Sunlight filtered down through the budding branches of the Yellow Tree. Jonn squinted up, smiling at having the warm spring breeze on his neck. He looked back at Glorwen, making sure the lead-line between them didn't get caught as they maneuvered around the large trunk. Content she was following safely, he repositioned his aching backside and faced forward again, giving Scorch's mane a playful stroke whether he liked it or not.
More than a year had passed since he ventured south towards Rohan. Much had changed. He had changed. He never considered himself a proud man, but he felt humbled nonetheless. Who was I to think I could be of use in a land that lives upon the horse? Best to leave their troubles to those who are good at dealing with them.
True, he had picked up a few tricks. When he first inherited the war steed upon which he now sat, he could barely remain mounted for more than a few paces at a time. Jonn shook his head ruefully remembering the laughingstock he made of himself in front of so many skilled riders of the Mark. Well, at least he gave them a reason to smile, something they seemed to have less and less reason for.
The hardwoods of the Chetwood South began to thin out as the ground leveled, giving way to green plains. Jonn smiled all the wider. It was so nice to be home again. Peering to the north, he could just make out the top of one of the guard towers of Bree's South Gate. Inside that city, folks still had the luxury of being able to deny the existence of such mythical monsters as orcs and goblins, wargs and wyrms.
Here in Bree-land, the troubles were moderately mild. Finally, Jonnathan Rockroot was returning home, safe at la—
With a grunt, the man lurched forward in his saddle. A sharp pain radiated from beside his left shoulder blade. A familiar, but unexpected, pain. Jonn grimaced as he glanced behind. Sure enough, the fletching and shaft of an arrow stuck out from his thick riding jacket. No more time for musing.
Pulling back on his reins, he spun Scorch around. Hastily he detached the rope from the back of his saddle and gave his cream-colored mare a pat on the rump to send her off as he trotted past. He'd rather have to find her again than let her sit here and be a target for...whoever this was.
Jonn leaned forward, urging the steed just off the road in the direction he'd surmised the arrow was from. Movement, there, behind that bush. Letting out an angry war cry, he nudged Scorch into a full gallop at the assailant as he reached back and drew his sword from its place aside the saddle.
Sure enough, the sight of a charging warhorse was enough to inspire panic in the attacker. After a moment of disbelief he ran for his life across the grass, abandoning his bow along the way. It took mere seconds for Scorch to close the distance. Just as the man was about to be run into the ground by the horse's heavy hooves, he looked back at his coming doom. In that briefest of moments, Jonn's heart sank. He abruptly pulled his steed to the right, despite its whinny of protest. Now, instead of being instantly pulverized, the man merely bounced off the stallion's left flank and tumbled on the ground.
Pulling his steed short, Jonn swiftly dismounted, ignoring the warm sensation dripping down his back. He stomped over to his dazed opponent and kicked him in the side to turn him over. Without hesitating he thrust the tip of his sword into the lad's left shoulder and planted his left boot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. In fear and pain, the boy cried out.
Yes, Jonn's suspicion was confirmed. The face that turned to look at him belonged not to a man, but to a boy, not yet even old enough to shave. That face was the only thing that saved him.
“Why?!” Jonn barked. “Why did you attack me?”
Terrified, the boy merely whimpered, “Ah...I...”
“Speak, boy! Or I'll push this sword all the way through and leave you for the boars!”
“I...It was the Blackwold Gang! They told me that...that they'd let me join, and give me food! But I...first I had to kill the first man I saw pass on the road and take his coin!”
Jonn's lips curled into a snarl at the mention of the band of brigands. “Blackwolds!” he sneered. “Why do they have to keep coming back, like a disease.” He glared at the boy a moment, then roughly removed his boot and sword from the lad's torso. “Stay there!” he commanded. Then, turning to Scorch, who had walked up beside him, he said convincingly, “If he moves, eat him!” By the look on the boy's dirty face, he believed the giant horse really would. Jonn barely concealed a smirk as he wiped his sword tip on the grass, replaced it in its sheath, and ruffled through his saddlebag.
A moment later, he returned to the would-be killer—still transfixed by the horse's unflinching gaze—and knelt at his side. With considerably more care than before, he opened up the top of the boy's shirt and placed clean bandages over the fresh wound. The cut was shallow, as he intended, but had served its purpose in getting the boy's attention. Jonn then took the boy's right hand and placed it tightly over the bandage. “Here,” he said tenderly but firmly. “Hold this until the bleeding stops. Then change it out for these.” He stuffed another clean set in the boy's pocket. “Then I need you to go into town to find a healer, or an herbalist, someone to make sure you can use that shoulder again.”
Finally finding his tongue, the lad objected, “But...I don't have any money! Nobody's gonna help me without money!”
Jonn sighed and produced a small coin pouch, setting it gently in the boy's free hand. “Someone will help you. Keep this safe. Now, after you're seen to, this should be enough to get you a place to stay for a week. During that week, I expect you to find work, you hear? Muck out the stables, clean tables in the Mess Hall...catch fish, I don't care! But take care of yourself!” Jonn got to his feet and dusted off his knees, leaving the dumbfounded boy lying on the grass.
Glorwen hadn't run far and by now had trotted back to the rest of them. Jonn retied her to the back of Scorch's saddle and eased himself back atop, grunting as the arrow in his back reminded him of its presence. Before turning to go, he looked the lad in the eye. “But know this. If I ever...ever...ever again...see you on the wrong side of a weapon, or hanging out with those Blackwolds—“ He left the threat hanging in the air, letting the boy's imagination finish it for him. With a tip of his imaginary hat, Jonn turned and trotted off back towards the road.
The warm sensation had reached his waist by now. Perhaps the arrow pierced deeper than he thought. Either way, he would need to find a healer. He didn't think he could remove the arrow himself without causing more damage. During the short ride to the city gates, he wondered if he had just helped set the lad straight, or personally recruited a new member for the Blackwolds.
Guards at the gate stared up quizzically as a gigantic steed rode past, bearing a travel-worn man with an arrow sticking out of his back. Jonn couldn't help but smirk, muttering to himself, “Returning home. Safe at last!” He let out a hearty chuckle that caused the pain to flare, and heads to turn.
