‘Give it up,’ Geoffrey commanded. ‘it is over!’
At that, another quarrel was let fly down from the ruin. As with the others, it landed several feet away from the riders.
‘They will soon be out of bolts, sir.’ Harper Hollygold assured his captain.
‘Not soon enough.’ Geoffrey replied, before spurring his horse away from the company and around the small ruin once more. The ruins, built in ancient times, that scattered the Bree-land were often used as hideouts for all manner of criminals. Once built as fortresses for the old kingdom, they maintained their defensive capabilities, which brigands made good use of. Ken Joyberry had counted eleven bandits when they had assaulted their encampment in the Chetwood. Two were slain there, and the other eight had retreated into the night, escaping to this ruin in the northern fields. Geoffrey assumed that the ruin was already occupied upon their arrival, and could now only guess at the number inside. There was but one entrance to the moated ruin, which had been barricaded up by the time the company reached it. The walls, though old and crumbly, were still too strong to assault directly. This was fast turning into a siege, which Geoffrey did not want. Brigand strongholds were often well-stocked on supplies, which might last for weeks. Geoffrey did not have weeks.
‘If you see movement, shoot.’ He had ordered. But in doing so, they had only confirmed a single kill inside the ruin. That was by George Meadows, who Geoffrey considered to be the best bowman in his company, despite being in his late teens.
The company decided to make camp for the night, and to try a new strategy the next morning. Geoffrey himself took first watch. Just after midnight, Harper Hollygold relieved him. Come morning there was a north-easterly wind, which blew towards the ruin. So the company cooked their breakfast in the open wind, hoping that the smell of bacon might entice them out. Geoffrey knew well enough what hunger could do to a man. Though he thought this strategy was somewhat cruel, it was a method that had worked in the past. He ordered that this should be done each morning, until the brigands’ stomachs begin ruling their heads.
But after three days, there was still no sign of them giving up. Not even Meadows was able to shoot down a single man. Geoffrey feared that the ruin was indeed stockpiled with food, so there would be no way of luring them out by means of hunger. His patience was beginning to wane. On the fourth day, he rode up to the barricaded gate alone.
‘I crave a word with your leader,’ he called up to no one in particular. ‘be so good as to fetch him for me.’
At that, another crossbow bolt flew down from the ruin, landing close to the hooves of his horse. From above the gate, a figure appeared. He was tall and broad, garbed in a long black cloak made of fur. Even from this distance, it was undoubtedly the ugliest man Geoffrey had ever seen. His grey face seemed to be squashed in, with disproportionately large ears. His narrow eyes were far too close to his snout of a nose. But it soon became plain that this was not the ugliest man he had ever seen, because it was no man. It was a half-orc; a crossbreed between men and goblins. Geoffrey had fought the likes of these before, and they possessed the worst traits of both races.
‘To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?’ Geoffrey asked courteously.
‘Grondol.’ The half-orc snapped.
‘I thought that we might come to some kind of compromise, an understanding.’
‘What understanding?’
‘How about you remove your barricade and surrender peacefully? In return I offer you safe conduct and a fair trial in Bree, for you and your men.’
‘No.’ Grondol spat before unveiling a large crossbow. Firing at Geoffrey, the quarrel landed, once again, at a safe distance. Spurring his horse away, Geoffrey made his way back to the camp.
He could have signalled to Meadows to shoot Grondol down. That would have left the brigands without a leader. Brigands without a leader tend not to agree on much, and may well have slaughtered each other inside the ruin. But for Geoffrey, to spill blood during a parley is a great sin. Not that Grondol shared such a belief – the quarrel was evidence enough of that. Now he had little choice but to return to his men and wait for the brigands to come out.
Late in the afternoon of the next day, Geoffrey was sleeping in his camp. Unsurprisingly, there had been no movement from the ruin. The spirits of the company were down at this time, for many of them had become bored with waiting around. That morning Richard Rivers had suggested, in a tone that was almost demanding, that they directly assault the ruin.
‘If I wanted to sit around eating at the doorstep of bandits,’ he had said. ‘then I would have joined the Bree Watch.’
But Geoffrey knew that this would be a fool’s errand. The only way into the ruin was through the gate, which had been heavy barricaded. If they attempted to dismantle this, then arrows and oil would surely be thrown down at them. His sleep was disturbed by the cry of a horn to the north west.
‘Orcs!’ George Meadows cried, stirring the camp to arms. His eyes were the keenest of them all in the company.
‘Mount up, everyone!’ Geoffrey commanded. ‘How many?’
‘No less than fifteen, sir.’ It was Ken Joyberry who answered. ‘On foot.’
The brigands in the ruin had clearly got a message out to these creatures from the north, somehow. Half-orcs had such blood that they could command both men and orc. Geoffrey’s men armed themselves and mounted their steeds, forming up behind their captain. Although on horseback, they numbered only nine. There were at least fifteen orcs coming their way, and more than nine inside the ruin.
‘Charge!’ Geoffrey cried to his men, and they galloped forward towards the orc-pack. Their armour and weapons were crude and rusty, but they wielded them with such ferocity. As the riders charged, the orcs opened fire. One of Geoffrey’s men was struck, falling lifelessly from his horse. Geoffrey coordinated his men to form a ring around the warriors who kept in close file, albeit without disciple. Having trapped them this circle, the riders began hacking at the orcs, who hacked at the riders in return. Geoffrey himself felled two, striking off their limbs without much finesse. Such close-quartered fighting did not allow for much cleanliness when engaging enemies. Two more of Geoffrey’s riders fell, to be hacked to death by the barbarism of the orcs. But it seemed as though Geoffrey and his remaining men might just pull through. That was until a second horn cry was sounded. In the distance, Geoffrey could spot another pack charging at them – in a great number than the first wave. Looking back towards the ruin, he saw also that the brigands had emerged to join the fight.
‘With me, now!’ he cried, spurring his horse away from the ring. The followed him as he rode towards the ruin, and at the brigands who they had besieged for all this time. But it became clear that he did not mean to engage them in battle. Charging through them, it was the ruin that he was aiming for. The barricade that defended the ancient gate had been hastily dismantled. The six riders rode through the open gate, and began to rebuild the makeshift palisade. The brigands had used wagons, wooden boards, and all manner of other objects to create their defence. Geoffrey and his men would use the same to defend themselves now. Three bandits had remained behind to keep a watch of the ruin, who were quickly despatched. The besiegers had now become the defenders.
In their haste to join the orcs in battle, the bandits had left behind a large stockpile of weaponry. There were bows and plenty of arrows, as well as crossbows and bolts. When Grondol’s men had returned to the ruin, Geoffrey and his men began to fire at the assailants, forcing them to hold back. Soon enough the orcs caught up with them, but even they knew that to come close would mean certain death. There was one way into the ruin, a fact which the bandits had used to their advantage. But now they were on the wrong side of the barricade.
Harper Hollygold, Geoffrey’s most trusted lieutenant, had been caught in the arm by an orc-arrow. They had been forced to remove it, as orcs often poisoned their tips to ensure the eventual death of their foes, if they were unable to kill them immediately. But it seemed as though they were too late, and the wound was beginning to turn green. Harper would surely be dead soon, if they could not reach a healer.
It was a night without rest. Under the cover of darkness, the assailants had tried to assault the gate in small waves. The defenders, who now numbered only five given that Harper Hollygold had been incapacitated, had to keep a sharp eye on the distance to hold back the orcs and bandits. George Meadows proved indispensable, shooting down more foes than the rest of them combined. But Geoffrey knew that they could not keep this up forever, as they had already used half of the stockpile left behind by the bandits on this night alone. They would surely be aware of this fact, and would thus strike much harder the following night. There was no way of sending for help.
The following day, there were no attacks on the ruin. The enemy was surely saving all their strength and arrows for when the sun went down. Hollygold was fast deteriorating, breathing only with great difficulty. Geoffrey and his men prepared themselves for the night ahead, knowing that this was likely to be their last fight. The sun was soon fading into the west. The sound of an orc-horn would signal the beginning of the assault, which they would not be able to repel. A horn did indeed sound. But this was not an orc-horn.
Although darkness was quickly covering the land, Geoffrey could see in the distance that the orcs and bandits were not attacking. It was they who were under attack. Mounted warriors were striking them down with great efficiency, letting many arrows fly from their horses.
‘What do we do?’ asked Ken Joyberry.
‘I say we get out there and help.’ Richard Rivers replied.
‘No.’ Geoffrey commanded. ‘We do not know who assists us, or if they truly mean to be of assistance.’
And so they waited throughout the night. The shrill cry of death rang throughout the land, as well as the clashing of metal. None in the ruin slept that night. Geoffrey told his men to keep their heads down, and not to leave. By the dawn, all was silent. The battle had clearly ended, but who was the victor? A moment of dread crept over Geoffrey’s heart, as the thought of the orcs and bandits returning for another assault returned to him.
‘Come out, now!’ a voice cried from the outside. ‘It is quite safe now!’
Geoffrey made his way cautiously up the steps, emerging at the wall above the gate. Looking down there were a great score of riders, all mounted upon large and fair horses. They were hooded and cloaked in grey and green. In the far distance a great fire was burning.
‘Who are you?’ Geoffrey asked. He was now weary from battle and lack of sleep.
One rider came before the others, and lowered his hood. ‘It is I, Thenimbor! I did not look to find you here, Geoffrey Redstem.’
Thenimbor was the Ranger who had saved Geoffrey’s life outside Trestlebridge, and who had taken him to the stronghold of Esteldín in the North Downs. They had fought together against orcs who found themselves far too close to the secret hideout of the Rangers.
‘We are certainly glad to see you, Thenimbor!’ Geoffrey cried out in great relief.
‘How many of you remain?’
‘Six. Though one is grievously ill, from orc-poison.’
‘Remove your barricade, and we may yet save him.’ The Ranger bade.
So they did. Thenimbor and a number of his comrades rode into the ruin, and were taken to Harper Hollygold, who was very close to death now. Using the Kingsfoil herb, which grew abundantly in the surrounding area, Thenimbor was able to banish the corruption caused by the orc-arrow. Harper, whose face was white as snow, seemed to return to life. The Rangers told him that with rest and good time, all would be well. But it was clear that his arm would not be as it once was.
‘I cannot express my gratitude to you, Thenimbor,’ Geoffrey began. ‘for saving us all from certain death.’
‘We share the bond of battle, Geoffrey Redstem. It is a sacred contract like no other.’
The Rangers were soon away, their host returning to the north where they would continue their vigilance. Still the great heap of corpses burned in the distance, smoke rising so high that it might be taken for a beacon. In many ways, Geoffrey thought, it should be. A clear signal to those with villainous hearts of what will become of them if they should be so foolish as to spill blood in this land.
The three men of Geoffrey’s company who had fallen in battle were buried close to the ruin, alongside a number of Rangers who perished as well. The six survivors rode to the south, so that they might bring news that the bandits who had plagued the Chetwood were now gone. This was the Rangers’ victory, but it would be Geoffrey and his men who were commended for it. Those silent guardians watch over the land without expectation of gratitude or reward, simply vanishing into the shadows once the deed is done. Geoffrey could only admire them.
