From the North Downs: Prologue

Jesmond leaned against the fence that penned in her family’s blueberry patch. Wild blueberries had grown in abundance along the North-South Road long before the Trestlespan had been erected, but the influx of Orcs and other fell creatures had made their domestic cultivation necessary. To be sure, there could still be found blueberries along the road, or on the path to 
Fornost, but few but the most desperate (or fool-hardy) ventured that way now. 

Brown eyes surveyed the homestead, the unconventional family following a routine set since their formation, aware of the ever present danger despite the tranquility with which they appeared to go about their business. Although bent over to pluck ripe berries, both Womar and Wosi were on the alert. Both lads had short bows slung across their back, and although only 11 and 9 respectively both were fair marksmen. 

Ketilve, too, followed after her elder brothers, a basket looped over one arm. Her mouth and fingers were stained blue to match her eyes. She was the only one of the group with such fair coloring, a reminder that she shared no blood relation with the rest of her family. She was also armed, although only with a sling. She was, after all, only three. 

Only three, but Hayorda had already begun to teach the lass to shoot with a child’s bow. She couldn’t yet use it unattended, but the dangers of a raid meant every able-bodied hand needed training. 

“Hi! Lads, let’s see those baskets!” Jesmond beckoned them over.

They crept between carefully cultivated rows of berries, warily eyeing the horizon behind them. 

Ketilve trotted after the boys, her hand dipping into the basket to scoop up more berries. 

“Hmmm.” The older woman glanced into the baskets critically. “That’ll do. Go take them inside to Hayorda and help her wash them.” 

The two lads inclined their heads in silent obedience. Ketilve, however, gave her guardian a blue-faced pout. “But I wanna stay outside!” 

“But love,” Jesmond bent down so that she was eye-level with the girl. “Auntie Hay is going to bake pies! Do you not wish to help her?” 

Ketilve jutted out her lip skeptically. 

This exchange was interrupted by the sound of hooves pounding in the distance. Jesmond looked up, heart mimicking the sound of the hooves as she whisked the little girl into her arms. 

“Into the house with you,” She ordered briskly, carting her charge up the stone steps to the front door. “Help your auntie.” 

She deposited the girl firmly inside, then shut the door. She could hear wailing, but chose to ignore it as she scanned the horizon for the horseman. 

A lone man wrapped in the greens and tans of the rangers could be seen riding along the path towards their farm. 

A knot of worry formed in the pit of Jesmond’s stomach at the sight. The last interaction she’d had with the mysterious rangers was when they had brought the news that had resulted in her fostering of Womar and Wosi, the news of her brother’s deaths to the spiders that infested the hills near Esteldin. 

She suppressed that thought, lifting a hand in greeting to the man. “Hail!” 

He tugged at his reigns, slowing his horse to a canter. He looked younger than she, although she knew from Waldin’s dealings with the rangers that appearances could be deceiving. This man could as well be her father’s age as he could be twenty. 

“Hail.” His grey eyes were guarded as he surveyed the woman and the farm behind her. 

“You seem to be in a right hurry,” She observed. “Is there any trouble up in the Kingsfell?” 

“No more than usual. I’m on business of the Rangers, but there is no reason for honest farm folk to fear.” 

She heard the unspoken yet behind his words. 

“Would you care to stop for a sup? If your business is not so urgent that you can’t afford to keep 
us company awhile.” 

The man considered this, then inclined his head graciously. “I would be honored.” 

He tied his stallion in the stable beside the mule and the nag Hayorda had ridden in on. From a lifetime away, she’d said.

When the pair stomped into the house Hayorda swept over to meet them, stopping short when she noticed the man behind Jesmond. 

“Pardon!” She gasped, one hand drifting down to rest atop the fair head of Ketilve, who was hiding in her skirts. “I was not prepared for visitors. Would you like a spot of ale? Or perhaps some tea? We have some from Trestlebridge, came up from Breeland it did.” 

She bustled back into the kitchen, chattering nervously as she often did when encountering someone new and unexpected. Jesmond followed, indicating for the ranger to follow. 

“There’s blueberry pie in the oven, and we can top it with fresh blueberries if the children haven’t pilfered the leftovers.” The older woman looked to Hayorda, who nodded. 

“We have some fresh washed.”

“Ale, if it isn’t too much trouble,” The ranger requested, winding through the small, stuffy kitchen towards the simple wooden table. He plunked down on the bench, legs spread out beneath the table so as not to trip any of the farm’s inhabitants. 

Hayorda swept a hand at Wosi, indicating for the young lad to fetch the ale for their guest. “Go on, don’t keep our guest waiting.” 

Ketilve continued to peer out from beneath the young woman’s skirts, eyeing the ranger shyly. 

Jesmond stepped over the inert form of the family’s lithe brown dog, panting in dream by the hearth as she made her way to the larder. 

“Brethilthor here is on his way towards Rivendell,” She told Hayorda as she disappeared into the hallway. 

“Oh! That’s a fair way!” Hayorda patted Ketilve on the head reassuringly. “What sends you so far off? Can’t one of them Elves from Lin Giliath go? It’s their folk as live out that way, isn’t it?”

“Often the Rangers of the North have need of the counsel of Elrond Half-Elven.” 

Wosi returned from the cellar with a mug filled with foaming ale, which he placed gingerly before the ranger, careful to spill none of the precious liquid. He looked up at the man, brown eyes wide with curiosity. 

Brethilthor raised the mug to his lips after thanking the boy. He drank deep, parched as he was from his ride. Esteldin was not too far off, but nevertheless riding all day was thirsty work. As he settled his mug back on the table he noticed the boy still staring at him. He quirked an eyebrow questioningly. “Well?”

Wosi’s flushed, stammering in childish awe and embarrassment and some little bit of melancholy. “Is it true you’re a ranger? Then you knew my da!” 

Brethilthor leaned towards the boy, resting one hand on his knee. “And what’s your...da’s...name?” 

“His name was Waldin. He died fighting spiders!”

“Up at Kingsfell,” Jesmond put in, returning balancing a tray of bread and butter and cheese. 

She did not correct Wosi’s rather romantic impression of his father; the spiders had almost certainly come upon him unawares and killed him before he had time to fight. 

"At Kingsfell, is it? Ah, the spiders there are troublesome. I'm sure your da's sacrifice helped to lessen the brood and make it safer for the rest of us." 

This compliment elicited a sad smile from the boy. He still missed his father, but the thought that Waldin had died a heroic death made his grief a bit more bearable. 

The heat of the day had already passed when Brethilthor took his leave of the family. “I thank you kindly for your hospitality, but I must make haste.” 

He would make Trestlebridge by nightfall, and then continue down the Greenway until it hit Bree-town. Rivendell was still miles away, from Bree on to the Lone Lands and then into the Trollshaws. 

“And what do you make of that?” Hayorda covered one of Jesmond’s hands with her own as they sat on the porch, watching the flickering lights of fireflies among their fields. The children 
were all abed despite drowsy protests that they be allowed to stay up later; the excitement of a 
guest, even one already gone by bedtime, was too much for small children. 

“The rangers are a mysterious lot. I’m sure we shall never know what would take one of them 
from Esteldin to Rivendell.”