I knew not what magic had been hidden upon the bald priest's person, but it killed two of our horses and sent the others whinnying and galloping away into the forest.

A great number of the flying arrowheads hit trees, with the exception of Ranchard, a burly muscular member of Aragorn's guard, who received a punctured lung in the exchange.

As we struggled ineffectually to repair the man's wounds, we had to quit the scene in a hurry as an enormous tree toppled from its damaged base.

Ten other trees likewise toppled backwards, the result of a magical explosion the likes of which no mortal on the face of the realm had ever before witnessed. We barely escaped with our lives.

"The Shire shall have no worries about firewood this month," Nob remarked.

I only grimaced and checked our victim.

From what I could surmise by torch light, the golden arrow's tip had pierced one side of his lung and buried itself in the other. Bone fragments had doubtless caused greater damage to the interior. Unlikely this man would ever be able to breathe normally again, if he even lived past the span of a few hours. The wound could easily become infected, resulting in gangrene, pneumonia or something equally horrendous.

Aragorn stared in worriment. "What can we do, Gandalf?"

I shook my head. "Not sure. To remove the arrowhead, we would need to cut open his lung, and I fear it would involve breaking his rib cage, increasing his risk of infection."

"But he could also become infected from the wound he has now."

Our poor victim coughed up blood, I believed due to the damaging of blood valves that normally sent blood away from the mouth, or the good lung inhaling blood from the damaged one instead of air.

"His lung is collapsing!" Nob exclaimed. "Isn't it, Gandalf?"

I glanced at him with annoyance. "And what do you know about it?"

He swallowed. "Not much, really. Except my father was an undertaker. Remember when Isengar Took got shot with an arrow while picking up loose ones in a practice field?"

I shook my head.

"Well, dad took a look around. Just to see if that's really what killed him. It was. I remembered it because a couple years later, we had another archery victim, also shot in the lung, but the real cause was poisoning. It didn't look the same."

"Fascinating," I groaned. "You have a wonderful bedside manner, Hobbit."

"You think if we can hollow out a sharpened stick and shove it in the damaged lung, he'll be able to breathe?"

I furrowed my brow. "Where would we put it?"

He scowled at the victim. "If only we had a soft flexible pipe to shove down his throat and aerate the lungs."

"Can we hollow out a stick and place it in the puncture hole?" Aragorn asked. "To drain the blood?"

I suspected clotting partly the culprit of the man's flooded lungs, the wound, when open, actually serving to decrease the congestion. "Suppose it couldn't hurt."

We used an awl to hollow out a twig of soft but sturdy wood, and coated it with ale for lubrication. To create a siphon, I sucked on it a few times until the blood came gushing out.

Skalg, in the meantime, though limping from his own arrow wound, announced that he had eliminated two of the Chest Rupturers.

Nob glanced around with discomfort. "Wait. Something's not adding up. What about the last Face Grasper?"

Skalg only shrugged. "I found their trails and killed them all. There is nothing that escaped my vigilant eye. Maybe you count wrong." He muttered something else in the Black Speech.

Frowning, I hoped the Orc to be right.

Two splendidly caparisoned dead horses, one so badly maimed that we had to slaughter it, and one we found in the woods with a wounded foot.

Although we had the latter bandaged and cleaned, it clearly would have a permanent limp.

The only relatively useful horse: Nob's old mare, who just happened to have the dumb luck of grazing behind a cluster of wide trees a sizable distance away from the blast area.

My horse may have also lived, but it fled to the hills.

Aragorn placed a hand on the human victim's shoulder. "We should get this man proper medical aid. Or bring some to him."

Nob shook his head. "It would be more expedient to go there. The closest help is in the Shire, and our healer is very old."

"I fear he will not make the trip."

"He could just as easily die here, waiting for Molasses to arrive."

I stroked my beard. "Regardless, it is unwise to move the victim. Even a buckboard would be hazardous for a man in this predicament. A horse, I should think, would be fatal to him."

The cautious whiffle of my steed decided the matter for me.

I stood up. "I shall find this Molasses and bring him here myself."

"You can't leave this man," Aragorn pleaded. "I should be the one seeking the healer. Surely you know some magic that would, in the meantime, work to this man's favor?"

I sighed. "But we only have my horse and an old nag, and I doubt Shadowfax will respond to you."

The king grinned. "You forget how I spend a great deal of my time. We'll just see how wily this steed of yours truly is."

The two got along surprisingly well. After Shadowfax whinnied and backed off in trepidation for a moment or two, he produced a carrot and an apple from one of the saddlebags, petting and consoling my horse into submission.

In no time at all, he sat on her back, pulling Nob up behind him.

The two galloped off, leaving me to stare silently at the Orc and the dying bodyguard.

I prayed to Nienna, summoning her healing tears, but when I glanced into the smoke rising from the bonfire, I witnessed the vision of a woman shaking her head no. "What have I done, Nienna?. Do you no longer lay your healing tears upon mortals in need?"

No answer.

"Perhaps your god needs to be fed," said Skalg.

I supposed an offering of some sort to be in order, especially since her healing brought so much good in times past. But what would be adequate to regain her favor?

Nienna didn't provide an answer. I attempted some other potions and incantations.

I only succeeded in relieving the man's pain. He died an hour before Aragorn and the Hobbit returned with their gnarled old healer.

Although arguably an affront to a man who died from fire, we cremated Ranchard, burning him alongside his companions. After giving them their last rites, we dismissed the healer, setting off in the direction of Minas Tirith.

Before we went, with hatchet and shovel from one of the packs, we cleared the ground around the pyre to prevent a forest fire. We hoped the snow would deflect any stray sparks.

We debated whether or not to camp around this bonfire until dawn, but in between the unfragrant smell and the unpleasant memories, and the pressing matter of the king's castle, none of us felt in the mood to stop and rest. We traveled down the road, armed with torches to light the way.

Only three of us now. Nobody felt like talking.

Regaining my steed, I rode alongside Aragorn's mount, the slow, broken mare which he rode with such royal grace that one could almost imagine it to be from one of his stables.

The Orc, though, too impatient for such comforts, led our party on foot, Stoically ignoring his wounded foot.

Mr. Appledore, perhaps a bit disrespectfully, rode the same saddle as the king, but the mare was originally his possession, more or less, and the boy looked fatigued.

The Orc, precise in his tracking, never lost the trail, but our constant stumbling, the foot injury, and the extinguishing of our torches led him to declare it time to encamp.

None of us slept very well that night. In addition to the grim memories, we had to sleep on the hard, cold ground, in weather conditions that caused us to shiver, even before a fire. We wasted no time getting up.

We breakfasted at dawn, a meal of cooked gamey rabbits with little meat on their bones, then set off down a dirt road with growing sureness as visibility increased.

That's when we witnessed the naked female Hobbit wandering the fields.

Skalg sighted it first, roaring with laughter.

When I got a good look at her, my mouth fell open in shock. "Good gods! It's Rose Cotton!"

"Rose Gamgee," Nob corrected.

He ogled her for a second, then grimaced. "What in the name of Hel is she doing?"

Blood caked the female's face and hands as her mouth tore into a raw, uncooked rabbit.

Skalg gave an indifferent shrug. "She is eating. I believe this style of cuisine you would refer to as rare.' My mother used to cook in this fashion."

"That's not cooking!" said Nob. "That's bloody raw!"

Skalg didn't reply.

"Poor Rosie Gamgee!" Nob rubbed his face to rid himself of the visual. "No good husband sending her out...to eat raw rabbits in the cold!"

He climbed off the horse, glancing up at Aragorn. "Could I have your cloak, please?"

Aragorn had a good heart, a sign of his benevolent rulership. He gave his cloak at once.

Rosie Gamgee, however, had other ideas.

"It burns!" she cried as the fabric touched her skin. "It hurts Smeagol, it does!"

I trembled, nearly falling off my horse.

Smeagol, that evil little Hobbit! The pale one that stood as the very symbol of the corrupting influence of the One Ring, and she spoke as him! Even though the ring had been destroyed!

Dismounting, I marched up to the small woman, becoming pale and cold as I regarded her. "Rose Gamgee! Are you all right?"

Sam's curly haired wife gave an evil grin as she looked up at me. "Never better, White Wizard. Other than nasty Hobbitses awakening Smeagol. Smeagol likes his body. Nice shape it has. Nice...boobies."

Demonic possession. A thing not unfamiliar to my occupation.

"The ring is gone, Smeagol! Its influence is at an end. You have no place in this world any longer!"

"Oh but I do! I do!" Her tone lowered, as if imparting a dirty secret. "Precious was destroyed, but there are other rings. The weaker rings that Precious ruled, yess..."

"No!" I cried in horror.

She grinned. "Yesss...other Preciousess..."

The smile dropped. "But that is not why Smeagol returns. It is the beasties...the demonses from the skies!"

Rose pinched her breasts. "Smeagol did not want this body. Great Ones tell Smeagol to warn Hobbiteses. Frodo." She uttered that last word like one would do when describing a fine wine. And then she looked embarrassed. "But then it does a wicked thing! It seances poor Smeagol."

She squeezed her breasts together, as if to make them appear more full. A sight more comical to me than attractive, though I, upon one rare occasion, have been smitten with a Hobbit female in the past.

"Your warning is a little late."

"Maybe so...maybe not..."

"Where is your husband?"

Rose hissed like I'd burned her. "The fat one! It is disgusting!" She rubbed her eyes, smearing blood on the lids. "Why must Smeagol have such a husband! Why cannot it have someone likes Smeagol, like Fr—"

She smacked herself on the face. "Shut up!"

"We need to go," Aragorn said.

I nodded. "I'm afraid this one has gone mad."

Skalg grinned eagerly. "May I tie it up with rope and throw it over the horse?"

"Rose hissed. "Wicked Orc! It leaves Smeagol alone before I slits its throat!"

Rosie ran off into the woods.

It disturbed me to leave the female Hobbit to shiver and possibly die from frostbite in the wild, but we had more pressing concerns at the moment, beside the insane wives of old friends. The people at Minas Tirith were in mortal peril, and the needs of the many outweighed that of one foolish little woman, who may very well die from her own careless hand.

We continued on, assuming that the husband and (ahem) his soon to be ex friend would come take care of the rest.

We traveled roughly a mile with relatively no event. The sun rose higher, but brought with it only snowflakes to add to the dreadful frost.

"Gandalf!" a faint voice called behind me.

I stopped the horse and looked back to find a pair of figures with armfuls of clothes and blankets running to us. Upon becoming close enough for conversation, they gasped and panted, exhausted from the effort.

Sam and Frodo.

I gave a wry smirk. "Gentlemen, have we changed our minds about being through with adventures?"

"Oh no sir!" Sam gasped. "No more for me, thank you. We've already got our hands full!"

He frowned at my ugly companion. "Since when do you make friends of Orcs?"

I shrugged. "Since he saved my life last night."

The Orc smiled proudly, making a contented gurgling sound.

Sam just shook his head.

Frodo gasped for air. "Have you seen Rose?"

"My wife?" Sam added.

Chuckling a little, I pointed off into the woods. "That woman is most peculiar. I'd say between the two of you, someone needs to take better care of her and keep her indoors before she eats all the rabbits in the Shire!"

They looked at each other in shock. "Rabbits?"

"Bloody and rare," Skalg said. "Just the way mom liked them."

"Bloody!"

They ran off in search of the woman.

"You do know a cure for that malady, do you not?" Aragorn asked me.

"Tis complicated. And we have not time. She'll live."

"Yes, but it's cold."

"We offered. Forget not your own wife."

He nodded.

We rode on.

We arrived at a clearing at the end of the path, wherein our nudist stood, bare back turned to us as she stared into the sky.

She seemed to know of our approach, for when we got close, she pointed excitedly into the air, not bothering to turn around. "Look! It's coming!"

"What." I frowned. "Is coming?"

She turned around and grinned at me, giving me that I have a secret' giggle. "You'll see soon enough!"

And then we all saw it. I wish we hadn't:

A big dark beast the size of several buildings put together, and it had wings.

At first, I thought it to be a dragon, but it had an insect's body structure, glistening black like an ant with a shell instead of scales.

"Dragon!" Nob cried as it flew closer.

I scowled. "I don't think so."

Aragorn dismounted his horse, drawing his sword. "Gods! The rumors are true!"

"Rumors? What rumors?"

"They say there were other falling stars, a month before the one we witnessed two nights before, and they fell upon the lands of Morodor."

The color drained from Nob's face. "It's like a Face Grasper grasped the face of a dragon!"

Aragorn's fist trembled as he clutched his sword. "Impossible! There haven't been any dragons on Middle Earth since the defeat of Smaug!"

"There haven't been any dragons that you know of," I corrected.

Before I could adequately prepare myself, the beast roared and swooped down, slaughtering the very horse I sat upon.