The sun was sinking low as Sharpe trudged back towards Bree, his boots heavy on the dusty road between Combe and Staddle. He’d spent the afternoon at the Combe and Wattle Inn, tankard in hand swapping tales with whoever cared to listen. His head still swam with ale, but his stride was steady enough to make his way up the lane as the evening deepened into dusk.
The gate loomed ahead. Just outside against the crumbling wall, a knot of men had gathered. Their voices rose harsh and jeering, their shapes shadowed in the half-light. Among them was another figure, they were taller than the rest and hooded to mask their features. They stood silent against the insults. Sharpe scowled, he’d seen this sort of thing before. Drunks sniffing out a stranger to sharpen their tongues on. He decided that, in this situation, it was best to keep on walking. But then the hooded man cried out, his voice clear and strange in its tone.
“Please, help me!”
“Shut yer trap!” one of the locals barked, jabbing a finger into their chest. “We’ll drag you out on your arse, and you’ll be grateful we don’t do worse!”
Sharpe sighed, running a hand across his stubbled jaw. Against his better judgement, his footsteps slowed. Pausing for a moment, he turned, walking towards the group. “What’s all this, then? Who is this man?” he asked.
One of the men looked up, sneering. “This here’s no man at all! He’s an elf, and his kind ain’t wanted in Bree!” The others gathered around the scene hissed the word “elf”, almost like a curse.
Before Sharpe could answer, one of the men grabbed the cloaked figure by the throat. The hood fell back and beneath it was a pale face, high-browed and fine featured.
“Let him go,” Sharpe said flatly.
The man holding the Elf scoffed. “What’s this? Got yourself a soft spot, eh? elf-lover, are you?”
Sharpe’s lips pulled into a snarl. “Don’t call me that. I don’t give a toss who or what he is. I said let him go.”
The locals laughed, but the sound was thin and uneasy. One shoved Sharpe hard in the chest, pushing him onto the ground. That was enough. With a growl, Sharpe lashed out, his boot catching the man’s leg at the knee. The fellow cried out and crumpled onto the ground beside him. At this, the others let go of the elf and lunged at Sharpe. The brawl was short, but by no means clean. Fists cracked against flesh as Sharpe fought like a cornered wolf, summoning every dirty trick in his employ to withstand the overwhelming odds of the men who, like he, were relentless. He stood his ground, evading a strike from the ringleader just in time, causing him to hit one of his own. Sharpe cried out as he felt a fist meet the back of his head, but he shook it off and resumed the struggle. Grabbing his attacker in a headlock, he used him as a human shield against the others before throwing his captive into them. One by one, the men started to flee. When the last staggered away clutching his face, they cursed Sharpe as they sprinted down the path back into the town.
Sharpe winced, rolling his shoulders as he attempted to catch his breath. The elf stood tall again, his throat red where the fingers had gripped him. He inclined his head and spoke in a now calmer voice. “You have my thanks, stranger. Without your aid, they might have done me true harm.”
Sharpe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aye. Lucky I was passin’. But don’t go reading anymore into that.”
The elf’s lips curved faintly. “Perhaps. Still, my gratitude is yours. I’ve come far from Lindon and did not expect such a… welcome, here at the gate of Bree.”
Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. “And why come here at all, elf? You must have known it would cause a stir. One of you pointy-eared folk in a rustic town like this.”
The elf’s gaze grew distant. “It’s a personal matter, one not easily shared.”
Sharpe grunted, unsatisfied by the answer but said nothing more. Instead, the elf reached into his cloak and drew forth a silver necklace. The chain was fine, the pendant a round disk of bright metal, patterned with flowing designs that caught the moonlight. At its centre was a tree that spread its branches wide.
“I have little else to give,” the elf said, offering it. “Take this, as a token of my thanks.”
Sharpe’s first thought was to sell it. Coin was coin, and a piece of silver like that would make more than a penny or two, that much was certain. Yet as he turned the necklace in his bruised hand, something about its weight and cool gleam caught at him. He slipped it over his neck without a word.
The two parted ways and Sharpe resumed his journey home towards Beggar’s Alley. As he stepped through the Mud Gate, he was at once set upon by a group of the local children. Their eyes widened and grubby fingers pointing.
“Oi! Sharpe!” said a young boy. “What’s that shiny thing? Never thought you for a fancy man!”
“Bugger off,” he growled, pulling his coat tighter as he shouldered past them towards his den. But later, in silence, he found his hand straying to the silver disk. Strange, he thought. It suited him less like a bauble and more like a burden. Even so, he kept it on.
