Under a dark sky the color of bruised iron, the Nine witches in black gathered on the deck of their black-sailed ship. Together they sank to their knees upon the freshly scrubbed planks—work they had thrown themselves into earlier, cleaning as a way to banish the shame and tension left by Bree's "inspection." Now, with hands raw from soap and seawater, their minds were steady again.
They formed a circle, cloaked figures pressing close in the damp night, and at its center the smallest of them laid down a limp gray rat. Damp, bedraggled, and—damn it all—strangely cute even in its eternal sleep.
She had found it only moments ago, while carrying refuse to the quay. There she had spied seagulls squabbling, pecking viciously at something small. She ran to it as though saving a childhood toy, scattering the birds into frantic flight. Falling to her knees, she gathered the broken body into her arms, pressing the tiny weight against her chest. Whispering to it, promising the little corpse it would not be left to the gulls, she carried it back like a treasure.
Now here it lay: a rat, dead of age, nothing more. But to them, it was a key. A vessel. A beginning. A thread that might lead back to the golden Ring their Queen desired above all else.
They bowed their heads, voices hushed like sea-mist:
"May the Goddess of Understanding guide your poor little soul, little warrior."
Hand in hand, nine palms joined. Their eyes closed. The prayer blurred into spell, a low chant that smudged the very air:
"Eskar bedazu, eskar bedazu, eskar bedazu, stalara hai!"
A haze bled from their bodies—dark-blue light like smoke made solid—drifting into the rat. In its chest, a dim sphere pulsed to life, a heart reborn in shadow. The corpse twitched. Once. Twice. Then its eyes flared open—two blue pinpricks of fire—and the furry creature stirred.
Not merely stirred. It rose, wobbly but determined, standing upright on two hind legs as if insulted by the very notion of death.
The Nine gasped—not from surprise (they knew what they were doing, after all)—but because the little thing, standing upright like a man, was simply too much. Nine pale hands flew to nine mouths.
"Oh my Goddess, it's sooo cute!" squealed the smallest witch, vibrating like a child with a new toy. "I found him, so I name him… Imperiel the Brave!"
The others nodded with grave priestly solemnity, as if this naming were a holy rite. The tallest sister bent low, silver hair spilling forward, and whispered to the tiny knightly rat:
"All right, mighty Imperiel. Go now—wake the sleepers in the graveyard, gather your dead brothers, and search for the One Ring. I can feel it nearby. Be brave, and take care not to let the guards see you. They frighten easily."
Imperiel looked up, nodded—actually nodded—and gave a squeak that might have been "yes, ma'am." Then off he toddled, marching on two legs like a field marshal on campaign, tail swinging like a banner.
The Nine could not contain themselves. They hugged each other, squealing and gossiping in whispers.
"Kyaa, he walks upright!"
"Sister, did you forget to tell him he used to be a rat, not a knight?"
"Shh, it suits him. Though… perhaps we accidentally bound a knight's soul into that body. Ah, well."
Imperiel was all business. He trotted down the gangplank, slipped past the guards (none thought to look twice at a damp rat), and scurried into the ash-covered streets of Bree. For a time he padded along the cobbles, until at last he came to the cemetery.
There, beneath the looming iron gates, he paused only long enough to smooth his whiskers, then slipped inside. Rows of tilted gravestones stood in gray silence. Imperiel raised his little arms. From his paws pulsed threads of dark-blue light, rolling out like ripples in water. They seeped into the earth, down into the bones below.
The soil quivered. A murmur rose from under the sod. Fingers, skeletal and black with rot, broke the surface. One by one the dead stirred—first a skull with blue flame in its sockets, then ribcages glowing with cold cores of light. Rotten corpses lurched upward beside bare-boned knights.
Within moments, the quiet graveyard had become an army. Dark-blue hearts beat in empty chests, and empty eyes burned like cold lanterns.
Imperiel the Brave, commander of corpses, turned and gave another squeak of approval. His tiny paw rose in salute. The dead shambled forward, answering his call.
Meanwhile, the Nine swept the docks for anything that had stopped breathing recently: under crates, behind pilings, between coils of rope. Not exactly subtle.
One sister, crawling near the edge to peer into the water for drowned strays, bumped into a guard who had been admiring the view. Off-balance, she nearly toppled into the sea. Strong hands caught her, his halberd clattering to the planks. He pulled her upright with ease.
"You all right?" he asked.
She had to look far up to meet his gaze. Her hood slipped, and in the lantern light her face was revealed: platinum hair, button nose, lips red as a rose, and eyes deep and wet like summer twilight. She mumbled a shy "thank you," barely parting those lips.
He smiled back, white-toothed, brushed her hair away, and tugged her hood back in place. "Don't worry. Just doing my duty—protect and serve, and all that." He gave a neat little bow.
She turned scarlet and darted away, face burning.
His partner arrived just in time to see her vanish and the rest of the hooded women crawling around like cats after mice, hips and busts swaying beneath their black gowns. Both men watched with equal parts suspicion and fascination.
The guards exchanged the kind of look that heralds a very smart conversation.
"Damn," said the first. "You see the way that one looked at me? Brother, I swear I'm getting a handful next chance I get. She's into me, I can tell. And those melons—hah, I'd pay a year's wage just for a squeeze. Maybe even a taste."
"Sure you would," the second snorted. "Still, wouldn't have minded if she'd kept crawling. Gods, what a view. If I could get her behind those barrels…" He waggled his brows and punctuated with a hip-rocking, self-smacking pantomime that was both obscene and tragically unathletic.
They howled at their own brilliance.
Three streets away, an undead rat raised an army.
"Tell you what," the first guard said, eyes gleaming with destiny. "As soon as my shift ends? I'm finding her. Wife won't mind. Probably. And if she does—well, two brides are better than one. Law allows it."
"Heck yeah," said the other, ever the philosopher. "You got this. Maybe soon you'll be…" He mimed slapping phantom buttocks and thrust his pelvis like a dog scratching its rump against a tree.
Somewhere beyond the docks, a grave yawned. Soil split. Something climbed free to join the horde.
The guards didn't notice. They were far too busy admiring nine crawling beauties—never once recognizing them as the necromancers they truly were.
Back in the six-heroes room, the inn's plush VIP suite smelled of stale ale and lint. Six soon-to-be legendary motherfuckers held council as if that was an actual plan. Frodo monopolized the floor with what he believed were legendary speeches until his throat ran dry and he had to drink again. They were all hammered.
Five bodies huddled around a round table littered with emptied mugs and crumbs. Aragon sat angled on the bed, turning a small white flower between his fingers like it contained the fate of kingdoms.
The golden-blond idiot savant squinted at the eight-pointed petals, then brightened. "Ah — now I remember. This is called Elfhealing-shit or something. Detoxes poison and alcohol or maybe it's poisonous, I can't be arsed. Steep it in milk — hangover gone, maybe."
Frodo slammed his fist on the table. "Shut it, Aragon. Nobody cares about your magical herbs. That's not heroic—heroes don't soothe people, they kill legendary shit, okay? Now listen. We need a plan. It's been two weeks; Gandalf's still missing, and the waitresses are starting to look at us like we're permanent fixtures. They're probably gonna toss us out. I say we roll south now without Gandalf, take that fishing tub Aragon bought, and figure the rest out on the way."
Gimli thumped the table in approval, meaty grin splitting his beard. "Well said, lad! Who needs coin when my southern cousins have whole dwarf-vaults full of the damn things? We'll grab what we need and keep tumbling east!"
Merry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh? And how far is this kingdom of yours? Where do we sleep? What do we eat? We've got, what, a few weeks of supplies and some apples left. We're not making it. And how exactly are six armed and armoured people supposed to sail from Albion to the mainland in a boat that's barely fit for one man and a dog? Why did I trust Aragon with my last silver coin?" He groaned and thunked his forehead onto the tabletop. Even his last precious copper coins were gone—spent on ale and chips because Frodo had insisted on an all-or-nothing gamble for their "final night in Bree." Miserable, Merry sagged under it like a wet cloak.
Pippin clapped Merry's shoulder. "Cheer up, brother. We've got bows; we can hunt along the way and forage. Sam can cook. Frodo can… be inspiring. Aragon's got his 'magic weeds' and healing powers. Gimli's big and loud. It'll be fine."
Sam sprang up on his chair, wooden club raised like a scepter. "For Frodo! For riches! For blood, honour, and glory!"
Gimli echoed, leaping to his feet with fist raised. "Hail to you, brother of war! Ha-haa!"
Aragon smiled down at his flower, utterly uninterested in the fuss, and for some reason spat on it to give it moisture. "Eat, little one. Eat, and later we will eat you. Yes, yes."
Frodo's patience snapped. He hadn't come this far to rot in a comfy room. He hit the table with both fists, hauled himself onto his chair, and shouted over the din. "Silence! I have seen the future — fuck yes. And this is what we must do! We go south. We start killing things. We stop waiting for Gandalf like lost puppies. Coins or no coins—don't care. We go. Blood, honour, and glory! That's the plan."
The room erupted around him. Mugs rose; voices joined in the chant: blood, honour, and glory. Frodo's chair splintered under him. All except Merry cheered like they'd been waiting to be told they were brilliant; Merry just hid his face in one hand and shook his head at the shameful circus.
Nonetheless the decision was made; the six moved at once—drunk, broke, restless, and suddenly efficient.
Packs thumped open. Buckles snapped. Stray gear vanished into straps and loops. Frodo cinched the harness on Dragon Slayer; Sam checked the edge on his cooking knife like it was a short sword; Merry counted the last coins with a stare that promised violence over a single wasted copper; Pippin crammed jerky into his mouth and then another fistful into his bag; Gimli gave his axes a professional pat; Aragon slid the blessed weed into a pouch like it was a crown jewel.
They were a mess.
But they were moving.
From downstairs, a commotion sparked—shouts rising like fire in dry straw. Heavy boots pounded up the steps toward their door.
Frodo froze. A cold prickle crawled his spine. Something bad was coming.
Then as if to prove this bad feeling right, a panicked voice suddenly burst from the hall:
"Blessed be the Light—Big Bob, you're alive! Oh heavens—wait, what the hell—why are the corpses moving? Ahh, fuck—undead! Get the guards!"
The echo hadn't died when something enormous hit the door. One blow—like a tree falling. Wood exploded inward. Splinters stung faces and arms as the six flinched back toward the windows on pure instinct.
And there he was: the thing called Big Bob apparently . Or what was left of him.
A hulking slab of a man, half-rotten and dirt-smeared like he'd clawed up through his own grave. Rags hung off him in wet strips. In his fists, a crude wooden club thicker than a fence post. His eye sockets burned with dark-blue fire—and the flames moved like eyes. They found Frodo, who stood closest, and locked on.
Bob moved.
Frodo slid one foot back, weight poised for a draw-cut—hand flying for Dragon Slayer's hilt—and swore. The massive blade was jammed behind his pack and plate, wedged tight. No give. No time.
The corpse charged. The club came up like a battering ram.
But before it fell, Sam barreled in, shouldered in front of Frodo, yanked up his little wooden shield and bellowed,
"No you don't, you fat shit!"
The club came down like a falling beam. It hit Sam's shield with a crack that rattled teeth. Floorboards split. The shield spider-webbed. Sam's boots skidded but he held—jaw clenched, eyes bright with a stubborn fire that looked a lot like his dead father's dwarven blood waking up.
Frodo didn't waste the opening. He sprang over Sam, twisted midair, and snapped both heels into the brute's face. Cartilage popped. The nose went sideways; somehow there was no blood, only a wet crunch and a beastly growl. The big bastard staggered backwards out the doorway and slammed into the hall wall hard enough to craze the plaster before slumping down, leaving a man-shaped scuff.
Steel hissed free around the room. Sam shook out his aching arm; Frodo's pulse hammered as a very specific horror dawned on him—the bill. Gods, the damages.
"The fuck did you guys do? Who did you manage to piss off this time?" he snarled at no one and everyone. "We are so screwed. I'm not paying for this. Out the window—move!"
They pivoted to the casements—too late. Two more wrecked figures lurched through the splintered doorway, mouths slack, eyes dead.
"Are those—are those zombies? What the fuck?" Frodo barked.
Twang. Twang.
Two quick arrows—Pippin's and Merry's—hissed past Frodo's ear and pinned the newcomers clean through the sockets. Clean shots. Both bodies dropped like sacks.
A heartbeat of relief—
—then the blue changed.
It brightened to a black-edged cobalt, flooding the dead eyes until light leaked from the corners. Their jaws sagged; the same glow seethed between broken teeth. Through torn ribs, a hot glare pulsed where hearts should have been—little furnaces lighting from within.
In the hall, Big Bob loomed, unlit and steady, club lifting again.
Frodo's nape prickled. Instinct screamed.
"Out—now! Those two are going to explode!"
Aragon moved first. He grabbed Gimli by neck and ass like a sack of turnips and hurled him straight through the window.
"Oooh, you've gotta be kidding me!" was all Gimli managed before his skull cracked glass and his body bounced off the cobblestones below.
Aragon vaulted after him. Pippin and Merry hesitated—second floor, bad drop—then threw themselves into the night air.
Behind them, Sam and Frodo sprinted—too slow. The two corpses went off in twin, deep-blue detonations. Bone and meat ripped outward in all directions at once, a grenade's worth of shrapnel chewing the room. The blast hurled both boys through the windows. Glass bit faces, packs, and legs; bone splinters rattled harmlessly off Frodo's armor but punched deep into Sam.
Sam hit the street hard, but harder still was Frodos fall. Next to Sam the cobbles groaned and cracked under Frodo as he hit the street like a dropped anvil. Then he rolled to his chest, grinning through the pain. Finally—action. Sam, meanwhile, screamed bloody murder.
"Ahhh, I'm hit! Bleeding—medic!" His legs gushed where jagged bone had lodged in flesh.
Aragon was already on him, dropping to a knee with shield still in hand. Pippin and Merry stood guard next to them with bows drawn while Gimli's axes flared in the lanternlight ready to fight.
Under Frodo, the cobbles burped dust, neat little cracks spidering out. For some seconds he lay there tasting grit and victory, then he planted both gauntlets and did one vicious push-up. The street groaned. He popped to his feet like a 200-kilo spring, Berserk mail clacking, Dragon Slayer tugging at its harness.
Quick pat-down. Pack? Holed but alive. Armor? Sweet. Sword? Heavy and sexy. Hair? Still perfect. He grinned. Still extremely heavy. Still him.
BOOM. The Inn's front door detonated. Big Bob shouldered through the wreckage, club up, blue fire purring in his sockets. Behind him spilled three more dead things—one with a butcher's cleaver, one with a snapped broom haft, one hugging a broken chair like a shield—and a little gray rat popped onto its hind legs, pointed a smug paw at Frodo and squealed, "Striska stirksa ratata raaaa—BANZAI!"
"That's the controller!" Aragon barked from behind. "Lich! Kill the rat!"
"On it," Frodo said, unhooking the quick-release Gandalf had bullied into his pack straps. He popped the quick‑release; seventy kilos hit the street—THUNK—and the stones actually sank. He rolled his shoulders, lighter by a small pony, and ran.
Big Bob lumbered, but the skeletons were faster. They clacked in first, makeshift weapons windmilling.
Frodo didn't slow. He jumped—a short, savage hop—and hung himself on the tallest skeleton's skull with one hand like it was a pull-up bar. The brittle crown creaked under his weight; jaw clattered open in surprise. Frodo kicked off it hard.
He went up.
A second step—right onto Big Bob's greasy scalp. "'Scuse me," Frodo grunted, boots denting dead bone. Bob swatted too late. Frodo used the big bastard like a springboard and launched.
The world did that slow thing. Imperiel—the proud little field marshal—did a tiny square-up on the cobbles, rat fists up like he'd trained for this moment his entire three minutes of life. He even took a careful step back, like a boxer finding range.
Frodo landed in front of it, spun on one heel, and let the other leg whistle.
WHAP.
His spin kick hit like a carriage. The rat left the ground in two directions at once, let out one last squeak of heroic bullshit, and turned into dust midair. Little bones pattered across the stones like dry rain.
Frodo finished the turn, planted, and looked almost offended. "Really? That's it?"
He pumped a fist anyway, yelling because fuck it, a kill is a kill. "Hell yeah, I killed something! My first fucking kill ever!"
But there was no time to celebrate. The street outside the blown-out window was a three-way: the Inn door to Frodo's left, a lane running right past a shuttered bakery, and the main road sliding downhill into the market. From both the right and the downhill street, undead spilled out of the alleys like roaches—more zombies, clattering skeletons with broom-hafts, meat cleavers, and bits of chair—driven on by three new rat-lich generals squeaking orders from barrel tops.
Pippin and Merry didn't wait to be asked. Twang—twang. Air curled round their fingers; arrows hooked mid-flight and threaded gaps between allies. One shaft punched through a zombie's ribs and kept going; the corpse stumbled, glowing ugly blue but still coming. Another arrow shaved a skull's ear off and pinned it to a post; the skeleton didn't care, kept clacking forward with its shield made of door. "They're charging—not dying!" Pippin yelled, drawing again.
Gimli roared and met the flood at shin-height. He took legs first—meaty chunks, brittle bone. Knees popped; tibias snapped; bodies dropped to his size. Any corpse that started whining bright blue got a dwarven boot and an assist down the street before it could pop. "Mind the spray!" he barked, and a headless thing obligingly exploded mid-air behind him like a firework.
Aragon planted over Sam, one knee on the cobbles, shield high against anything that got cute. He pressed a smear of white petals and spit to Sam's torn thigh, light flickering under his fingers. A skeleton with a saucepan helmet lunged; Aragon punched it off with the shield rim without looking. "Breathe," he told Sam. "And don't be heroic yet."
And Frodo—Frodo clenched his gauntleted fists, bared his teeth, and went straight for the biggest corpse of them all.
Big Bob windmilled that fence-post club; the swing took a pub sign off its hinges and turned it into splinters. Frodo ducked under, boots grinding two furrows in the stones from his stupid weight, then crashed shoulder-first into the first skeleton that reached him. The thing folded like bad furniture. He stomped its chest once—clong—blue flared; he toe-balled it down the right-hand lane like a penalty kick. It blew halfway there, showering the baker's door in glowing crumbs.
Bob came again, slow and heavy. Frodo caught the next strike on both forearms, armor ringing, feet skidding back a yard as the club pressed him into the street. He snarled, twisted, and let the swing skate off his vambrace. The return hammerfist caved in a zombie's jaw beside him and sent teeth rattling across the cobbles like dice.
"Left!" Merry shouted. Frodo pivoted; two arrows ghosted past his ear, curved, and nailed a skeleton's makeshift shield to its own ribs. Gimli arrived in the same breath and cut the pinned bastard in half, then punted both pieces away before they could "go blue."
The rats on the barrels screeched and pointed; more dead lurched out from the downhill street, shoulder to shoulder now, a wall of rot and thrift-store weaponry. Pippin and Merry worked the gaps; Aragon blocked and bound; Gimli chopped, kicked, laughed like a lunatic. Frodo rolled under another of Bob's swings, came up inside the giant's reach, and planted two armored hooks into the big man's gut. The flesh barely noticed; the blue in Bob's chest pulsed brighter, angry and hot.
Only ten seconds passed. Ten seconds of chaos—arrows curving, axes biting, shield slamming, Frodo trading haymakers with a mountain—and the air itself seemed to tighten, a bright sound gathering over the rooftops like a held breath…
But their fight and the rot of the undead had not gone unseen. For while the guards fought at the cemetery trying to keep the dead in their graves, at the heart of town the Church of Light's bell tower burned like a furious lantern in the storm. Stained glass shivered; spears of gold leaked through every seam.
Inside, six white forms of light arrived in a single white-gold flash—beings sculpted from holy flame and sheathed in weightless, eternal golden armour. In their hands, blades and spears condensed from magical light until they looked like weapons the sun itself might carry.
Eyes opened within shadowed helms—two small suns each—and all at once they felt it: rot, blue fire, the unclean breath of the dead crawling the streets.
From their backs, wings unfurled with the hiss of a thousand banners. Plumes of white layered beneath gold-armored pinions spread wide, shedding motes like burning snow. With one resonant beat they rose; wind whistled off the vaults and a gale of sanctified air rolled through the nave as the doors blew outward.
They took the sky.
Over the rooftops they soared, fanning out on brilliant vectors, their helms tolling like distant bells. Below, alleys and courtyards turned into a dim map of shadows and cold blue; above, six radiant guardians streaked toward the source with purpose engraved into every shining movement—straight for the center of Bree, toward the Little Lantern Inn, to purge what should never have risen.
Back on the black‑sailed ship, the Nine had been kneeling in a ring, hands linked, hoods bowed. A very dead seagull lay in the middle on a coil of rope like a tiny white sacrifice. The clever one—alchemist's spectacles sliding down her nose—drew a breath to speak the old words and push their power into the bird.
"On my mark," she whispered. "In… out… now: Eskar bedazu—"
Clack… clack… clack.
Armor on timber.
One sister turned her head, caught by the sound, as if she'd been waiting for it. A figure passed the end of the gangplank—broad shoulders, easy stride. The guard. Her guard. The man who'd kept her from tumbling into the water earlier. He glanced over, flashed a toothy grin, winked, and gave a little wave before strolling on, whistling like nothing in the world could bother him.
She made a helpless squeak, went bright pink, and snapped her gaze away.
"What?" hissed three voices at once. They followed her stare, saw him, and the circle's solemnity evaporated like spilled gin.
"No way. Who is that?"
"Your boyfriend?"
"But we just got to Bree?"
"N‑no!" she whispered, mortified and thrilled. "I just met him. I slipped and he—he caught me. In his arms. He pulled me up like I weighed nothing. That's all, I swear."
"He grabbed you?" another gasped, instantly forensic. "Where? Did he touch you—there?" She waggled her eyebrows scandalously. "Chest? Butt? The terribly forbidden spot?"
"Oh my Goddess, no! We didn't even really hold hands or kiss, or anything really," the flustered witch said, then ruined her own case by sighing. "But his hands—so big! I bet he could cover both of mine and still have fingers to spare. And he felt… heavy. Solid. I could feel the strength in him. And that smile…" She clutched her hood. "That smile."
"Focus," the spectacled one said through her teeth. "We are on a mission. The Ring is near—I can sense it. Our little friends are already working, but we need more minions. More minions, better odds. Now, hands tight, eyes closed, and let's make a flying seagull lich—"
"Yes, yes I know, we all know," another whispered, "but we're in Albion for the first time. Are you not even a little curious? The men here—tall as masts, necks like carved pillars, veins standing out on their forearms like braided rope. Even under armor you can see it. And they smell…clean. Soap! Teeth that don't look like chipped tombstones. Hair that's seen water! Come on, sisters. The mainland never had this many nice smiles in one port. We could have a tiny look. A social reconnaissance."
"Don't be foolish, you have heard the tales, men are beasts, very dangerous. Men are nothing but hazards with nice eyebrows and look's that are made clearly to fool us," the stern one muttered. "File your dangerous curiosities for later. Now we raise the gull, then we—"
Light washed across the harbor.
They all looked up.
From the bell tower at the town's heart, a pale gold halo swelled outward. Then six sharp points of white‑and‑gold burned out of the church and rose together, bright as falling stars in reverse. Wings unfurled. Lances of radiance turned and arrowed toward the center of Bree—toward Lili's Little Lantern Inn—moving with a purpose that made the skin crawl.
"Um," said the blushing witch, very small. "What… is that?"
The clever one pushed her spectacles up with one finger and didn't try to sound brave. "I believe those are the rumoured angelic guardians of Albion. Summoned through those magical light stones, I believe." Her voice was shaky. "They're headed to purge the undead, our Imperiel the Brave."
The six fell towards the town and vanished over the rooftops.
On the deck, the seagull remained excellently dead. Around it, nine witches knelt in a silence that felt too big for gossip.
"I don't know about this," someone whispered at last, "I think I want to go home now."
And back at the center of town, looking at the big bastard in front of him, Frodo braced to catch the club bare‑handed—
—and the world went white.
A cold, emotionless voice rolled over Bree like the sky had decided to speak.
"Violence is not tolerated. Halt immediately or be purified by the holy light."
Something hit the street so hard it shoved Frodo a step backward. Dust sheeted up and then peeled away in glitter. When the air cleared, an angelic Knight stood where Big Bob had been—golden spear buried to the haft through ribs, stone, and any argument. The blue inside Bob winked out. Giant solved.
"That's enough heroics for one night," Frodo muttered. Louder: "Ship! Now! Aragon—take Sam and run!"
Aragon slung bleeding Sam over a shoulder and sprinted. Gimli, Pippin, and Merry bolted, Frodo covering rear—part of his brain doing math on potential damages if they stuck around.
From the right lane and the downhill street, undead poured from the alleys in a dirty tide: rot in rags, skeletons with chair legs and cleavers, three rat-lich officers squeaking orders from barrel tops. They forgot the six entirely; their little blue cores all turned toward the six winged figures dropping through the dark like falling stars.
The angels met them with burning gold.
Spears carved crescents through the air. Every thrust punched clean through rot and bone; every cut set corpses fizzing with holy fire. The blue in their chests guttered, drowned under gold, and bodies folded like tents with the poles kicked out. One knight flicked two fingers and a bright disc zipped an alley mouth, pinning a rat by its shadow to a door; the puppet army it had been driving simply… stopped, slack as dropped marionettes.
Frodo went to grab his bag, and stopped just to stand there a heartbeat too long, awed in spite of himself. The Church of Light didn't just bless fields and knit cuts; it bred judgments with wings. Judgments he had no interest in meeting.
He ran.
They hit the docks at a full tilt and nearly bowled over their boat—if you could call it that. A stump of a mast, a patchy square of sail the color of old teeth, and a hull that looked allergic to buoyancy. The one Aragon bought for a single silver—generous, and already feeling like a bad joke.
Lines off. Shove. The tub splashed free, yawing.
They piled in and the waterline vanished for a terrifying second.
"Everyone center!" Aragon snapped.
"Tell that to him," Merry said, pointing at Frodo. The moment Frodo stepped aboard the little craft listed hard enough to drink. He froze, then crab‑walked to the middle like a very apologetic boulder.
Sam gritted through teeth while Aragon slapped on leaves and whispered white prayers. Gimli took both oars first; the locks squealed; the whole boat went in circles like a drunk fly. Pippin and Merry tried rowing opposite each other and discovered new kinds of profanity. Frodo wrestled the sail; the yard thunked his helmet twice before the rag finally caught something like wind.
They rowed sulky laps around the pilings, bumping the dock, swearing at knots, until—fwump—the canvas bellied, the bow crabbed out, and the little boat waddled past the last lantern.
Behind them, the town burned clean—gold wings combing streets, blue lights winking out in ones and clusters. The angels didn't even glance toward the docks. They had work and the Light had pointed.
Out on the far pier, a black‑sailed ship eased off too—nine hooded figures busy with ropes, their chatter gone. Somewhere between relief and tears, they looked back at Bree, thinking of a tiny commander who wouldn't be coming home. Imperiel the Brave, bless his squeaky heart.
Two boats—one wobbling joke, one sleek shadow—slid into the same dark water, riding the same night wind away from the same town, gold fading behind them like a door swinging shut.