Morning came cold and grey. The company packed up their camp and entered the forest, following a narrow track that wound between the great trunks. The trees closed over them, blocking out the sky, and the world became a place of shadows and silence. No birds sang. No animals stirred. Only the crunch of their own footsteps broke the stillness.
They walked for hours, or perhaps days—it was hard to tell time in that lightless place. The track twisted and turned, sometimes disappearing altogether, and Gandalf had to stop frequently to get his bearings. The dwarves grew short-tempered, snapping at each other over small things. Bungo kept his head down and his mouth shut, and tried not to think about how far they were from anywhere safe.
On the third day in the forest—or what they thought was the third day—they came to a clearing. In the middle of the clearing, a fire burned, and around the fire sat three enormous figures. They were trolls. There was no mistaking it. They were fifteen feet tall if they were an inch, with lumpy grey skin and flat, ugly faces. They were arguing loudly, their voices like grinding stones.
"Burrahobbit? What's a burrahobbit?" said one.
"I don't know, but it sounds tasty," said another.
"Shut your mouths and pass the mutton," said the third.
The company froze. The trolls had not seen them yet, but they were facing the track, and any moment one of them might look up. Gandalf motioned for everyone to be still, and he crept forward, peering through the undergrowth.
What happened next was a blur. Bungo never quite sorted out the order of events. There was shouting, and running, and the dwarves drew their swords and charged—foolishly, as Bungo thought, against creatures ten times their size. The trolls laughed and grabbed them, stuffing them into sacks like potatoes. Bungo, who had hung back (as any sensible hobbit would), found himself running through the forest with trolls crashing after him, their huge hands reaching for him through the trees.
He ran as he had never run before. He ducked under branches, leaped over roots, and scrambled up banks, his heart pounding in his chest. Behind him, he could hear the trolls bellowing and the dwarves shouting, and then—silence.
He stopped, gasping for breath, and looked back. The forest was still. Too still. He crept back towards the clearing, moving as quietly as only a hobbit can, and peered through the leaves.
The trolls were sitting around their fire again, and on the ground beside them lay the dwarves, tied up in sacks. All of them. Gandalf was nowhere to be seen.
Bungo's first thought was to run. He could escape, go back to Oakenshaw, forget this whole foolish adventure. But then he thought of the dwarves, and of the look in Thorin's eyes when he had spoken of his home. He thought of his mother, and the stories she used to tell. And he knew he could not run.
He crept closer, trying to think of a plan. The trolls were arguing again—about the best way to cook dwarves, it seemed. One wanted to boil them, one wanted to roast them, and the third wanted to mash them into a pie. They could not agree on anything, and their argument grew louder and louder.
Then a voice came out of the darkness. It was Gandalf's voice, but it sounded strange—deep and commanding, like the rolling of thunder. It said: "Dawn take you all, and be stone to you!"
The trolls looked up, confused. And then the sun rose.
Its first rays pierced the canopy of trees and fell upon the trolls. With terrible cries, they froze in place, their grey skin turning to hard grey stone. In moments, they were nothing more than three rock statues, frozen forever in the poses of their argument.
The dwarves cheered from inside their sacks. Gandalf strode into the clearing, looking pleased with himself, and began cutting them free. Bungo came out of hiding, and the dwarves clapped him on the back and praised his courage—though he protested that he had done nothing but hide.
"You stayed," said Thorin, looking at him with new respect. "That is something. Many would have run, and we would have been troll-breakfast. You stayed."
Bungo did not know what to say. He busied himself with examining the trolls' cave, which they found nearby, and there they discovered a store of food and a hoard of weapons. Among them were two swords of elvish make, which Gandalf kept for himself and Thorin, and a small knife that he gave to Bungo.
"This is a blade of the elves of the West," said Gandalf. "It may not look like much, but it will serve you well in times of need. Keep it sharp and keep it close."
Bungo took the knife and examined it. It was small, just the right size for a hobbit, and its blade glittered with a pale light. He slipped it into his belt and felt, for the first time, that he might actually survive this adventure.
They left the trolls standing in the clearing, three grey statues that would stand there for many years, a warning to any others of their kind. The company continued on their way, and Bungo noticed that the dwarves treated him differently now. They included him in their conversations, asked his opinion on matters, and no longer looked at him as if he were a burden. He had earned their respect, and though he would never say it aloud, he was rather pleased.