"I can't see," Pippin wailed, voice muffled by thick wool. "And I can't breathe either." "Hold still," Merry said in exasperation, reaching over to straighten Pippin's hood. "There. Is that better?" "Well, mine's not," Nick Cotton grumbled. "The sleeves are too long. And I'm going to trip over this hem, I know it." "Black's not my color," came an irritable, adenoidal voice from the rear. "It makes my face all sallow." "You haven't got a face anymore, Everard Took, now get on your pony before I knock you on your skinny arse," Sam snapped. "Someone's in a filthy temper," Jolly Cotton said to Fatty Bolger in a pointed stage whisper. "But I don't see why we can't wear something a little more cheerful. Some nice earth tones, maybe," Everard persisted. Sam ground his teeth and cinched Bill's saddle securely. "Mister Frodo –" "The Dark Lord, you mean," Merry put in helpfully. "Mister Frodo –" Sam repeated doggedly. "Or you could call him The Eyes, I suppose," Pippin pointed out. "MISTER FRODO says as we're to wear black, and that's how it'll be," Sam said in exasperation. "It's not meant to be the Nine Riders Wearing Cheery Colors Possibly Including Earth Tones, all right?" "I'm hungry," Folco Boffin complained. "Let's stop for a bite and a pint somewhere." "No," Sam said shortly. "You should have finished your second breakfast instead of pelting the orcs with bits of your muffin, you know they sulk for hours when you do that." "Who died and made you the Witch-King?" Milo Burrows asked indignantly. "The Witch-King did, and you've only Merry to blame for it, so complain at him and not at me. Now everyone get mounted." There was a brief rustling, punctuated by muttered grumblings, as the hobbits mounted their sturdy Shire-ponies. "Right," Sam said when they were more or less settled. "Everyone got your morgul-blades? Check and make sure, Pippin, you know you're always going off and leaving yours." "Right here," Pippin said cheerfully. "How about pipeweed? Everyone got enough of that? We're not stopping at any stores, you know, we have to be across the river Isen by midsummer's eve and you know the ponies don't like to go faster than a good brisk walk." More rustling as pockets were patted, then a scattering of affirmatives. Sam looked back at the motley group behind him and sighed, wondering briefly if things had been any better for the Witch-King of Angmar. "All right, then. We're off." The great Gates of Barad-Dur swung open, and the Nine rode forth.

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