From Bree they rode in the storm. Ever south and east keeping to the road, moving fast. Much to the displeasure of a few of the hardier dwarven warriors, they passed the Forsaken inn and galloped on. On the sheltered porch of the inn, sat a man, whittling on a piece of wood. He barely glanced up as the group rushed by. Gray spectres driven by the wind
A few miles on Donhelm signalled a halt. They dismounted and made a small camp. Donhelm took from his pack an old well used map and peered at it. He became aware of someone standing behind him. He turned to see the young lad Bob looking at him.
“Where are we sir?” Bob asked.
Donhelm looked again at the map.
“Well I know where we are not. but I’m not exactly sure where we are”
Bob looked confused at this.
Donhelm smiled and beckoned him over to look at the map. He pointed out a brown spot. “Here is where we began” he said “and here is the Forsaken inn, that place we passed not three hours ago…it lies around 20 miles east from Bree. By my reckoning, we should be able to see Amon –sul, which is a great hill surrounded by lesser hills. Alas I can see nothing in this storm! These hills are well named for they are known to some as the weather hills, and the elves call this area Eriador, though men call it Lone lands.”
Bob spoke up “My father has spoken of the lone-lands and great hill surmounted by ruins of old, though he didn’t call it Amon-sul as I recall..it was weath…weather hill?”
“He may have called it Weathertop, for as I say it is the tallest of these hills” said Donhelm. “Ah yes Weathertop! That’s it!” said Bob smiling “Father often expressed a wish to climb it, as was his way.He never did though, and I suppose he never will, for age lies heavy on his shoulders” Bob looked gloomily into the mist.
Donhelm laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Well at least you may tell him what it looked and felt like Bob, for the summit of Weathertop is our first destination ” Bob tried to remain calm, though his eyes widened momentarily at this news.
Remis Locke, a trade caravan veteran (who had joined the warband as a promise to a dying friend), strode over accompanied by two dwarves bringing cold meats and tankards of ale. They stood together under a stunted tree and began to discuss their route. The ale had a wondrous effect on the companions and soon the mood was lifted. As if to reflect this, the rain became lighter, and small gaps in the clouds began to appear. For a few brief seconds the distant summit of Amon-sul was visible and Donhelm was able to make a more accurate reckoning of where they were. “It is better than I hoped!” he announced. “We will camp here tonight and set out for Amon-Sul in the morning, for we are no more than six hours from Weatherfoot, and from there..another two hours or so climb and we can set up camp and scout for enemies.”
It was the dwarf Ule who spoke.
“No need to scout Donhelm” he growled “ for see! The enemy scouts us!” He pointed a little way north and then they all saw what his keen eyes had spotted. A rather thin Goblin was creeping through the grass, looking weary and forlorn, obviously not happy at being out in the rain.
“I shall dispatch it with one blow!” Said Ule. “Wait! Stay your axe Ule!” whispered Donhelm placing his hand on the dwarf blade. “I think this could be a chance for Bob to prove his mettle in battle don’t you?” Ule looked at Donhelm and catching his expression, grinned. “Aye!..The lads first kill!..a bit puny mind you, but aye..it’ll do!”
Only Remis seemed to be against the idea, for he had taken a shine to the boy, and felt rather protective of him, but he was soon outvoted, and Bob was pushed to the front toward the goblin.
“Go on Bob”, Donhelm said “your first Goblin! Strike your first blow against the shadow my lad” He gently nudged Bob forward. Bob seemed nervous and as he crept forward, kept looking back for reassurance. Seeing grinning faces, nods and throat cutting gestures from those behind, he turned and went forward. Within seconds the battle of the skinny goblin (as it would always be referred to later) had begun. In all honesty, the poor creature was half starved and poorly equipped, so Bob had no trouble in stunning it initially, and with a look of extreme distaste as if he were killing a child, he pierced its chest with the sharp end of his staff. Cheers sounded from the watchers and the clapping attracted more of the warband over to see what the fuss was about. Bob, on receiving the adulation of warriors more experienced than he, began to puff out his chest and prodded the goblin with his boot a few times for good measure.
“The ears!” cried Donhelm
“eh?”
“The ears!, you must cut them off and take them as a trophy! Its tradition!” Donhelm called.
Remis looked at Donhelm and was about to say that he had never heard of any such tradition, when he realised that Donhelm was having some fun at the boys’ expense. He sighed and walked away back toward the road, clearly wanting no part in this.
The dwarves however had cottoned on, and were extolling Bob to rip off the goblin ears. Bob was almost sick at the thought of carrying out this act, but he persevered, gagging while he sawed away with his little knife he eventually parted ears from head..he trudged back and held the ears up to the waiting group.
Donhelm laughed, seeing Bobs Discomfort. “here is your first lesson Bob! Never believe everything you are told! There is no tradition of keeping ears at all!” with this he burst into laughter, joined by the dwarves. They turned and headed back to the road leaving the lad holding his blood encrusted trophies. It was well that Donhelm did not see the look that pierced his back, or he may have been better prepared for what was to come.
