Narrow streets that teemed with commerce by night were largely silent and still by night. The occasional town watchman's brand casting a shimmering glow that gave warning to unsavory figures conducting questionable business. The occasional cascade of a citizen relieving himself from an upstairs window, too lazy to walk to the garden. The slinking feline hunting rodents. The drunkard staggering home from a corner ale house hoping to avoid the lurking footpad. All these things were swaddled in dark blankets of shadow that were pierced by the fey eyes of the nocturnal visitor that drifted unnoticed from alley to darkened doorway to pillar and post until arriving behind the bulk of the town's chief inn. The figure moved amongst horses tethered for the night, whispering into the ears of an especially tall and sturdy beast. An excited nicker and a stamp of a hoof on the earth was answer enough.
Morwen slipped behind a wall when a hobbit emerged bearing a large crock of apple cores which he dumped into the horse trough. The short man whistled a cheerful ditty with a weary air. Turning about, he stopped. “That's queer,” he said to no one. “Swore I shut the door.” He shook his head and returned to the kitchen warily. One of the proprietor's dogs lay on the floor where he'd been waiting on scraps. An overfed hound named Lightning regarded Nob with a look of boredom and the faint hope that scraps might be on offer. Nob rewarded the animal with a pat on the head. “You didn't see anyone, did you, Lightning?” the hobbit asked. Lightning lied easily, merely laying his head back down on the corner rug. Nob shook his head. Jumping at shadows, he thought.
The elf who'd bribed Barliman Butterbur's dog made her way round the corner and down a silent hall, counting doors. She was relieved when the glow of a candle could be seen coming from under the fourth door. Had the Ranger not been about, she'd have been forced to try to reach him through intermediaries and she had no time for detective work. Her gloved knuckle rapped once. Then three times quickly. She waited. The glow of the candle disappeared and the door drifted open, as though of its own accord. She stepped within, long knife in hand. Opposite the door was a small table with two worn wooden chairs. In one of them sat a large figure. Or seemed to. She recognized the ruse immediately. But not before the door swung shut behind her. She spun, ready to strike, but the Ranger only leaned against the wall, naked hands in the air at his sides.
He spoke quietly in elven, “sîdh, hiril.”* She lowered her guard and took a deep breath.
“I come with grave tidings for the Rangers,” she said quickly. “A servant of Mordor called Yilgtig is riding through the country east of Bree with a company of Angmarim...”
“Who sent you?” asked the man called Strider. He lowered his hood, revealing a striking countenance that gave her pause. She'd seen him in Imladris.
“No one sent me. Well...it's a long story,” she volunteered.
“And I'm weary, but sit a while and say on. You might start with your name?” said the Dunedan, a faint smile breaking the stern visage. Strider sat in one of the chairs and stretched as he packed a pipe and lit it. Morwen sat across the table from him in the dark. Her eyes beheld something familiar in the man's flinty eyes.
“I am called Morwen of Halloth in Greenwood. I was sent to help a man named Angelnarth by Elrond...because I asked to be of use.” Strider's features betrayed recognition of the name, but he made no reply. Morwen continued on. “Angelnarth had a comrade called Pellam who was caught by a black-hearted villain called Yilgtig who comes out of the East. He has...”
“His teeth filed to points?” Strider broke in. Morwen nodded. “I know he was in Breeland,” the man continued, his tone clipped, his frustration apparent. “Sadly, I can't just summon seasoned warriors out of the ground to run him and his pack of wargs down. My information is that this easterner has already reached the north downs after riding hard round Chetwood. Whatever his purpose was here, he has left. For the time being. You might answer a question I have, however.” Morwen nodded eagerly. The Ranger leaned closer over the table.
“Yilgtig's passing was not unwatched, though we had not the strength to stand against him openly. Nonetheless, he was followed. He stopped at an orc camp west of Amon Sul where some orcs had set up a raiding camp. I am told that the camp was laid waste and all the orcs slain. Your toothsome fiend was in something of a rage, I'm told. Without provender, that many men would be forced to hunt or ride with empty bellies all the way to the goblin camps in Nan Wethren. My question is, did you find anything of any interest amongst the orcs?”
My comrade found a sheaf of papers in a leather satchel. I looked at them but though the runes were recognizable, the language was unintelligible to me. That or it was some sort of cypher. Assaj has them. That is, my comrade.”
The Dunedan leaned back again and drew on his long pipe, the chair giving a slight creak. Morwen felt as though she had disappointed a beloved teacher with a catastrophically wrong answer. At last he sighed. “You were all asked to go to ground, yes?” Morwen nodded again as he continued, “It is well that you came, then. For the mistress of the Seven won't learn of this until a courier makes it to Imladris. Go back to Angelnarth and tell him Yilgtig is no longer in Breeland for the time being. I'll contact him through a trusted go-between in Archet. He'll know who I mean. Go now. Slip out the window here,” he said, unlatching the window.
With naught but a parting nod, she slid down and onto the ground below. Just another shadow in a town with more than its share of them.
*”Peace, my lady.”
