Aggie Honeysuckle.
Sam Thistlebur.
Dale Sageford.
They called themselves hunters and prospectors, but Millie sensed they were as much Ranger recruits as anything else, local folks snared into Dunedain secrecy, all for a good cause, of course. She saw provisions nestled around their tents, but no signs of the things they would be expected to take back to the craft houses in Archet, Combe, or Bree, and no horses. The fire pit was exceedingly small, revealing their determination to keep any fire undetectable from a distance, and she suspected they were resolved to mostly cold meals.
Their camp clung to the edge of a steep ridge overlooking the remains of an ancient road to the south meandering through ruins dotted across rugged, weathered hills, memories of kingdoms long ago fallen. The soil was thin, like leathery skin stretched over bones, and the rocky terrain was barely able to support the scrub and brown grasses scattered about. Some trees struggled up from the ground, but they were stunted and twisted, not the tall, beautiful things they should be. Where they huddled together, their shade gave some relief from an oppressive sun, but little wildlife was in evidence to take refuge there. Water was scarce.
To the north, the ridge continued up to its highest point, and in the distance beyond Millie could make out the tops of a collection of ruins thrusting up, the skeletal remains of a town of fortification whose name was long ago lost. She stared at them for long moments before dismounting her pony.
“Aye”, Aggie said quietly as Millie stripped off her gloves and reached for her water skin. “That’s where we’ve been seeing campfires at night, and sounds of weapons against shields, if you get close enough.”
Millie took a long pull from the skin as she examined their faces. She swallowed and corked the skin, then asked, “And what sort of ore and hides would temp you to go there? Or anywhere around here?”
The three wordlessly exchanged glances. Millie watched them, allowing the silence to speak its truth, as they seemed reluctant to reveal theirs. The question remained unanswered, so she turned to her pony to unload her provisions, stacking them amongst those next to the tents. Looking up at the cloudless sky darkening into dusk, she said, “Well, I’ll start out in the morning to give the place a look-see.”
She pulled out a sack from her provisions and unloaded its contents on the cloak she spread out next to the cold fire pit. “How close have you gotten to the camps up there?”, she asked unwrapping the roasted parts of four chickens and setting down four small wineskins.
The other three looked down at the hobbit offering a feast, and it was apparent in their eagerness to sit that they had not had such fare in a while. They offered her profuse thanks before tucking in. Through a mouthful of chicken, Aggie said, “There isn’t much cover around the place to sneak through, so we got maybe a quarter of a mile off.”
Millie nibbled, sipped some wine, and scanned the area more closely. “Grimbriar, you’re a tricky rotter.” she thought. “You need a little Hobbit to sneak up on ‘em. A quiet little mouse with sharp eyes.” She looked around at the three children of Men huddled with her around a darkening camp, imagining them cloddishly scrambling between thinly spread bushes into the waiting claws of…. something…. or someone. For the rest of the evening, Millie caught them up with the latest gossips around Bree, and confirmed through their interest that they were, indeed, all Bree-landers. Good folk, they were, and legitimate citizens, but a bit over their heads here. The Rangers must be getting thin and spread out to need to pull these folks in.
Before dawn, Millie awoke to see Aggie up first, a tiny fire beneath a small pot of steaming water. “Thought you might like some tea before you head out”, she muttered to the hobbit. Seeing Millie look around for the two Men, Aggie explained, “They took the late watches.” Millie nodded as she took the tin cup of tea.
“They set watches”, she thought approvingly, moving to her supplies and rummaging for biscuits. She imagined someone would occasionally visit the little camp to replenish their supplies and take their reports. She wondered how many other folks would relieve them this duty, and how often, but she refrained from asking, thinking it best to just let them offer such facts on their own. She added her baked treasures to the morning meal, and murmured, “I’ll need you to watch my pony when I head in on foot. There’s not enough cover to hide him either.”
Aggie nodded, and the two silently finished their breakfast. Just as the sun was nearing its rise, Millie pulled off her Watcher boots and set them next to her supplies, then adjusted her weapons to assure silence when she moved. Aggie watched her with rapt interest, slowly shaking her head at Millie’s quiet resolve, and finally saying to her, “You are a very brave Watcher.” Millie just looked at her, curtly nodded politely at the compliment, and slung a water skin over one shoulder.
“Set a watch to the north, Aggie” the hobbit said. “If this goes bad, that’s where … whoever or whatever will be coming in from. If I am not back in two days…I probably won’t be back at all.” Without waiting for a reply, Millie set out up the ridge’s remaining slope, her bare feet gripping on stony ground and stiff grasses as she silently climbed. She had barely gone a hundred yards when she caught the deep-chested sound of something snuffling the air. She froze, crouched beneath a scraggly bush, waiting.
The thing approached slowly, indirectly, as if unaware of her presence. Fortunately, the air was still, so she was certain that whatever was sniffing for clues would not be aware of her…yet. The thing was much larger than her, as evidenced by the sounds of it’s two feet grinding through loose gravel as it approached. She slowly and carefully unslung her bow, notched an arrow, and drew.
Orc.
It approached the bush behind which she hid, its ugly head leaning out over the twisted limbs, eyes fiercely focused down the slope behind her. A slight breeze drifted up the ridge, carrying the faint scent of wood smoke. The orc’s brow knitted and just as the hobbit’s scent also reached its snout, Millie completed her draw and released. The orc’s eyes never did find her, as the arrow shot beneath its out-thrust chin and up deeper into its skull. Instinctively driven hands reached up to claw at its throat as it stumbled forward, crashing into the bush.
Millie deftly rolled sideways away from the bush, dropped her bow, and slid out her sword. The orc crashed through the bush already voicelessly dying, but to make certain, she waited until it landed face down before jumping up with her weight behind the sword hilt, using it as she came down to drive the blade between the orc’s shoulder blades. The creature shuddered briefly, then lay mortally still.
The hobbit slid off the corpse, nose wrinkled against its stench, and drew out the blade. She crouched ready to run from any companions the orc might have had. Her eyes darted around, and when she was certain they were alone, she wiped the blade clean on the orc’s body. “It must be alone”, she thought. “It must be scouting. They don’t know the Bree-landers are here yet, but they are close to knowing.” As she sheathed her sword and resolved to return to the camp to warn them, she noted a strange symbol on the orc’s back; war paint, a white hand with a black star drawn on its palm.
