[piosenniel]

Of the twelve dogs, there were now nine still bodies sprawled on the snow. Gaddy had dispatched one with his stone, and Dinodas two with his bow and club. Sandy and Gil, the two doughty ponies, had taken out one each with their hooves. Bullroarer had brought down four of the mad beasts with his now bloodied club.

He called for the Hobbits to retreat toward Branda. The three remaining dogs followed desperately behind them, hoping to bring down just one of them. Bullroarer, bringing up the rear of the retreat, took his club and advanced upon the pursuers. They darted in at his legs, slashing them with their teeth, but their bite found no purchase as he stepped away from them deftly and swung his club down hard.

Two more lay dead on the now reddened snow. And now a tired Hobbit faced a tired dog made desperate by the loss of its pack and prey. With nothing to lose, it threw itself again and again against the now retreating Hobbit. With on last leap, it launched itself into the air, straight at the face of Bullroarer.

He stepped aside, though not quickly enough to elude the furred missile entirely. It caught him on the left shoulder blade, burying its teeth deep into the folds of the Hobbit's cloak and throwing him backward onto the ground. The large thick fingers of Bullroarer wound their way about the creature's throat, and he heard the gurgle as he crushed its windpipe and the snap as he broke its neck.

Pushing the limp body of his assailant from him, he lay back on the snow, breathing raggedly. 'An even dozen dead!' he thought to himself. Then darkness took him . . .