Barliman Butterbur was in his downstairs room struggling with the Inn accounts when the door slammed open.
It was Beomann, his oldest boy, round eyed and panting "Dad! the Rover just walked in." his father dropped his pen and shot down the corridor to the common room.
The Rover was sitting in the Rangers' usual corner by the fireplace with the sparse handful of other customers clustered around him, all talking at once. The Innkeeper pushed his way through them to find the Ranger looking a little bemused by this unaccustomedly warm welcome. The first words out of Butterbur's mouth sounded plaintive even to him. "Where did you go?"
"There was bad trouble away up north and in the east." the Rover answered. "We had to go deal with it."
"We had some pretty bad trouble right here," Butterbur told him. "fighting even. Some people were actually killed!"
"So I've gathered. I'm sorry."
The Innkeeper pulled out a chair and sat down. Shaky with relief, and a little ashamed of himself for being so. "The Road's not safe these days, we've got a nest of brigands somewhere out there in the Wild -"
"Not any more." the Rover interupted quietly, grey eyes suddenly very cold.
Butterbur stared at him, swallowed hard. "There's other things too," he said a little huskily. "Wolves, and ghosts or something like it gibbering around the hedge at night."
"Wights." the Ranger said grimly. "That's bad. I'd not have expected them to grow so bold. Don't worry, we'll see to it."
Butterbur looked at him, really looked, and saw the pallor beneath the grime and lines of strain and control around mouth and eyes. "Are you all right?"
The question clearly startled the Rover and he hesitated a little before answering. "Well enough."
"You don't look it." the Innkeeper said bluntly. "You'd best stay here tonight. A hot meal and a good sleep in a proper bed is what you need."
The steely grey gaze softened. "Thank you, I will."
Butterbur stood up, hesitated. "Rover, what's your right name."
The other Man smiled, something Butterbur couldn't remember ever seeing a Ranger do before, said gently. "I am Gilvagor son of Armegil."
He should have known it'd be something outlandish. The Rover read the thought in his nonplussed face and laughed aloud. Another thing Butterbur couldn't recall ever seeing a Ranger do. "Make it Gil. That should come easier to your tongue." ***
Butterbur was yanked from his slumbers by a pandemonium of voices floating up the main stair. He rolled out of bed, pulled a dressing gown on over his nighshirt and padded downstairs, his good wife at his heels, to confront a passle of distraught townfolk clustered around a hysterical, tearstained Woman wrapped in homespun shawls.
"Here now, what's all this?" he demanded and the Woman, The Widow Thistlewood from Alderedge Farm, threw herself into Mrs. Butterbur's arms sobbing.
They're gone! They took them, they took them!"
"Took who?" his Missis asked, guiding the other Woman to the settee before the hall fire.
"My babies!" the Widow wailed, "Tom and Daisy! Skeletons, skeletons in white robes! They crawled through the windows and dragged them out of their beds!"
"When?" Gil's voice clove through the confusion like a sword. Mrs. Thistlewood, struck silent, sat mouth open staring at him. "When?"
"Just now." she answered, staring as if she couldn't look away. "I ran after them but lost them in the fog."
"I heard her wailing and calling and brought her here." Will Rushlight, the west gatekeeper, put in.
"We may still be in time if we move fast." the Ranger said, half to himself. His eyes swept the assembled Men, bright with a strange silvery light. "I will need help." ***
Barliman Butterbur never really understood exactly how he came to find himself walking through a chilly, eldritch fog towards the dreaded Barrow Downs with his clothes pulled on anyhow, a torch in one hand and a wood axe in the other, surrounded by a dozen or so neighbors similiarly armed. The Rover strode at the head of their ragged column, grim and purposeful, the fog rolling aside before him.
The Breelanders found themselves following him, against all reason, off the road right into the sinister downs. It was bitter cold, unaturally so, and shapes moved in the mist on either side. Steel whispered as Gil drew his sword, the long bright blade caught the starlight, glistening, and the shapes and the fog that cloaked them seemed to draw away in fear.
They came at last to a long barrow hunched beneath the steep face of a down, its dark door gaping open with a cold, dead air flowing from it.
The Rover turned to face them. His eyes glistened like his sword and power went out from him like heat from a fire. "Fear is the Wights' chief weapon, so do not fear! They fear the light and brave Men, so stand firm and you will prevail. I count on you to keep them from my back - for those two children's sake." He turned, and ducking his head disappeared through the black door.
The moment he vanished the fog, and the things in it, drew closer encouraged. Panicked Butterbur thrust his torch into a mowing skull-like face and it shrank away. Geoff Heathertoes swung his scythe exactly as if he were harvesting grain and a boney arm clattered to the ground, wriggling in a tattered white sleeve. The fog drew back.
Panting hard, the Men exchanged looks, spirits rising. It was true then, they *could* do this - if they kept their nerve and held their ground.
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