Jeb Jexson was thinking about his younger brother Bramwell. He was thinking of how Bramwell died in those ruins in Yondershire. He was not a happy man.
Jexson had been pacing the length of his rather long room, over the bar of the ‘Dirty Doublet’ since sun up. Pacing was a habit of his when he needed to think, as was evidenced by the extra worn thread of the old burgundy and green carpet. His brother was slain, he had taken a measure of revenge for him, but now his ‘boss’, Naraal, was telling him he could do no more.
That was like telling him he mustn’t breathe.
Yes, he had single handedly slain three elves on the road to Mithlond. Just three passing elves it had been. It wasn’t his problem that they happened to be two females and a boy of about ten. He cut their ears off to make a point. If Elves thought it okay to interfere with Men in Yondershire, then he would do a little interfering with Elves. And he had only just begun.
He had managed to speak with Travon Elderberry, the only one to escape the first massacre. It seemed the man had been knocked unconscious by a wineskin for a short time, and had managed to crawl away while all three Elves were among the main body of his group. Among the bodies, he should say. They had revelled in the slaughter.
Travon was the first to mention the name..’Parnard’. Further ‘evidence had confirmed to him that ‘High Lord Parnard’ was the ringleader.
A little carrot and stick treatment had elucidated additional information from an elderly Hobbit he had ‘encountered’ on the edge of Tighfield, after his brother had been slain in the main encampment on the hill.
“Who are the Elves who attacked the camp? Where are they from?” he had asked the quivering rat.
The rat had shaken his hoary head.
“Look. I am in no mood to mess about. If you tell me, you get a carrot cake, if you don’t., I hit you with me stick.” Jexson still didn’t know if threat or reward had won the day. It just so happened he had stuffed a large piece of carrot cake in his backpack when he left his lodgings. It was little to pay for what he gleaned.
High Lord Parnard was confirmed as the mind behind the attacks, with his henchman ..elf..one Estarfin, who dressed in black and rode a black charger. Jexson had spat at that news. Henchelf indeed. Just wait until he got his hands on him. The Hobbit seemed under the impression Estarfin was some sort of demon with swords. He would fall as hard as any other, demon swords or not. And lastly there was a female. The ‘Lady’ the Hobbit called her. She was fair of form and had long red curls. She was also fast with a sword. She could also die.
“And where do these three murderers dwell, do you know?” he had tapped the stick against a nearby tree, having run out of cake, and suspecting the stick was the main convincer.
The rat had cried. But after a whack or two had said, “They come from just over the border with Ered Luin.”
He had let him go, and the old rat had scuttled as fast as his frail legs would carry him into the village. Jexson had got what he wanted. Then he went and slew the three travellers, for practice.
He had heard there was a new boss, just arrived. A high boss, from a place he was not interested in. He had paid him a visit and shown him the ears.
The Man was rude, above himself. He spoke with a heavy accent. And he wasn’t interested.
Fair enough. Payment had never been Jexson’s main motivation. He had never cared much for Elves, with their inane sense of superiority. Now he hated them. He would find them, and crush them, starting with the assassins.
At that moment there was an expected knock on his door.
“Enter!”
And in they came; Bob Weeder, Warton Hayfield, Davion Strongbrew and Tomas Thornberry. All good loyal men and true.
Naraal had told him not to aggravate the situation with the Elves. He hadn’t told his men that though.
