Last night Parnard rode along the West Road, and at daybreak came to some broken ruins beside a bend in the road, all covered with furze and brambles. This spot would be a good place for bandits to gather and fall upon travelers unawares, he thought, and dismounting from Swan-Hoof, crouched within a nook of the ruins for hours, his quarter-staff on his shoulder, waiting for bandits to materialize.
But as the day wore on and the shadows grew longer, he grew less confident. What if several men happened along, all at once? How many could he fend off, should they come at him in a gang? Ten? Twenty? Only five men had gotten the better of him before: but he had not known how to stick-fight; indeed, he had no weapon training whatsoever then. The quarter-staff is the among the very best of all hand weapons for close fighting, that is what Master Athradir told him, and it was what he began learning with, as it shares the same strikes and sweeping motions as the sword. He closed his eyes, running through all the attacks and counter-attacks in his head, when Swan-Hoof whinnied. Peering out of his hiding place, he saw a man trying to climb on her back with difficulty: he was very short, and Swan-Hoof bore no saddle or stirrups.
“Villain,” Parnard cried, and leaping out, threw the man on the ground and pressed the iron tip of his staff sharply against his ribs. To his surprise, the man made a loud wail and turned over on his face, pressing his forehead to the dirt in a supplicating gesture and immediately begged for mercy. The man’s name was Withers, and he declared that he was a poor man, a woeful orphan, who had fallen into evil ways that had brought him to want and misery. He was going to take Swan-Hoof and sell her to buy bread for himself. He had seen the folly of his idea, too late, it seemed, but if Parnard were to give him leave to go, he would give up horse robbing and enter an honest life.
“Your words are spoken most glibly and easily,” Parnard replied in an old-fashioned dialect of Westron. “Perhaps thou beest one of those impudent scoundrels who would rather die than work, or one whose love of finery surpasses his daily wages, and so he must find dishonest means to make up the difference. Is that so, wretch?”
“No, no, your worship! I am by no means unhappy to live as humbly as I had been born,” said Withers, his thoughts already turned lightly to another place, several towns away, where he would pick up a good living without working himself too hard, and where he would hopefully not meet any more crazy, skulking elves.
“These are very sad times, and there is terrible villainy abroad,” sighed Parnard, lowering his staff slightly, “but it does not give a man liberty to rob as he pleases, and commit great and heinous crimes.”
Withers scrunched up his face and squeezed out a few ready tears. “I was driven to it, your worship, out of weakness and desperation,” he said in a choked voice.
Parnard looked at the man a long time before replying. Their love of money is remarkable, he thought, and they seem to love money better than friends, or honesty, or even themselves, to thus venture their lives for it. Perhaps there may have been some old friends whose sympathy he might have had reason to expect, but all failed him. No one came to help. No one shed a tear over his sorrows. And because the entire world showed itself as false, this man has turned himself against it. It was wrong-headed of him, but he is only a poor and weak vessel. Many among them are weak like this one. Me, I have never once shed a tear over anything. What is there to cry about? And I was all alone in the world too, friendless, just like this man, without any one to rely upon, but I did not turn to horse-stealing. Parnard frowned. Lord Elrond welcomed me to his home when I was starving and gave me a place to stay. He started me on my teachings, and through him, I met Lord Anglachelm, who also aided me when it was least expected, even though I was useless to him, and brought neither help nor advantage.
“I have decided your fate,” Parnard announced to the man. “Arise to your feet, Withers, and heed my words. Thou are not to wander up and down the roads, but to keep at that quarter allotted to you, so that thou mayest not be tempted back into your old ways. Thou are not to take that which is not yours, whether it be to steal a horse, or a pig, or a cloak and shoes, or a bag of gold, or any such thing. And, if I should happen upon you again in this lonesome place,” Parnard warned, his green eyes glinting with a cold light, “I shall mete out just punishment, and bring to a quick end your shameful wickedness. Take warning, O man! Let my words deter you from following your evil courses. Forsake your crimes: remember that though Justice is not the swiftest of steeds, she is a relentless pursuer, and sooner or later will overtake the unwary criminal.”
The man tipped his hat, and said, “Good day to you, sir, and thank you, and you will not regret this!”
Parnard watched him run off. "I put no trust in these men," he muttered, and then returned to his dark niche in the ruins to wait again.
