Being the record of Applecider Bolingbroke, cunningly coded in shorthand, for debriefing & delineation by the Honorable Bounders at the Hunt’s conclusion … (unless get very lucky, and can avoid paperwork) ….
* * *
Well. … T’were a proper storm o’ feelin’s, finally trackin’ down Mister Crane (s’ppose I best get in the habit o’ callin’ the Big Lad by name). Miss Sergie were in a daze near incurable. – I gets it. Savin’ a life fer the first time en’t an easy feelin’ to swallow. – But ‘twixt us, the lad be on the mend.
House Bar an’ Acorn gots all cause fer celebration on that front.
As to the affair surrounding this entity “Black Star?” …
Lance an’ I were near dancin’ with impatience. I confess we had ourselves worked into a stew by then:
We’d spent the entire journey in speculation, with naught but Bounders’ Concern and Bardic Imagination ter stoke the fire beneath it.
What in the name of all Dragon’s Breath Ale *IS* Black Star?
Were they an ancillary ter some other brigand establishment? – Lance say thar be a gang about the Bree-lands called “Blackwold.” – Were they connected?
Why sack an’ burn Dwaling?
Why make an alliance with screechy Gobbos?
Why engage screechy Gobbos ter hunt giant spiders, an’ boil an aspic o’ Gobbo-de-Gook from spider venom strong enough ter floor a full-size bloke with one dart?
Why the Green-Hoods be keepin’ ALL o’ this under such tight wraps?
All this an’ more had us tense as a fiddle-string as we rode upriver so far’s the ruins of Dwaling.
Thar be efforts underway ter rebuild the village: We loaned ‘em use of Jonagold an’ Pony fer a few days, fer the purpose. Even our little equines would draw attention in the Wood.
We punted across the Brandywine at sundown.
In the name ‘o caution, Mister Sir Halros would nae commit ter paper where exactly the Dúney-lads got their various hidden camps (Smart move I s’ppose, annoyin’ as it be). He’d given us only the location of a small copse where he’d meet us.
In the gloam, under the eaves ‘o the Wood, therefore, we sat an’ waited …
* * *
Mister Halros gave us a RIGHT start, appearin’ from the foliage as if from nowhere. – Bullroarer witness me, the Green-Hoods’ repute fer stealth be deserved. – He said nae a word, motionin’ fer us to follow.
Not till the sky behind the stars glitterin’ through the half-cover o’ cloud were black with true night did he decide “two innocent, simple Hobbits wanderin’ into the Wild Wood” had made enough of a foray ter qualify as “dire need most extraordinary.” He called a rest, with ‘is stout yew bow restin’ across ‘is knees, an’ we sat ter talk.
Mister Halros had plainly been busy while we went Fox-Huntin’ – he looked haggard as blazes. Still, he asked after agent ‘Morrusc;’ they’d been through a real scrap together, an’ he were genuinely concerned for ‘im.
As to the rest o’ the matter?
Well … the Green-Hood, as promised, came full clean at last.
… An’ someone may as well feed me a worm an’ call me a largemouth bass.
Cause we be over our heads now in deeper water than even a Bard an’ a Bounder’s imaginations could’ve predicted.
“Black Star” be that bloated dead Elf-gal we found in the gulch at Fort Barandor.
She be a sorceress what deals in runes (bit like a Wizard, but yeh use rocks instead’a sticks).
An’ she gots ‘erself hitched with a Dúney Green-Hood two generations back. Figgered, in manner of grand theatrical epic trope, she’d sway the lot of ‘em to leave off their practices an’ call ‘er “Queen” (Halros spat in disgust, despite the quiet).
An’ just to put a sprig o’ parsley on top o’ this messy stew? Get this. She were Mister Sir Crane’s nan.
… Thar be why things went south fer ‘im. Thar be what set the WHOLE mess off with the assassin, an’ the false identity, an’ the burial in the Shire what Lance an’ I spent so many yonks pickin’ ter pieces: The old Bat found out ‘er grandson were snoopin’ round in ‘er vile matters.
If thar be a bardic plot device more classic than Delusions o’ Grandeur, it be Familial Bad Blood.
Ugh.
Regardless, in brief: He an’ Mister Halros, an’ a whole pile o’ Mister Halros’ mates’ve been layin’ in the net around this Star’s machinations fer weeks now. Months.
For she be a villain of intent most malicious, schemin’ out of the heart of the Wildwood. T’were her directive the screechy Gobbos be actin’ under, boilin' up the Gobbo-de-Gook operation Lance an’ I uncovered.
Our three-day escapade last winter hardly put a cap on things, though.
Cause the cauldrons full o’ spider poison we found outside Dwaling weren’t the only “kitchen” fer boilin’ up Gobbo-de-Gook.
It be one of at least nine that the Green-Hoods’ network be aware of. – There may be more. – The whole Wildwood be amok with it. Green-Hood agents, hunters from Breeland, an’ free agents like Mister Crane been workin’ half the winter away, trying’ ter peel back the layers o’ this truly rotten shallot.
“What kind of a stockpile have they amassed in that time, though?” I could see Lance in alarm, mentally tryin’ to calculate how many Hobbits live in the Shire, and how many pots of Gook one could make in a season.
“What we wouldn’t give to know.” Halros almost laughed in frustration. “A handful of our men have passed for Blackwolds, or other unsavory characters. Infiltrating their ranks as double agents. From them, we have a rough picture of the scale. But none have ascended to status enough access to the heart of the outfit.”
He glowered into the depths of the Wood. “We believe we know where it is. But it remains too deeply guarded for our admittance.”
“But …. What be the purpose of it?” I finally managed ter get out. “How many of us are they plannin’ ter poison?”
Mister Halros looked at us. In the deep of night, his face, half-concealed by his drab hood, unaccountably made a cold knot congeal in me stomach, even ‘afore he spoke.
“… Everyone.”
* * *
