Chapter 384: Ambushed on the West Road
Gandalf and "Frodo" rode the same winged horse, while Boromir shared another with Merry and Pippin.
The winged horses were large enough that carrying two or three grown riders was no trouble at all, so even with Boromir and the two Hobbits, it was not cramped.
Escorted by Rivendell's farewells, the five of them took to the sky and departed the valley. Aside from the handful who knew the truth, Elrond, Kael, Glorfindel, and a few others, no one realised that "Frodo" was a fake. Everyone truly believed they were carrying the Ring to the Grey Havens and sailing West.
As the winged horses burst out of Rivendell and climbed into the heavens, a red-eyed crow watched from beyond the borders. It saw everything.
With a harsh caw, it launched from the trees and flew toward the Misty Mountains.
The riders, of course, knew nothing.
Merry and Pippin leaned forward on the horse's back, staring down at the world below, shouting with giddy excitement.
Even Boromir, usually so steady, could not help being swept up in it. He had studied at Hogwarts once, and every year he had travelled to the castle in a carriage drawn by winged horses, but that had been on the ground. Aside from a broomstick, he had never truly tasted flight.
With the two Hobbits yelling behind him, Boromir found himself laughing and shouting too.
He also knew perfectly well that their mission was to draw the enemy's eye and buy time for the other party. The danger was no smaller. If anything, it was greater.
But Boromir did not fear it.
As the Steward's heir, he wanted Sauron destroyed as much as any man alive. Only then would Gondor be spared the shadow of Mordor, and only then could the threat of ruin finally be lifted.
That was why he had volunteered for the open party, to pull the bulk of the enemy's attention onto himself and ease the pressure on the hidden team.
They were soaring through the clouds, the sky broad and the air sweet, when Gandalf's smile vanished.
He twisted in the saddle, staring into the far distance. "Be on your guard!"
Boromir and the three Hobbits turned at once—and drew in a sharp breath.
A dark mass drifted toward them across the sky. At first it looked like a bank of storm cloud, until it drew nearer and they saw what it truly was.
Tens of thousands of bloodthirsty bats.
"Down!" Gandalf barked. "We have no advantage in the air!"
He hauled hard on the reins, forcing the winged horse into a swift descent.
Boromir did not dare hesitate. "Hold on!" he shouted over his shoulder. When Merry and Pippin clung to him, he drove their mount into a near-vertical dive.
But the bats were fast.
They surged up behind them, swarming riders and winged horses alike in a screaming black tide.
They came from every direction, clawing and biting. In an instant, Boromir, Merry, and Pippin were bleeding, their faces and arms scored with fresh scratches.
Boromir tried to fight back, but the winged horse beneath him had been wounded in the flank and the wings. It panicked, bucking and thrashing as it struggled to shake the bats off.
The violence of it forced all three riders to cling on with everything they had.
Thousands of feet yawned beneath them. If they were thrown, there would be nothing left to bury.
Gandalf's winged horse was under attack as well, thousands upon thousands of bats hammering in.
Gandalf reacted instantly, raising his staff and casting a barrier of holy light that held the swarm at bay.
When he saw Boromir's side faltering, he poured in more power. The shining barrier expanded into a wave, blasting outward and sending bats tumbling through the air.
"Get to the ground!"
Boromir wrestled control of his mount. Seizing the moment, he forced the winged horse down.
They hit the earth just before the bats could close in again.
Boromir sprang down at once, yanking Merry and Pippin after him. In one hand he drew his sword; in the other, his wand.
Seven years at Hogwarts had not made him a prodigy, but he could cast common spells cleanly enough.
He snapped his wand up. "Protego!"
A Shield Charm flared into place. Then he swung his sword, cutting down any bat that dared come close.
Merry and Pippin were tense, but not helpless. With the shield holding, they were safe for the moment, yet they still drew the daggers Kael had given them and scanned the darkening sky.
On Gandalf's side, he abandoned spellwork altogether. He pulled Bilbo tight behind him and drew Glamdring.
The wizard's blade became a blur, a tight, impenetrable web of steel. Every bat that approached was shredded into pieces, foul blood spattering his grey robes, and he did not spare it a glance.
He fought while guarding Bilbo and moved to join Boromir's position.
In moments, the ground was carpeted with bat corpses, and the air reeked of blood.
But it did not scare the swarm away.
If anything, it drove them into a frenzy. The bats attacked more wildly than before.
There were simply too many. They killed and killed, and still it made only the smallest dent.
Then, without warning, the bats stopped.
As if commanded by a single will, they pulled back and formed a dense ring around them, layer upon layer, sealing the five travellers inside.
And then, together, they released a pulse of sound.
No, not sound. Something silent to the ear, but heavy as a hammer to the body.
A single bat's cry might be nothing, but tens of thousands at once, their pulses stacked and fused, became an invisible force that made even Gandalf's face change.
Boromir and the Hobbits could not hear it, but pain hit them like a crushing weight. Their chests tightened. Their breath shortened. Their heads felt ready to split, and the pressure worsened by the second, as if brain and organs were being squeezed to bursting.
Boromir dropped to one knee, gripping his sword hilt, face twisted in agony. His Shield Charm faltered and collapsed.
Bilbo, Merry, and Pippin clutched their heads and groaned, barely able to stay upright.
Gandalf's face flushed red with strain. He raised his staff in both hands and slammed it into the earth.
His voice boomed like thunder. "Begone, evil!"
The shout broke part of the invisible assault, and the holy light he released surged outward in rolling waves, blasting bats away in all directions.
"Move!" Gandalf roared. "We cannot stay here!"
He snatched Bilbo up and threw him onto the winged horse's back, then vaulted up himself with surprising speed. He drove the horse forward, not into the air, but across the ground, racing west.
Boromir did not hesitate. He lifted Merry and Pippin, one in each arm, shoved them onto the saddle, and leapt up behind them, chasing after Gandalf.
Their winged horses were bleeding, flight all but impossible, but as descendants of great eagles and noble steeds, their speed on land was still terrifying.
The two mounts became streaks of motion, kicking up dust as they thundered west.
Behind them, the bats, though scattered for the moment, regrouped at once and pursued relentlessly, swarming in a black cloud that refused to let go until it drank them dry.
Hours of desperate flight ground their strength down. Every rider was exhausted.
Just as the sea of bats began to close in again, Gandalf looked ahead and his expression brightened with sudden hope.
"Faster!" he shouted. "We're almost at the Last Bridge! Beyond it is Hogwarts territory. Once we cross, we'll be safe!"
The words jolted life back into them.
They lifted their heads and saw it, an ancient bridge standing over a river valley in the distance, the Last Bridge west of the Trollshaws.
Hope surged through all of them. Even the winged horses seemed to understand, because they dug in and surged forward again.
They reached the bridge and thundered across it before the bats could overtake them.
Still, they did not slow, racing along the Great East Road toward the west.
And when the bats swept down again, and the five travellers braced themselves for another bloody stand, the air cracked with a series of soft pops.
Figures appeared across the wilderness in a half-moon formation, robes and uniforms snapping in the wind.
Aurors.
They raised their wands as one, aiming into the oncoming black cloud of bats.