Frodo had never seen a Man fight before. That would have been an impressive enough sight on its own, but he didn't doubt that few had seen such a contest as he was forced to witness.

When Strider had leaped from the cave, Frodo's heart seized with fear. In retrospect, he wondered what he supposed the Man would do; wait in the cave, and fight a defensive battle, using what shelter the cave could give him? But Strider, it seemed, had other plans.

The Man had caught his enemy off guard, and scored two good strikes on the front and back of the beast before he vanished up the earthen cliff. Frodo listened to the battle that raged beyond his sight on the plateau above, his right hand fisted with anxiety. He was terrified. The troll was fully twice the Man's height, and many times his mass. Even the tall Man's strength seemed paltry indeed, when pitted against such a foe. Strider had engaged the troll with skill and grace, his initial blows artfully placed, and doubtless with a far heavier hand than the strongest hobbit could hope for. But for all that, he moved less speedily than a hobbit might. The observation gnawed at Frodo, and kept him on edge. He wondered if it was the Man's great, long limbs that slowed him down. The Man appeared faster than the troll, at any rate, and Frodo supposed that was all that mattered.

Pippin's breath beside him was rapid. "They're moving off, I think."

"Aye." Sam's head was cocked, a mere silhouette in the darkness. "He's trying to draw the troll away, seemingly."

"What do we do?" Merry clasped a stone, clenched and ready in his hand.

"If he gets that troll away, we run for it. That's what Strider would want us to do, or I'm a blockhead."

"But where would we run?" Frodo's heart pattered frantically at the thought of fleeing, unprotected, down the barren cliff face. Uncertainty of shelter aside, he felt far from capable of running, were the distance no greater than the length of Bag End. "We have no assurance that we might find another cave."

"Any such shelter as we find would be better than staying in a place we're known to be," Sam said reasonably. "With his skills, that Strider would find us easy, once the troll is led off."

Merry hissed, silencing him. "Listen!"

The troll's roars grew louder again. Pippin wailed, "They're coming closer!"

The next moment a dark shape plummeted over the earthen bank. It hit the ground before Frodo realized what he was seeing—Strider, arms curled against his chest, and his face screwed up in pain. For a moment he lay where he had fallen, as if stunned. An enormous hand groped after him, but thankfully fell short, defeated by the height of the cliff.

Merry sprang to his feet. "We've got to help him!"

Even as he spoke, Strider rolled farther away, then scrambled to his feet. He stood no more than a dozen feet away, fully in Frodo's line of sight. For all that a grey mist had troubled Frodo's vision during the day, he could distinguish the look on Strider's face, even through the veil of night. The Man was breathing in shuddering gasps; he seemed shaken, but there was no blood or injury that Frodo could see.

A giant, flat-footed limb intruded itself into his line of sight, as the troll eased itself down the cliff after its prey. At this range, Frodo clearly saw the black blood flowing down its back. A considerable amount had soaked into the ratty breeches that clung to the troll's squat middle.

"What's going on?" Pippin's voice sounded unnaturally high. Squashed against the wall as he was, he had the worst view.

"The troll is injured, Strider is not," Frodo summarized. "But he appears to be tiring."

"Anyone would, fighting a thing like that." Sam turned towards him. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but we ought to do something to help him. I feel fair useless, perched up here like a bird in its nest, while our cat out there gets et up by a lion."

"But our 'cat' put us in the tree in the first place," said Frodo. "He wouldn't want us to go rushing into the lion's jaws."

The troll roared again, sounding more frightful than any lion Frodo could imagine. He bit his lip as Strider charged—but the Ranger deflected his course at the last moment, and propelled himself safely up the cliff. Frodo slumped, exhausted simply from the emotional drain of watching.

The troll raged in fury—and then the worst happened. The brute stooped and picked up a great stone, then hurled the boulder with terrifying force. From farther away, Strider cried out in pain. The troll, spouting threats, began to climb after him.

"That's it!" Merry sprang to his feet. "I won't stay here another minute, while that thing goes after Strider."

Dimly, Frodo saw Sam groping along the stone floor. "Take plenty of stones, Mr. Merry." He followed his own advice, hastily gathering up a handful to fill his pockets.

Pippin reached across Frodo and placed a hand on Sam's arm. Sam stopped, looking his way in confusion, though the dark made it difficult to read his expression.

"Stay, Sam," Pippin said. "Let me go."

Frodo gaped. He could hear how terrified Pippin was—he could smell the fear on him. His cry of "Pippin!" was cut off by Merry's calmer, but far more forceful, "No, Pip."

"I shall help Merry," Pippin said, far too quickly. Frodo thought he must be holding his terror at bay by the slimmest of margins.

"Mr. Pippin," Sam began, "Mr. Frodo needs someone as can stay with him—"

"Which should be you, Sam," Pippin interrupted. "Merry, you know I'm right. Frodo needs someone who can guard him properly. And I… am the weakest one here."

Except for me, Frodo thought bitterly. His friends would not be in such a pass, had he resisted the Black Riders' call to place the Ring on his finger two weeks ago. His injury had slowed them down, and put them all in greater danger each day, as he grew weaker and less able to travel. They might well die now, defending him from a troll that everyone but him would be hardy enough to outrun. The injustice of it grated against Frodo's soul.

Merry hesitated, obviously torn between his wish to protect Pippin (a wish Frodo fervently shared), and the good sense of leaving someone as capable as Sam to look after their injured companion—someone who could lower Frodo's crippled body to the cave floor when all was safely over.

"Merry," Frodo started to say, when the troll's cruel laughter interrupted him. They all held still to hear.

"Come, human," he taunted in a gravelly voice, from somewhere atop the embankment. "Fill my belly."

Merry scooted to the edge of the shelf. "Pippin's right, Sam. You stay." He sprang to the floor of the cave.

"Merry!" Frodo protested, but his friend ran to the door, peering out, not heeding him.

In front of Frodo, Sam grabbed Pippin's hand, still resting on his arm. Sam turned it over, and thrust his handful of rocks into it. "Keep behind Mr. Merry," he said. "I'll give you a hand back up, when the time comes."

Pippin's breath whooshed out. "Thank you, Sam." Before Frodo could react to it, a hasty kiss fell on his cheek. Then Pippin leaped into the dark, landing with a grunt, and hastened after Merry, who was already out the door.

Frodo was appalled. "Sam, how could you?"

"He loves you, Mr. Frodo." Sam's voice was calm, just as if two of their closest acquaintance were not about to be eaten by something as big as Sam's smial. "I reckon this is his way of showing it. I won't be getting in the way of that." He fumbled at his waist. "Help get my scabbard off. I'll use the belt as a strap for to fetch Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin up quick. I've a feeling they'll need it right soon."

-0-0-0-

When Pippin had first spotted the troll loping after them in the last dying glimmer of daylight, he didn't think it was possible to be any more frightened. Yet it was. Every minute seemed to be more ghastly than the one before. He had been literally shaking with terror when the troll jumped down the embankment. Then Strider had gone after it, nearly stopping Pippin's heart—and then the Man had been injured. Strider could be ripped to shreds at any instant, and Pippin forced to listen or watch. It was too, too hideous.

Pippin would never be brave or strong. He knew that now. Those abilities were beyond him. Merry had kept his head, and Sam. Even Frodo, for all his obvious horror and worsening wound, could still think.

Which was exactly why Pippin had to follow Merry. He couldn't be brave; that much was clear. What he could do was give Frodo a chance. Frodo would get much farther with Sam than with anyone else. There was no need to discuss it; it had been plain since the journey began, and grew more apparent with every passing day. Merry himself had accepted it. That is why he and Pippin were running along the base of the earthen wall in a crouch, while Sam was back in the cave with their cousin. If Frodo was to have a chance of winning through to Rivendell, Sam would be the one who would give it to him.

Merry plucked Pippin's sleeve, and nodded away from the cliff. He backed away from the wall, looking up. Pippin swallowed, and went with him. He felt like a fish about to be speared in a very shallow pool.

The troll was so tall its head came immediately into view, the tuft of hair on its pointed head seeming to scrape the waxing stars. Still Merry drew back from the protective bank, until the troll's waist was in view.

"Aim for its lower back," Merry whispered. "I saw blood there earlier."

Pippin could see no blood now. All he could see clearly was the silhouette of the troll against the lighter darkness of the sky. But that gave him enough to go on. The waist would be in the middle. He gripped his stone, arm cocked. His second throw was ready in his hand. More stones bulged in his pockets; he had no doubt that Merry was similarly armed.

The troll took a step away from them, towards the forest. "Now," Merry breathed.

Pippin threw as hard as he could. Immediately he grasped his next stone, and flung it with all his might towards the ungainly shadow.

Something hit. The troll roared, arching its back and howling. Pippin dug frantically for the stones in his pocket, and let fly another round. Feverishly he dug and threw, dug and threw, racing through his stash. As soon as he grasped a rock, he hurled it, sometimes higher, sometimes lower. Beside him, Merry was flinging his own supply of stones in that same, uncanny silence.

No good. The troll was not such a dolt that it could not detect the source of the rock throwing. Its shape turned towards the embankment. In the hollows below its jutting brows, Pippin saw a fell orange gleam. "Maggots!" he roared.

Merry flung his last stone, then grabbed Pippin's arm. "Time to go, Pip," he said—as if they'd done nothing more serious than scare a flock of sheep across a field.

Pippin thought he had never run so fast—until he heard the crash of the troll's feet, almost in his ear, as he leapt down the embankment. Pippin then discovered that he could run faster still. He sprinted into the black mouth of the cave, and smacked full into the rear wall before he could stop. He bounced backwards a step, rubbing his hurt chest.

Someone was yelling at him, shouting orders, but Pippin didn't understand. Merry was with him. He recognized the touch even in the dark, as Merry grabbed his arm and pressed something flat and leathery into his palm. "Hang on!" he yelled.

Pippin grasped the strap reflexively. It was yanked sharply upward, dragging his arm up with it. The next moment, Pippin felt himself lifted into the air. He was being pulled up the side of the wall. Merry boosted him from below. A hand grasped his elbow, hauling him onto the shelf. He tumbled into his rescuer—Frodo, by the sound of the grunt he made when Pippin toppled over him.

Whatever meager light existed in the cave was suddenly snuffed out. A massive body jammed into the opening, making the walls shake. A horrible stench filled the chamber, stifling Pippin's breath. The shriek of rage that followed nearly shattered his eardrums. All Pippin could think was, Merry! Merry was still on the cave floor, within easy reach of the troll. He wouldn't have had time to climb up.

Sam was shouting, but in Pippin's panic, he couldn't make out the words. Frodo had shoved Pippin off his lap, but Pippin could feel his upper body twisting beside him. Frodo must be pelting the thing with stones, using his one good hand.

Well, Pippin had two good hands, and it was time he used them. He scrambled to his feet, just as the troll screamed again. Pippin hunched down. The volume alone was almost enough to knock him down—but the stink! Like a hundred middens, left to broil in the sun with a stack of dead carcasses. Pippin opened his mouth to breathe. He felt like he was suffocating.

The only illumination came from the gap between the troll's legs. In that dim light, Pippin saw what filled him with horror: Sam's arms, stretched over the edge of the shelf, so far that he was nearly pulled off the brink. From his outstretched hands, the leather strap was pulled tight, as the troll dragged it towards him with an enormous hand.

Pippin suddenly understood why Sam refused to let go. The troll wasn't pulling the strap, but what was attached to the strap. The giant hand must have closed upon Merry, as Sam was trying to pull him to safety.

Pippin didn't think. Jerking his dagger free, he turned it to an overhand cut position. Taking a running step, he launched himself from the shelf, aiming for the black ridge that marked the troll's arm. He struck with all the weight of his body behind it. The steel sank in, before the blade was ripped from Pippin's hand. The troll's arm jerked, slapping Pippin aside like a troublesome moth. I'm flying, he thought, before he hit the side of the cave, and everything went dark.