The night was cold and very dark. A thin crescent moon gave little light, and the stars were veiled by high, thin clouds. Holman trotted beside the great figure of the Wizard, his furry feet making no sound on the soft turf, but his breath coming in short, anxious gasps. They had taken the back lanes, skirting the sleeping village of Fen Heath, leaving behind the warm, round glow of bedroom windows. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the very Shire-earth was clinging to his feet, begging him to stay.
For a long while, Gandalf said nothing. He strode forward with a purpose, his grey cloak blending with the shadows, his staff tapping a steady rhythm on the unseen path. Holman's mind was a turmoil of questions, fears, and a profound, aching regret for his abandoned armchair. The ring, now tucked deep in his waistcoat pocket, felt heavier than any stone, a cold lump that seemed to pulse faintly against his skin.
"Gandalf?" he whispered at last, his voice swallowed by the vast, silent night.
"Yes, Holman?"
"Those... those Black Riders you spoke of. What are they?"
Gandalf's stride did not falter, but his voice, when it came, was low and grim. "They were once Men. Great kings of Men, in the Southlands, long ago. They were given rings of power, nine rings for mortal men. And they were ensnared. The rings gave them great wealth and dominion, but they extended their lives unnaturally, stretching them into a wraith-like existence. They are now neither living nor dead. They are the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths, the most terrible servants of the Dark Lord. They see nothing of the world as we see it, only the shadows cast by the will of their Master. And they feel the call of the One Ring, Holman. They hunger for it. It draws them as a flame draws moths."
Holman shuddered, pulling his cloak tighter. "And they are looking for... for this?" He touched his pocket.
"They are. Their Master, who dwells again in the dark fortress of Barad-dûr in the land of Mordor, has learned that the Ring is found. He has sent them forth. They will ride to the Shire. They will ask questions. They will find those who remember. And they will follow."
A new terror seized Holman. "My neighbours! My Aunt Petunia! Will they be in danger?"
"I do not think so," Gandalf said, though his voice held a note of doubt. "The servants of the Enemy care nothing for hobbits, except as a means to an end. They will seek the Ring, and they will follow its pull. They may question your kin, but if they learn nothing, they will pass on. The Shire itself is not their target, only the Ring." He paused, glancing down at the hobbit. "Your concern does you credit, Holman. Hold onto that. It is a light the Enemy cannot comprehend."
They walked on through the night, passing beyond the familiar fields and hedgerows Holman had known his whole life. They crossed the little bridge over the Fenbrook, its water chuckling sleepily in the darkness. They climbed a low hill, and when Holman looked back, he could see the lights of Fen Heath, tiny pinpricks of gold in the vast darkness, looking impossibly distant and fragile. A lump formed in his throat. He was leaving the only world he had ever known.
The terrain began to change. The cultivated fields gave way to rough pasture, dotted with gorse and bramble. The hills grew steeper, the valleys deeper. By the time the first grey light of dawn began to seep into the eastern sky, they had come to the edge of the Thornwood. It rose before them, a wall of dark, ancient trees, their branches reaching out like grasping hands. The path they followed plunged into its depths.
"Must we go in there?" Holman asked, his voice small. The Thornwood had always been a place of local legend, a place where strange things were said to dwell, a place no sensible hobbit ventured.
"It is the shortest way to the Bucklebury Ferry," Gandalf said. "And it will hide us from watching eyes, for a time. Stay close, and do not stray from the path."
The wood swallowed them. The light dimmed to a perpetual twilight. The air grew still and heavy with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves. Great roots twisted across the path like sleeping serpents, and the silence was profound, broken only by the soft pad of their feet and the distant, lonely call of an unseen bird. Holman felt the weight of the wood pressing in on him, ancient and watchful. He fancied he saw faces in the gnarled bark of the trees, old and disapproving.
They walked for what seemed like hours. Holman's legs ached, and his stomach growled, reminding him he had not eaten since the previous afternoon. Just as he was about to ask if they could rest, Gandalf halted, holding up his hand for silence. Holman froze, his heart hammering against his ribs.
At first, he heard nothing. Then, from far behind them, along the path they had just travelled, came a sound that turned his blood to ice. It was a horse, but no horse he had ever heard. Its gait was slow, measured, and dreadfully purposeful. And accompanying it was a faint, chilling whisper, a susurrus of breath that seemed to carry a world of cold and despair.
Gandalf's face was set in hard lines. "They are closer than I feared. Come, Holman! We must run!"
He seized the hobbit's hand, and ignoring the path, plunged into the deeper darkness of the wood, away from the track, away from the sound, away from the creeping shadow that was following them out of the Shire and into the wild.