[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim’s head was still reeling from the rapid turn of events when the chilling sound of wolves in full hunt cut his mind like ragged glass through cloth. He had, in his youth, wandered the lands to the East of Bree, and in that time he had heard such sounds on more than one lonely night. Once, in the distance and lit only by the sickly glow of a waning moon, he had seen a pack of wolves attack and tear apart a deer. For years afterward the memory had been with him as a vivid reminder of life beyond the confines of the life he knew with his people in his own homeland. This time, however, the sound was so close that he fancied he could smell death on the wolves’ very breath. All about him hobbits were turning pale and quivering at the sound, for most of them had never been beyond the hedgerows of their fields, or the safety of the city gates after dark. Marcho alone seemed unafraid of the demons in the dark, and stepped forward with his blade drawn. He ordered the families to seek shelter in their carts, for once showing the kind of hobbit sense that Fordogrim was sure had deserted the fellow before undertaking this journey.

There was a sudden commotion among the Whitfoots. He head somebody cry out that their children were missing. At almost the same moment, his Sarah uttered such a gasp that the sound of her terror tore at Fordogrim’s heart. “Harold!” she cried “May and Henry are gone! You don’t think they would have wandered off into. . .” but she was cut off by yet another bloodsoaked howl from the dark.

Harold looked about wildly, calling out for his children, but his voice fell flat and pale into the gathering night. A general hue and cry was sent round for the missing children but it quickly became apparent that they were no longer with the convoy. Marcho was the first to react, ordering all the capable adults to arm themselves and to follow him into the forest. Fordogrim whistled for Stout, and the pony stamped to him as though it were twenty years and fifty pounds ago. The pain in his leg made mounting difficult but he managed it with only one substantial grunt. Gathering up the reins in one hand and wielding his cane in the other he pointed Stout’s head toward the darkness that lay beneath the forest leaves. He had never been more scared in his life, but the thought of his beloved May somewhere in the dark with none to protect her but little Henry and those good-for-nothing Whitfoot children was more than his simple heart could bear. He was no fool, he did not think that he was a match for any wolf he might meet – but at the very least he might prove a more tempting prey than his young and energetic grandchildren.

Stout, too, was terrified, for he had spent his life carrying his elderly master to and from town, and doing little heavy labour. But such was his love for Fordogrim that he was willing to face the fangs and claws that awaited him. He snorted with all the determination of his stout heart and turned his head to the woods. But Harold stepped into their path and grabbed Stout’s bridle.

Fordogrim looked down at his son and cried out, “Son, I’ve never so much as raised my hand to you and I don’t relish the thought of a-doing it now. But if you don’t let go of my Stout, and right quickly, then as I loved your mother I swears you’ll feel the weight of my cane on your head!”

"Father! Don't be ridiculous, we'll use all the help we can get. Just please stay close to me in there!" And with that, Harold rushed to Daisy and began freeing her from the traps. As soon as the draft pony was out, Harold leaped upon her back, and together the father and son turned their mounts toward the woods.

Fordogrim urged Stout on with great spurring kicks, and as they reached the edge of the Forest he brandished his cane above his head and cried out, “I’m a-coming for you, you bloodthirsty villains!”