A/N:  The “safe house” described here is not of my own invention.  It is, instead, a creation of the fine fellows at the Middle Earth Ranger Forum (ranger.budgetauthenticity.org).  I hope they don’t mind my lurking to pick their brains.

Huge thanks to Cairistiona for the beta feedback and Calenlass Greenleaf for the beta and the translation.

~

Once more, there was fire on the distant hilltop.  Herumor watched the village burn, only half-listening as a messenger gave his report in Adûniac mangled by the orc tongue.  It seemed the battle went ill.  Though they’d caught the Rangers entirely off-guard, the traitors had responded quickly, pushing back the bulk of the organized force.  There were more foes than expected; many of the women and older children had taken up bows and spears to help in the defense.  They knew that failure meant extinction. 

Herumor had tipped his hand.  There was no way this attack in the heart of Dunedain territory could be mistaken for a random raid.  If the attack failed, the Rangers’ retaliation would be swift.  Making his decision, Herumor issued a curt command and stalked back into the encampment.

The children were huddled in a tiny tent with two orcs posted at the door.  The boy held the little one in his lap, one arm slung protectively around her.  Herumor strode through the door and seized the younger child by the back of her ragged dress.  The little creature yelped and tried to get back to the boy.  Herumor jerked her sharply, forcing her to stumble beside him on her ruined legs.  The boy sprang to his feet.  “My lord, wait!”  He raced after them and tried to step between the captain and his little kinswoman.  “Where are you taking her?”

“Away.”  Herumor’s horse was already saddled.  He slung his tiny captive over his mount’s hindquarters like a sack of grain and lashed her securely to the saddlebags.

“But my lord, you said after the attack—“

“Plans change.  Now get out of my way.”  Herumor mounted his horse.

“Please, my lord, you can’t possibly—“

“Can’t possibly what, boy?  Who are you to keep me from doing exactly as I please?”

The urchin seized his stirrup.  “Then take me with you.  Please, let me stay with her!”

The back of Herumor’s hand caught the boy across the face knocking him back a step.  The child tried one more time.  “I can be useful to you, please . . . they’ll kill me.”

Herumor’s hand swung again, this time catching the boy in the temple.  The boy fell like a sack of bricks.  “That is no concern of mine.”  Herumor turned his horse and headed east at a trot.  A pity, he reflected, the boy would have made a decent slave.

~

As the eastern sky faded from inky black to dusty gray, Gilraen sagged over her saddle horn.  In front of her, Aragorn sprawled limp over the horse’s withers, held in place only by his mother’s arm.  The boy was so exhausted he managed to sleep, even on the bumpy, dangerous ride through the hills and lowlands.  Gilraen wasn’t doing much better.  In three days, she’d managed only a few hours of sleep.  Her body, unused to such rigors, seemed to be slowly coming apart.  Her head was one solid ache, while her bones felt as if someone had poured hot lead into them.

She stole a glance at the men riding with her.  Though Gilraen’s brothers had gotten even less rest than she, both sat ramrod straight in their saddles with watchful eyes scanning the trail.  Arandur hadn’t slept in four days, but his graven face showed no more than its usual wear.  As for Thorondir, Gilraen hardly recognized him.  When she’d married Arathorn, her younger brother was barely more than a boy, bright-eyed and cheerful, excited about his first patrol and eager to prove himself.  A few short years in the wild had wrought great change in him.  Little of the callow youth remained in this grim-faced guardian.  He seemed far older than twenty.

As they passed an oddly-shaped rock formation, Thorondir rode up beside Arandur, and the two conversed in low voices.  After a moment, Arandur reached into his saddlebags, pulled out a small wooden whistle, and gave two short blasts.  The sound was high and shrill.  To an outsider, it probably sounded like birdsong.  After a moment two answering bursts echoed from the forest.  Arandur and Thorondir reined their horses in, and Gilraen hurried to do likewise.

For a moment, the four of them sat, their horses shifting uneasily under them.  Then a green-cloaked form materialized from the gloom less than six feet away.  Arandur shifted his horse slightly, to put himself between the stranger and the other two riders.  He needn’t have worried; after a moment, the newcomer pushed back his hood, revealing a gray-eyed Ranger in his mid-forties.  Arandur greeted him with a nod.  “Well met, Malphor.”

The man’s expression didn’t change.  “Well met, Arandur.  What brings you so far from your regular patrol?  And in such company?”

Arandur sighed.  “That is a tale too long and grievous to tell here.  For now, we must get my sister and her son to what security we can make.  Is your brother about?”

Malphor hesitated.  “Maldir is with the main body.”  The Ranger gave a sharp whistle, and a younger man appeared at his side.  Malphor directed his next words to him.  “Return to the patrol.  Alert the captain that two Rangers have arrived with a woman and child.  I’ll escort them to the northern safe house.  I advise that he meet us there with all who can be spared.”  The other Ranger disappeared into the forest without a word.  Malphor turned to the riders.  “Come, it’s not far to the safe house.  Though, it’s off the road.”

The three dismounted, and before Gilraen could say anything, Thorondir scooped up Aragorn.  The woman wanted to object, but her son looked so comfortable nestled against his uncle’s shoulder, and she was so tired . . . The small party set off on foot, leading the horses.  Malphor led them on what seemed to be a deer trail.  It wound and twisted through the trees, crisscrossing with similar paths until Gilraen was hopelessly disoriented.  Malphor never hesitated, though; he led them quickly and surely over gnarled roots and around tumbled boulders.

The cabin seemed to appear out of nowhere; one minute they were picking their way through the silent forest, the next they rounded a boulder pile and came upon a small log structure nestled against the cliff face.  Malphor led them first to the shanty adjoining the cabin.  Here, they found a small stable complete with four stalls and ample hay and straw.  Thorondir passed Aragorn to Gilraen.  “I’ll look after the horses,” he murmured, “You should get the little one inside.”

Gilraen followed Malphor through a narrow door into the main cabin.  It was all one large room, save for a small door in the back that presumably led to a privy.  A dozen narrow cots lined the wall to her right.  The opposite wall featured numerous barrels, sacks, and crates.  A large hearth dominated the wall behind her flanked by counters for hygiene and food preparation.  The far wall housed only weaponry:  racks of swords, bundled bows, bushel baskets of arrows, and more.  Garlands of herbs and vegetables were strung from the rafters.  Gilraen saw little of it.  As if in a trance, she carried her half-conscious toddler to the nearest bed and removed his little cloak and shoes.  The child was fully asleep almost before she could pull the rough sheets and blankets over him.  Gilraen only wished that she could find rest so easily.

~

Gilraen emerged from the small privy and collapsed on one of the long benches by the table that dominated the room.  She stared at the tabletop, running her fingers absently along the whorls and knots of the rough wood.  She tried to force her mind to think upon mundane things.  Aragorn would wake soon and would need to be fed.  She should bathe him as well.  Nothing could be done about his dirty, sweat soaked clothes; there hadn’t been time to pack more and this outpost stored nothing in his size.  Malphor and Arandur would return soon, probably with a full patrol in tow.  She should prepare some food, maybe tea.  There was little else to do.  The cabin was silent. 

Gilraen was not with child.

It had been almost a whim, her wanting another baby.  She had done her duty by Arathorn in bearing him an heir, but her heart secretly yearned for more children.  She had imagined a little boy toddling after Aragorn, looking up to his big brother like a flower to the sun.  She had dreamed of a small girl who could wear all those little dresses Ivorwen kept tucked away, a daughter to whom she could tell her mother’s stories and share her own dreams—her own little piece of immortality.  She had imagined herself an old woman living in Arathorn’s house with a large brood around her—sons and daughters with their wives and husbands and children and grandchildren.  Gilraen had envisioned the chieftain’s empty house packed to the brim with life and hope.

Instead, it was a smoldering pile of ashes.

Gilraen stared at her empty hands.  She was only twenty-six years old.  Most of the Dúnedain women her age were not even married yet.  She had thought herself lucky to be so young and marrying such a great and loving man.  She had imagined a century of health and happiness with the love of her life.  Instead, everything was stolen after a mere four years.

And, she had squandered those years.  Gilraen stared at Aragorn’s sleeping form.  Her son.  Her only child.  There would be no more.  Only a week ago, she’d had everything:  a perfect son, a loving husband, the promise of a full and beautiful life among her people.  Now, she was a homeless refugee, fleeing for her life, trying to protect her child from demons who would slay a toddler for fear of an ancestor three thousand years dead. 

The cabin was empty.  Arandur and Malphor had gone to meet Maldir’s patrol.  Thorondir was in the stables with his beloved horses.  The only sound was Aragorn’s soft breathing.  It was the perfect place—the perfect time—to fall apart.  The scarred and pitted tabletop blurred.  Gilraen had not wept when her brother held out her slain husband’s blood-stained cloak.  Her tears had not blessed the earth of the Field of Remembrance where Arathorn was memorialized.  She had not cried when her home and all her worldly possessions burned, when Aragorn called out for his papa in sleep, when she’d left her own mother to the mercy of orcs.  Here, in the musty cabin, surrounded by her own impotence, Gilraen finally allowed herself to weep.

Sobs wracked her young, soft, wasted body.  She mourned the death of her husband and her village, her past and her future, her child’s innocence, her own lost optimism.  The laughter in her little brother’s eyes.  She stared at her son’s form, now distorted by tears.  Is it possible to start again?  When everything is lost, can anything be reclaimed?  She didn’t know.  But, she did know that she could not raise her child, her only child, amid the broken shards of the life she once had.

Gilraen felt a sudden, desperate need to not be alone.  Brushing her tears away as best she could, she rose and stepped through the door into the stable.  In the dim light, she could just make out the shadowed form of Thorondir.  The young man stood by Begilaith’s head, rubbing down the little mare.  From her soft whickering, it seemed the filly was quite enjoying the experience.  The Ranger murmured softly as he worked.   "Sîdh si, lasto nin; pân mae...estelio nin..."*

Gilraen sat on an overturned bucket to watch him work.  After a moment, he said, “Come.”  Gilraen walked over and took Begilaith’s halter from her brother.  As Thorondir turned his attention to the horse’s hooves, the filly whuffed softly and lipped Gilraen’s tunic, looking for treats.  Suddenly, the horse head-butted the woman playfully, taking Gilraen off-guard.  Thorondir laughed and pulled the mare’s head up.  “This one’s still more puppy than steed.”  He scratched affectionately behind her ears.  The horse sighed contentedly.

Gilraen again took hold of the halter as Thorondir knelt and went to work with a hoof pick.  “How is the little chieftain?” he asked after a moment.

The woman stroked the horse’s head absently.  “He sleeps.”

“And his mother?”

Gilraen sighed.  “Sleep holds no comfort for me.”  She rested her forehead against Begilaith’s russet neck.  “How do you keep going?”

Thorondir looked up at her with a twinkle in his eye.  “Many strong cups of tea.”  Gilraen laughed, and for a moment they were once more just brother and sister—two children enjoying one another’s company.  All too soon, Thorondir sobered.  “I come out here and let this little puppy cheer me up.  I remember Father’s stories about his own days in the Wild, and his father’s before him.  Mostly, I remind myself why we fight.”

“Because we are hunted.”

“No.”  The man’s voice was firm, “It is the other way around.  We are a race of Kings—in exile, but Kings nonetheless.  We fight because we are Dunedain, the one race that has never bowed to nor hidden from the Shadow.  That is why the Enemy hunts us and why we must always oppose him.”  Thorondir paused to brush a fleck of straw from Begilaith’s coat.  “That is why they hunt Aragorn; because he will be a great man.  He could never be anything else.”

Gilraen swallowed hard.  “So, you agree with the peredhil.  You think the Enemy seeks him specifically.”

Thorondir hesitated.  “After what I’ve seen these past days, no other explanation seems plausible.  The orcs somehow knew that Rangers dwelt at Fornost-Eden.  What we’ve faced has been more than random raids.  Perhaps they are after the child.  Perhaps they merely want to kill us all.  Your son is in danger either way.”

The woman closed her eyes.  “Was I wrong to refuse Lord Elladan?  Elrond could have kept us safe, surely . . .”

“Do not trouble yourself,” he interrupted firmly but gently, “You will find that in the Wilds there is little time to second-guess.  Who can say whether choosing to leave would not cause more grief?  It matters not.  All that matters is the next path, the next foe, the next choice.”

Gilraen smiled a little.  “When did you get so wise, muindor dithen?”

The man’s smile was a little sad.  “I really don’t remember, sister.”

~

Arandur sat on his haunches, staring blankly into the small campfire.  Around him, the ten men of Maldir’s patrol were similarly quiescent.  None could find the words to respond to Arandur’s tale.  After long moments had passed, Maldir spoke, his deep voice hoarser than usual.  “We guessed at some of this tale.  The Elrondionnath passed through last night and told of Arathorn’s fall.  They suggested that some fell captain was directing the orcs and warned of a larger attack.  But an assault on Fornost Eden itself . . .” the man trailed off.  After a pause, he tried for a brusque tone.  “So you are to be chieftain until the child comes of age?”

Arandur bristled slightly at his tone.  “The elders and those captains present all agreed.  If you have a grievance, you can raise it when next the council meets.”

Maldir raised his grizzled hands in a placating gesture.  “I am not disputing your appointment.  Everyone knows you were as a brother to Arathorn, and finer captains are few.  I was merely going to say that we must communicate with the other villages and patrols, let them know what has befallen us.”

Arandur sighed.  “Riders would have been sent out yesterday . . . had we not had the fire to contend with.  Now it seems we may have to call back our other patrols just to summon aid from our sister-villages in the north.  Some greater evil will come of this.”

Two sharp whistles preceded the clop, clop of approaching hooves.  Arandur rose.  “That will be the messenger.”  Malphor came into view, leading another Ranger and a rough-haired horse.  “Belegion, what news from Fornost Eden?”

The newcomer clasped his hands behind his back as he faced the acting-chieftain.  “Not all goes ill, sir.  The attackers have been repelled from the village.  They fled towards the northern hills.  Scouts suggest that about twenty are regrouping a few miles south of here.  A mounted unit is being sent to track their movements.  Celevegil has taken command and requests the support of this patrol in stamping out the last of them.”

Arandur nodded.  “What of the village?”

“Casualties were high, but structures remain intact.  We’ve tripled the guard on the bluff and set a few archers on the heights.  Celevegil believes we can hold it against further attack.”

“Casualties?”

The other man swallowed.  “Twenty-three dead, thirty wounded, five missing.”  A ripple ran through the gathered men.  For such a small village, those were grievous losses indeed.

“What about the sentries?”

“Sarnbarad was found in the guardhouse with a knot on his head.  His parents are very relieved.”  Belegion’s voice suddenly caught.  He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again his tone was steady, “The other youth was Halpharn, my brother’s son.  He is among the missing.  It’s possible the orcs dragged him away.”

Arandur’s face hardened.  “Then let’s repay them for their troubles.”  The man pulled out a scrap of parchment and began sketching the outlines of hills with a stick from the fire.  “Celevegil sends a dozen riders?”  Belegion nodded.  “Then they will come at the orcs from the south and drive them into the hills.  The enemy’s movement will be limited, strung out between the hills.  We can be there in an hour’s time.  If we post a half dozen archers on the heights—“ He marked spots on the map with small X’s, “And a few spearmen in this gap, we can take the beasts by surprise and destroy them before they realize what they face.”

A young Ranger from Maldir’s patrol spoke up, “We need not return to the safe house; there’s a cache en route to the hills.”

“Very well.  We leave within the hour.”

Belegion cleared his throat.  “Sir?  Might I have a private word?”

Arandur’s face froze.  “Of course.”  He followed the man a few paces away from the others.  “You have word of my family?”

“Yes, my lord.”  Belegion inspected his boots.  Arandur fought to clamp down on his growing dread.  “Your mother lives,” the other Ranger said at last, “She was badly wounded but is expected to recover.  And, your father escaped serious injury.”

Arandur nodded, still waiting for the hammer to fall.  “And Rían?”

Belegion swallowed.  “Your wife fled towards the river with a large group of women and children.  They were waylaid by the rear guard of the orc contingent.  There were . . . casualties.  Your wife lives,” though Arandur could see that it cost him dearly, Belegion lifted his head to meet Arandur’s gaze, “But your son did not survive.”

The hammer fell and Arandur shattered.  Dirveleg . . . In all his fears he had not allowed himself to imagine this scenario.  My son . . . Only four years old . . . No.  There was no time for this.  He would mourn later.  Now, his child’s memory called him to vengeance.  His face hardened like earth before a frost.  Turning, he strode back to the encampment without a word.

“Let us waste no more time.”  Stooping, Arandur scribbled a few instructions on the map and handed it to Belegion.  “Give this to Celevegil.  We’ll be ready to move when we hear the signal.”  Belegion turned, mounted quickly, and rode away without a word.  Arandur straightened, brushing charcoal from his hands.  A fierce light was in his eyes.  “Let’s hunt some orc.”

~

Malphor drew a steadying breath.  No matter how many of these ambushes he took part in, the icy tingle of fear never really went away.  He crouched alone on a narrow shelf overlooking the hills.  His sword was loosened in its scabbard, but if all went well, he shouldn’t need it.  The smooth oak of his longbow was cool in his hand.  The other hand held an arrow, loosely nocked on the string.  The quiver on his back held three dozen more—not his usual light hunting arrows, but heavy shafts tipped with iron, armor-piercing heads.

Though he couldn’t see them all, he knew five more of his kin knelt on similar ledges on either side of the ravine.  Twelve feet below him, another half-dozen men including Maldir and Arandur lurked behind a boulder, long spears and pikes in their hands.  A high warbling cry, too loud to be a birdsong, reached his ears, and Malphor’s hand tightened on the string. 

The next sound was the low rumbling of many running feet.  Malphor rose to one knee and squinted to the south.  There.  A dust cloud resolved itself into a moving mass of dark bodies a hundred yards away.  The bow creaked as Malphor slowly drew the string.  He could easily make the shot from this distance, but if their ambush was to succeed, he must not fire until the last possible moment.

At seventy yards, he could make out the details of each approaching foe.  He counted fifteen—about the right number if the mounted patrol had picked off a few in their first pass.  At fifty yards, he could see clearly the weapons and armor of each orc.  Their naked blades were crusted with blood, black and brown.  The rough plate armor clanged with every step they took.  At forty yards he could see their gleaming fangs . . . at thirty, their bloodshot eyes . . .

When the mob was less than twenty yards away, Malphor released an arrow, reloaded in a flash, and released another.  The first shaft glanced off the shoulder of the lead orc, barely slowing it, but the second buried itself in the exposed neck of the second beast.  Even as he again reloaded, other arrows flew from nooks and crannies on both sides of the trail.  Orcs began to fall.  There was a moment’s confusion as the company realized it was under attack, then those orcs that still stood began a mad charge towards the rock formation and the safety that they believed lay in Arandur’s hiding place. 

Malphor fired several more times, felling two more orcs.  He hurried to release as many arrows as possible before the enemy entered close combat.  Still, eight orcs remained when Maldir, Arandur, and four more of their kinsmen sprang out of hiding to impale two more on their spears.  Malphor lowered his bow.  He couldn’t fire now for fear of hitting one of his own men.  The spearmen dropped their pole arms and drew swords.  Malphor kept his eyes fixed on the whipping mane of brown hair that was Maldir.  His older brother was fighting back-to-back with Arandur against the two largest orcs.  Both men were quick and skilled, but the brutes were pressing them back by sheer force.  Another few steps and they’d be cornered against the cliff face.  Malphor’s fingers tightened on the bowstring.  He might have to chance a shot after all . . .

But, no, there came a sudden thunder of hooves through the ravine.  Celevegil and his horsemen had arrived.  The remaining orcs fell before the mounted Rangers like saplings before an avalanche.  As quickly as it had started, the battle was over.  Not one Ranger had fallen.  Malphor unstrung his bow, strapped it to his back, and swung himself to the ground.  As he was collecting himself, Belegion rode up—the rear guard.  Malphor caught the tail end of his report.  “. . . and smoke from the hilltops to the east.  I think they might have an encampment there.”

Arandur nodded.  “That area is too rough for horses.  Celevegil, take your men south out of the hills.  Take Belegion’s horse; he’ll have to direct us to this camp.  The rest of us are taking a little hike.  Malphor, you know the terrain.  Take point with Belegion.”  Nodding his acknowledgement, Malphor loped towards a narrow trail that led up into the eastern hills, Belegion a step behind him.  With the ease of long practice, Arandur, Maldir, and the rest of the force fell in step a few yards behind him.  Though the ground rose and fell sharply, with many treacherous drops and sliding shale banks, the Rangers made good time.

Before long, Malphor no longer needed to rely on Belegion’s murmured directions; a thin plume of gray smoke rose into the sky—a sure sign of a dying fire.  Malphor strung his bow.  As they approached a ridge, the Ranger dropped into a crouch and ran ahead, falling flat to his belly at the crest of the hill.  After a moment, Maldir joined him wordlessly.

As they’d suspected, the hilltop housed the remnants of an orc camp.  A few filthy and ragged tents were pitched.  The smoke rose from a large, ashy pit surrounded by bread crusts and splintered bones.  The whole area reeked.  Malphor wrinkled his nose against the stench.  A single orc squatted by the dying embers.  A stray bit of wind wafted past Malphor’s ear, and the beast raised its head to sniff the air.  If the orc smelled the Rangers, it never got a chance to act on the information; Malphor’s bow sang once, and the creature fell with an arrow in its eye.

Soft though it was, the sound had the potential to rouse other creatures.  Malphor froze when a dirty mound he’d taken for a pile of rags suddenly moved.  In an instant, the archer had another arrow on the string, but his brother pushed the weapon down with a hiss.  “That’s no orc.”  It seemed Maldir was right; a human face appeared from under the ragged cloth.  For an instant, the roused sleeper stared at the men.  Then, in a desperate flurry of motion, the lump of rags uncoiled into a slender human form and began running full out in the opposite direction.  Maldir sprang to his feet.  “Get him!”

Malphor was after the fleeing form in an instant.  The chase was short but brutal.  His quarry darted and dodged, but Malphor’s longer legs ate up the distance between them.  They hadn’t gone far when Malphor reached his prey and tackled him to the ground.  There was a sickening crunch, the white-hot pain of stones in his kneecaps, and the dull thud of a skull hitting the bedrock.  Malphor’s target went limp beneath him.  Malphor swallowed.  Even under layers of dirt, there was no mistaking the green, woolen cloak the figure was swathed in.  Dreading what he would find, he carefully turned the form. 

A Dúnadan boy, still too young to shave, lay beneath him.  The noble lines of the boy’s face were obscured by dirt, ash, and what looked suspiciously like tear tracks.  The copper star securing his cloak proclaimed him to be a Ranger-in-training.  A long sword and a small horn were belted at the boy’s waist.  The youth’s chest rose and fell steadily, Though, it might be better for him if it didn’t, Malphor reflected grimly.  The Ranger stood slowly.

Maldir was approaching, with Belegion hot on his heels.  When the latter saw the supine form, all color drained from his face.  Maldir was the first to find his voice.   “Halpharn.”  His tone rang with fury.

Belegion glanced about wildly, “What new devilry is this?”

“Devilry?” The ringing voice belonged to Arandur who had approached without any of them realizing it, “Is it? Or is this the answer to all the riddles?”

Belegion’s mouth fell open.  “Sir, you can’t possibly think my nephew had anything to do with this!”

“Look at him, Belegion,” Arandur snapped, “They left him his sword.  He wasn’t bound.  He slumbered in this orc lair as if he belonged to it.”

Malphor took a closer look at the smooth, still face.  “Those bruises are fresh.  It looks like he was knocked unconscious.”

“And yet he was left armed.  Those orcs didn’t fear that he would wake and attack them.”  For a moment, no one spoke.  The rest of the patrol gathered near.  Arandur’s voice was almost reluctant.  “My sister proves wiser than all of us.  She suspected an assassination attempt in the fire two nights ago.  And last night, Halpharn was on duty.  At last, Sarnbarad’s fate makes sense:  the lad did not raise the alarm and was not slain in the attack because his fellow had already rendered him unconscious.  Perhaps the other boy tried to prevent this one from meeting with his new master . . .”

Belegion broke in, his voice panicked.  “Master?  This is a Dúnadan you speak of!  There is no reason to believe he led the orcs to us, when in all likelihood he was simply dragged away by the raiders.  And as for the fire you speak of, the boy’s own house burned!  His little brothers were nearly lost.  He wouldn’t do that.”

“Yet, he’s been different lately,” one older Ranger put in, “Ever since his sister was taken.  Distracted, like.  I’d come upon him out in the Wilds by himself, but if you asked he was always gathering firewood or berrying.  What berries are to be had in March?”

All eyes were on Arandur.  The man sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair.  “We gain nothing by debating here,” he said at last, “And while we tarry, our precious ones go unprotected.  We will take this youth to the safe house where Gilraen waits.  He has not been in those parts, to my knowledge; he will have a hard time fleeing if it comes to that.”

“It won’t come to that.” Belegion interjected.

Arandur took no note of him.  “Take the boy’s weapons.  He is our prisoner until he wakes.  Then, we’ll judge his story and hopefully make sense of this twisted tale.”

~

Herumor kept his horse moving at a brisk trot.  He was nearly free of the Dúnedain-infested lands.  The bundle behind him had whimpered at first, but a few slaps had silenced it.  Now, the little wretch lay nearly still.  Herumor was just as glad; he hadn’t yet decided what he would do with her when he got back to his own lands—she was too young and damaged to yield much profit on the slave markets—but he was relieved to be spared the mess and trouble of disciplining her.

The road before him bent slightly to follow the crest of a twisting ravine with a small creek running through it.  Herumor slowed his horse to a walk.  There was really no reason to rush; it wasn’t as if he was eager to report to his master that his task was still only half-complete.  A slight ripping sound reached his ears.  The man looked down to see if his tack was breaking.  While his attention was on his saddle horn, there was sudden movement behind him.  The little bundled urchin suddenly slid from the horse’s back, bringing most of Herumor’s supplies down with her.  With a grunt of surprise, Herumor turned his mount and swung a hand out to seize the child.  Somehow, she ducked back from his grasp.  Hissing in fury, the man moved to dismount and teach her a lesson, but before he was even half off his horse, the little ragamuffin took two stumbling steps and went rolling down the ravine.

Approaching the edge of the bluff cautiously, Herumor watched as the dust and rocks settled.  The canyon was almost fifteen feet deep, and the edge the little wretch had gone over was steep and covered in gravel and brush.  He couldn’t make out her body at the bottom . . . but Herumor would bet all of his considerable wealth that the urchin hadn’t survived the fall.  And really, what was the point of venturing all the way down there just to retrieve a corpse?

Herumor debated with himself for a moment then decided that it wasn’t worth the effort.  Collecting his saddlebags and cursing his bad luck, the man mounted his horse to continue on.  The girl was of minimal value anyway; her main purpose had been in keeping her kinsman in line.  And, if Herumor’s suspicions were correct, said kinsman would soon be dead at the hands of the Rangers.

A/N:  And on that lovely note, thanks for taking the time to read this chap!  More will be up soon.  Show the love and/or loathing by leaving a review.

*Sindarin.  “Peace now, listen to me; all is well . . . trust me . . .” Again, credit for the translation goes to Calenlass Greenleaf.