‘They are lost and leaderless,’ began the old man in a serious yet quiet tone, ‘their lands have been torn asunder by the passing of time.’
‘You tell me this,’ Thistlemead spat, ‘when I care very little? Should every single one of them starve, it would not affect me.’
‘Ah,’ continued the man with the thin grey beard, ‘but it would. He has wanted the support of these peoples for a great time now: the folk of Bree; I hope not to offend; are weak and oft foolish. The folk of the hills, however, are of greater strength and will.’
Thistlemead rose and left, abandoning the warmth of the campfire for the warmth of those whom were waiting in his tent.
‘I have more to tell,’ he continued, ‘for there were many dealings made, under his command and authority.’
The old man told his tale, those around the fire falling silent.
‘And where is Greyleaf?’ asked one of the men at the fireplace, stroking his great red beard. He had been, like all, listening carefully to the tale, though at times he looked to be confused.
‘Greyleaf has been let free,’ the old man replied, ‘the thing ran for the North after we cut his bonds and gave him our word that we would not hunt him down.’
‘The fool got to live, then,’ noted the man with the red beard.
‘You would have kept him alive,’ the man with the thin grey beard said, ‘you would have caused him more pain that he could bear: eventually, what little there was left of him would have rotted away...
‘And indeed, justice must be tempered with mercy.’
