying on the experience of many years to guide him, even when he could not see the ground clearly. He had no intention of stumbling whilst bearing his important passenger. After their drawn-out adventure, the hobbit's weight was slight. Aragorn compensated for his diminutive cargo, and leaped. He hit the ground solidly, recovered his balance instantly, and was already scanning the rocks ahead before he'd straightened from the jump.

A lichen-encrusted rock face loomed before him, not twenty feet away. Even better, a natural chimney pieced its face, where the cycles of freezing and thaw had split the rock in twain, leaving a crack perhaps four-feet wide streaking up the cliff's face to its summit, some sixty feet overhead. Four feet was not wide enough to swing a sword, should Aragorn have to use the place as a fortress. However, the chasm might be slender enough to keep out the ravening paws of a troll—provided the crack was deep enough.

Aragorn jogged to the gap and stepped inside. There was indeed a shelf about six feet from the ground, but it wasn't nearly far enough back to keep the hobbits from harm; it could be no more than three or four feet from the entrance. He cast his gaze upward. The chimney would be climbable, if all else failed.

"Are we stopping?"

Frodo's soft voice startled Aragorn. He'd been so quiet, Aragorn could have imagined him entranced or asleep, even though he knew better.

"Only if this cleft provides a sufficient means of protection, or escape." Aragorn nodded at the jagged chute. "If I could hold the enemy outside, you hobbits could climb to safety."

Frodo shook his head, his thick hair moving against Aragorn's chest. "Strider, I could not climb such a structure, were all the fiends of Mordor at my heels."

"It's easier than it looks, Frodo. You place your back against one wall, and your feet against the facing one…"

Even as he said it, Aragorn realized his mistake. A human, even an injured one, could manage such a climb, if need demanded. But for one such as this hobbit, whose entire height was inches short of the shaft's narrow width, the feat was blatantly impossible.

The twinkle of Frodo's eyes, even in the dark, let Aragorn know that his lapse had been noted. "Just brace myself against the wall, and walk up to safety?" he said dryly.

Aragorn backed out of the cleft. "I'm sorry, Frodo. I wasn't thinking clearly." He turned to see Merry scrambling up the near side of the gully that Aragorn had leaped across in a bound. Pippin and Sam were beginning their descent on the farther side.

"I will not tell the others." Frodo caught Aragorn's eyes and smiled. "I would not have their confidence in you shaken. It was a minor mistake—and I can't find it in myself to fault you for thinking like a Man."

"You are too kind, Frodo," Aragorn said harshly, but he meant it. Mistakes might be permissible in the forgiving setting of the Shire. Out here, far from help, a single blunder could prove fatal.

Merry staggered onto the turf at the narrow gully's edge. Gaining his feet, he turned to lend a hand to his companions, scrabbling now across the bottom of the ditch. He called over his shoulder, "Are we stopping here, Strider?" He nodded towards the cleft.

"No." Without waiting, Aragorn turned and jogged downhill, scanning the profile of the cliff, a jagged dark shape against the slightly lighter sky. He was looking for some fissure, or an abutment of two faces of rock, that might indicate another chimney, perhaps one narrow enough for the hobbits to climb. How narrow would suffice? Two feet across—less? Aragorn had never had to accommodate his training for beings who were so very small.

Frodo was also scanning the stone wall, but near its base. As Aragorn jogged along, swiftly but not running, Frodo gripped his arm with his good hand. "There. What about that?"

Aragorn lowered his gaze. Part of the cliff wall had tumbled onto the lawn, leaving a gaping hole at its base. The rotten rock lay scattered about the newly made cave; so much loose stone would make the terrain dangerous to fight from.

"I'm afraid that's not as deep a cavern as we need—"

"No, that." Frodo pointed farther downslope.

Two enormous rock faces met at the site of a natural fault. The downslope face stood a good eight feet lower than the upslope rock. The ages-old shattering of the rock near the juncture had formed a steep-angled cave. Its depth was impossible to determine, for its mouth revealed only inky shadow. However, the fallen stone had long ago tumbled downhill. A few the larger boulders jutted naked from the turf, but most of the smaller stones had been swallowed by the springy, short-stemmed ground cover. It was perhaps the best place they could hope to reach, given the time they had. Aragorn's heart pounded and he stepped forward, willing the cave to be deep enough.

He gave his charge an encouraging squeeze. "Excellent, Frodo. Thank you." He leaped over the stone-specked turf, conscious of the following whisper of hobbit feet, soft now on the cushiony lawn. But the stones of the earth do not lie. Even as Aragorn hurried for the cliff opening, he could feel, with every stride, a trembling in the soil. Some large thing was making the ground shake, and it was getting closer.