It was barely noon when Greengage pushed through the door of the Prancing Pony inn but the usual pleasant crowd was already there, stoking up on pints of cider and Barliman’s Best at the bar. They all knew the old pigeon-handler and smiled at him and exchanged friendly banter and pleasantries with him. Greengage ordered an ale and Barliman took one of his beautiful pewter tankards with patterned bands and lids and swan handles and filled it to the brim with his famous, gorgeous ale. Greengage sipped the warm ale with closed eyes, sighing with relief as the first pint of the day – first of many – steadied his hands and calmed his racing heart.
Over the quarter of a century Greengage had lived in Bree he had learned to talk in the local accent and taken a Breeish name, and today there were not many left who even remembered that he had not always lived there.
Greengage had not always been Greengage. As a boy he had been named Gronngalas, son of Hornberen. Hornberen, his father, had been a Ranger of Ithilien, as had been Hornberen’s brothers and Hornberen's father before him. Hornberen had hoped for his son to pick up a bow as well, he had hoped for his only son to become a defender of Ithilien and to preserve the family traditions like he had. Gronngalas had wanted to be a Ranger as well. For as long as he could remember, he had dreamed about being a Ranger, of being a hero and a defender of Ithilien. He had, as a boy, dreamed of glory and adventure.
Alas, it was not meant to be.
Gronngalas had turned out a slow and clumsy boy, equally hopeless with the bow and the sword alike. It had not taken very long for Hornberen to realize that Gronngalas would never be a fighter, and he had tried his best to hide his disappointment from his son. After all the boy tried so hard and becoming a Ranger had been Gronngalas’ dream as well. But he just couldn’t learn even the basics. He could not hit a barn from fifty yards and he was more likely to skewer himself than the enemy with a sword. Gronngalas simply did not have what it took to be a Ranger. But the boy had other skills that would still make him a valuable asset in the service of the realm. Gronngalas had natural aptitude for languages and writing, and he was exceptionally bright. There were still ways this clumsy boy could bring honor to the family and serve Gondor in his own way.
Young Gronngalas had been beyond disappointed when Hornberen had one day told his son that he would never be a Ranger. He was to be sent off to Minas Tirith, where he would become a scholar instead, serving Gondor in ways much more fitting to his talents.
And so young Gronngalas had been sent to Minas Tirith, where he had studied history and languages in the Houses of Lore. A couple of years later he had met a woman named Elanor, fallen in love and soon married her. Life in Minas Tirith had been comfortable, but not enough to put out the fires of restless idealism in Gronngalas’ heart. He had the heart of a warrior, if not the physique; that’s how Hornberen had raised him to be. Gronngalas would never be content with the serene and dull life of a historian or a clerk. In his heart he still longed to be a Ranger of Ithilien, and Hornberen understood this. One of Hornberen’s brothers had been the Warden of Henneth Annûn at the time and he had used his influence in Minas Tirith to help his nephew to get the kind of life he wanted; a life in service of the realm.
Calembarth, who had been the Warden of the Green at the time, had taken interest in young Gronngalas. One of the many duties of the Warden of the Green had traditionally been maintaining a complex network of informants and spies to gather information about the plans and schemes of the enemy, and Calembarth was always on the lookout for young men and women with sharp minds and a talent for languages. He had employed Gronngalas as his personal clerk and put him to work in his dovecote.
While the duties of the Warden of the Green were technically limited to the protection of the fields of Pelennor, Calembarth had understood that Sauron’s influence was far-reaching. To better serve Minas Tirith, the fields of Pelennor and the realm of Gondor as a whole, it would be advantageous to have eyes and ears even in the most distant locations of the Middle-Earth. For this end he had been developing a system of dovecotes and pigeon-handlers, for the birds could fly hundreds of leagues in mere days, whereas messengers on foot or horseback would take months to traverse the same distance through dangerous wilderness.
At the time Calembarth had been interested of the large region called Eriador in the north-west. Not much of that region was known in Gondor at the time. As far as anyone knew, Eriador was mostly barren wilderness except for a large settlement of men called Bree and the elven refuge known as Imladris near the Misty Mountains. Eriador was also home to the Dúnedain, descendants of the Men of Númenor who had once founded the fabled Northern Kingdom, Arnor. Arnor had been but crumbling ruins for thousands of years now, but it was said that the Dúnedain of the North still tried to hold on to and preserve the traditions of the once great Kingdom to this day. A small and inconsequential people they were, perhaps, but linked to Gondor with common history and ancestry. Not much was known about the Men of Bree, but Calembarth worried about the potential influence Sauron might lure them with, if left to their own devices.
One morning Calembarth had summoned young Gronngalas to his office and asked if he had any interest in becoming a spy for him, a spy for Gondor to thwart the plans of the enemy and uphold the glory of the realm – not in the field of battle, but in the shadows, behind the scenes. Gronngalas would have to travel far into the north, into a city called Bree, move in there, obtain a house, become one of the locals and handle and raise pigeons, pigeons who would serve as messengers between Gronngalas and Gondor. He would have to stay there for a very long time, perhaps for the rest of his days.
Gronngalas had been thrilled by the prospect. Finally he would get to see the world and experience the adventures he had dreamed of all his life.
The first year had been the happiest of his life. Gronngalas and Elanor had embarked upon a dangerous journey through Gondor, Rohan, Dunland and Eriador to get to that remote northern city of which he knew very little about. The journey had been perilous and lasted closer to two months. It had really felt like the adventure he had always longed for. In Bree he had purchased a stately estate with the money Calembarth had provided him with. Filled with enthusiasm and vigor he had started his secretive work.
But after that initial rush things soon settled down into a much quieter pace. Years passed, and Gronngalas soon learned that nothing ever happened in Bree. Sauron held no influence or interest in this remote town whatsoever, and the Men of Bree were not interested in things outside of their own small settlements. They just wanted to live their lives in peace, the way they always had, unburdened by the conflicts of the world. Gronngalas kept sending reports steadily, but Calembarth soon lost his interest in Bree as well once he realized how remote and insignificant a place it truly was. But he never called Gronngalas back from there. After all, one could never know if someday it would become useful to have a man positioned there.
Slowly years passed and turned into decades, and nothing happened. Elanor grew fatter, uglier and unhappier with her life in Bree and her husband with each passing year. Gronngalas found Bree mind-numbingly boring and rudimentary, it’s residents dull and uncivilized. Literacy was a rarity in this primitive town. More than one occasion Gronngalas begged from Calembarth and later Parthadan, Calembarth’s son and successor to the office, a chance to return home. His pleads were always answered by a deafening silence. Resigned over the fact that this dull town in the middle of nowhere would remain his home for the rest of his life, Gronngalas turned to strong ale to comfort him in his boredom and depression over his dull, insignificant life. It had not turned out at all like he had dreamed as a boy.
About a year ago everything suddenly changed, when Gronngalas received an unexpected visitor from Gondor. Not from Minas Tirith, but from Henneth Annûn. The messenger was a Ranger of Ithilien, and he had been sent by Captain Túrher himself to convey an important message to Gronngalas. Hornberen, Gronngalas’ father, had been dead for many a year by then, but the Rangers had never forgotten about the young boy who had once wanted to be one of them.
The messenger told Gronngalas that Túrher had a reason to believe that Parthadan, the Warden of the Green, was manipulating Lord Denethor and Gondor for his own ends. He had told that Parthadan had become too powerful, and that his loyalty for Gondor was now in question. The messenger had shown Gronngalas many documents to convince him that Túrher had a strong case in his suspicion that Parthadan was, in fact, working for Sauron now.
Gronngalas had been torn at first, but the messenger had been gently persuasive. What did Gronngalas actually know about the way things were in Gondor these days, or Parthadan for that matter – a man he had never even met? Wasn’t Gronngalas the only son of Hornberen, a legendary Ranger of Ithilien? Hadn’t Gronngalas, in fact, always wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps himself? What cause did Gronngalas have to doubt the words of Captain Túrher, who had once served under Hornberen as one his most trusted Rangers and done many heroic deeds in service of Gondor? Now there was a way for Gronngalas to do something really important for the first time in his life – to serve Gondor, to fight Sauron and to be one of the Rangers of Ithilien at long last. All he had to do was to send duplicates of his letters to Parthadan to Túrher as well. The messenger had brought with him pigeons from Henneth Annûn.
The messenger was named Ruthraon, a soft-spoken man with a weather-beaten face and an amused chuckle. Ruthraon had stayed in Bree-land, though he rarely came to the town itself. He had set up a camp somewhere near Bree. Like most Rangers Ruthraon preferred to live under the open sky and hunt and fish for food. But sometimes Ruthraon and Gronngalas – Greengage – would meet in the Prancing Pony.
Today was one of those days. This morning Greengage had found a stone with a rune on his doorstep. It was a sign from Ruthraon – today, Prancing Pony, at noon. And here he was now. There was no sign of Ruthraon yet, so Greengage ordered another pint and took it to a table in the corner of the inn.
After a few moments Ruthraon came. He ordered a pint of Barliman’s dark ale and carried it to the table where Greengage sat waiting. Ruthraon nodded but he was not smiling.
”Where is the woman now?” Ruthraon asked.
”In the house. She’s to be kept there until Delioron returns.”
”We have to get her out of there. Out of Bree.”
”How?”
Ruthraon looked at Greengage. ”To meet Delioron, of course. Get her to the crossing. The Greenway Crossing.”
”What are you going to do to her?”
”What do you care?” Ruthraon said. ”She is a traitor to Gondor. A servant of Sauron. Both Delioron and the woman are servants of Sauron now. They are the enemy.”
Greengage knew then that Ruthraon wanted her dead. He wanted to throw up. This was not how he had imagined the war against the enemy to be like. A cold-blooded murder. There was no glory in it. No honor. How were they any better than the enemy?
”Parthadan is a real traitor”, Ruthraon continued. ”To the realm. To Gondor. We now know that Elwil was working with Parthadan all the time, to learn our plans so she could betray us to Delioron. And you know about Delioron. He’s in it as much as Parthadan, if not more. They are all servants of Sauron.”
It was hard to believe, but when the other Rangers of Ithilien had arrived in Bree a few weeks ago Greengage had been forced by the facts to accept the truth about Parthadan. Parthadan had sold Gondor out to Sauron. The documents proved it. The Rangers of Ithilien were expecting a man to arrive in Bree shortly. This man would be called Delioron, and he had sold his soul to Sauron years ago, while he was serving as Gondor’s emissary in Rhûn. In fact it was probably Delioron who had turned Parthadan into Sauron’s servant as well. He was a very dangerous man who had to be dealt with, and the Rangers of Ithilien had come to Bree to spring a trap to him – a trap that would not only kill Delioron but expose Parthadan as a traitor as well.
And now Ruthraon said Elwil was one of the enemies as well. Elwil had arrived in Bree with one of the Rangers (but without the knowledge of the others) and Greengage had presumed she had been hand-picked by the Rangers to lure the traitor Delioron into a trap. But now Ruthraon was telling him that Elwil had been Sauron’s servant all along too. It was getting rather difficult to digest. Greengage started to wonder if he was in danger himself.
”Here’s the message”, Ruthraon said, taking a letter out of his pocket. He handed it to Greengage. It was brief:
To Elwil. I must see you at once. Come to the Greenway Crossing outside of Bree this afternoon. As soon as possible.
D.
”What makes you think she will go there?” Greengage asked.
”What else would she do?”
”I… I think I need another pint.”
”By all means”, Ruthraon said. ”Have another pint. But drink it quickly. I need you to go back to your house and give this note to the woman. I want it done quickly.”
They were silent for a moment. Then Greengage asked:
”What will you do?”
”Me? I won’t do anything. One of the others will do the deed. He’s there waiting already. Don’t make him wait too long.”
”So you’re going… to kill her?”
Ruthraon looked at him. ”It does not affect you in any way, Gronngalas.”
Greengage let out a hysterical little chuckle. ”Oh no? I am to lure her out of the house. Send her to her death. How does that not affect me in any way?”
”Don’t make us wait too long”, Ruthraon said and finished the pint of ale in front of him. ”Sauron is the enemy, and he wants to enslave all the world. To deprive us of our freedom. To stop him we must be just as ruthless, if not more so. It’s the only way.”
