Tarchlang

A child should not have to see this. The end, then, of childhood. And a reason – if any is needed – why he has always hated wolves …

It comes to him as dawn rises over the lake. The water steaming gently as it warms, as though the lake itself breathes. This early in a cool autumn morning the birds are only beginning to wake. A single heron flies with deliberate strokes along the edge of the shore, grey bird against misted water, coming to land with surprising grace.

The heron finds its fishing spot and freezes.Tarchlang watches the bird, looks over the lake. The solitude oddly magnified by the presence of one fishing bird.

'He's as tight as an overstretched lute string.'

' I need them, old friend.'

The grey-haired man pinches the bridge of his nose, then rubs his thumb wearily over his forehead. He looks up slowly from his stool by the fire towards the other man perched on the worn oak chest.

'Men ... lads,' he continues, ' I'd even take a green boy or two if that's all there are to spare.'

The desperation behind his grey eyes leaks into his words as he picks up his pipe. Halbarad smiles wanly back at him as he listens to the too-familiar litany before replying.