Weathertop arose two thousand feet high above the vast and dangerous area of hilltops on the northern side of the Great East Road. There were secluded dells there, weathered rocks, decayed ruins, endless sloping hills and mounds covered with thistles and stunted trees of all shapes and sizes here and there, like roadsigns. Hellrien gave the Forsaken Inn a wide berth as she approached the Weather Hills from the west. She still remembered her earlier experiences in this region all too well. Some distance to the north there was a big orc encampment she had sneaked through while fleeing from the Forsaken Inn after she had killed two assassins sent to end her life in that haunted room. By the Valar, was it really almost two years ago?
Her face under the black, wide-brimmed hat had not changed much during those two years. Her hair was still the same ashen brown, almost dark grey helmet with a propensity to fall on her forehead, especially when wet. Her face was round and soft-featured, and her eyes were just as cold, blue and expressionless as ever. She had more scars now, both on her face and on her body. Her body was the same it had been for the past five years: soft, stocky and round – but tall, strong and wide-shouldered.
She had hidden her armor and crossbow in a sheltered ravine not far from the Forsaken Inn and dressed up into the most worn-out, shabby dress she owned. The hilts of her two swords stuck out aggressively from the bedroll tied on the back of her saddle.
The horse, bedroll, poorly conceiled swords, full saddlebags and the worn, ragged and dirty dress all had a story to tell to a casual observer. They marked her as someone who was poor and on the run, obviously with a stolen horse. Therefore there was nothing special about Hellrien, nothing that separated her from the other men and women who rode out to the Lone-Lands from Bree looking for a sanctuary, and that’s exactly how she wanted to look.
She rode off the road, turned north and followed a ridge zone covered with shrubs of yellow grass and spiked speedwell. Behind a low, sandy ridge there was smoke – a narrow, misty veil floating over a secluded ledge between a steep cliff and a deep ravine, hidden from sight by a big rock formation.
There were people there.
Hellrien steered her horse onto the slope and rode carefully to the top of the ridge, trying to stay as far from the edge as possible so those beneath her wouldn’t see her against the sky. She stopped her horse and remained seated, watching at the camp below.
It wasn’t a big camp. Maybe four tarps and one mattress and a blanket out in the open. The tarps had been set up around a campfire on a flat, barren area partially covered by trees. There was a handful of people in the camp – perhaps five or six. Smoke from the campfire was floating heavily in the air. There was only one way to the camp – a sloping path from the east side of the hill Hellrien was perched atop. Otherwise it was secluded and blocked from all other sides by the deep ravine, steep cliffside and rock formation in the west, but it offered a perfect vantage to the Forsaken Inn and the Great East Road. Hellrien couldn’t have picked a better place to camp herself.
Hellrien examined the terrain carefully. She thought it best to be aware of her surroundings before riding in a camp like this, in case she had to depart in a hurry.
Hellrien rode slowly down the ridge and advanced along the path from the east. The sun was already setting and the shadows were long. Hellrien had no cloak or jacket, and the black, ragged dress over a dirty grey woolen shirt and the lumpy farmer’s hat made her look like a permanent resident in the Beggar’s Alley in Bree. Hellrien hoped she looked like someone who might have heard about this place in Bree and come looking for it to hide from the Watch or anyone from Bree who might be after her.
She felt strangely dense when she spotted the staring eyes on her. Like she had figured, the residents of the camp all looked like fugitives from Bree. As she slowly rode down the slope towards the camp site, a couple more men crawled out from their tarps to stare at her. She counted six in total – five men and one woman. Hellrien was in the crossfire of hostile and scrutinizing gazes. Every one of them was armed to the teeth.
The woman stood up and rushed towards Hellrien. She was fairly young and her clothes ragged and dirty. She was armed with a bow, but she wasn’t holding it in her hands and her wide, welcoming grin put Hellrien at ease.
”Hey there, sister!” she greeted, grabbing her horse’s reins. ”A nice pair of swords you got there, may I have a look?”
Suddenly a man stepped behind her. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her aside. There was a slap, and the woman fell on the ground, wailing and sobbing. Hellrien yanked the reins of her horse forcefully. The man who had hit the woman was young, slender and sort of pretty for a man, almost effeminate. He had black, flashing eyes and a narrow mustache above a mean-looking mouth. He was holding a long wooden club in his left hand.
Hellrien looked at the woman. She lifted herself up against her elbow. Her left cheek was red and swollen, and blood was dripping from the side of her mouth.
Hellrien dismounted and walked over to her. Calmly she stretched her hand to help her up. The rest of the brigands gathered around to watch them silently. The young man who had hit the girl took two steps back and smiled sardonically.
The woman looked at Hellrien, frightened. Then she shook her head and glimpsed at the young man timidly.
Hellrien said calmly: ”Sure you can, hon. They sure are shiny things, wouldn’t you say? I’m sure gonna score some coin on those, huh?”
The woman swallowed. ”I’m sorry. I’m… I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.” She was almost whispering.
Hellrien walked over to her bedroll. She was just about to grab a hilt of one when a silken soft voice spoke behind her:
”You heard what she said. She’s not allowed to talk to strangers. And she doesn’t want to see them.”
