“She was one of the Rangers!”, Skithi insisted, stammering. “One of them Wardens from up there in Evendim!”
Cutch kept quiet as he poured the morning coffee for a nervous Skithi and a skeptical Ulfar.
“Why didn’t you mention her last night at the Plough and Stars, then?”, Ulfar growled, steely eyes glaring over the rim of his steaming mug.
“Because…because there were too many hobbits about with snoopy eyes and flappy ears.” Skithi licked his lips as he made the plausible remark and his eyes darted between Ulfar, who he feared, and Cutch, who he resented for witnessing the clandestine meeting he’d had the night before with the mysterious lady rider.
“Hmph”, Ulfar grunted. “Never knew them rangers to send their womenfolk out like that. What do you think, Cutch? You spent time with them, eh?”
The young man blinked with uncertainty, not expecting to be drawn directly into the conversation after raising the question of the secretive meeting the previous night. Although he had lived amongst the rangers in Esteldin for a year, he could not say for sure if there were no Dunedain women ranging, but since he could think of no reason why they shouldn’t, he just shrugged.
Ulfar slid his gaze back to Skithi. “So, what did this lady ranger want?”, he asked, suspicion still woven through his tone.
Skithi licked his lips again and leaned forward, assembling his story as he stared into his coffee. “She said that there are reports of brigands southward, skulking about the Shire. I told her about my plan to take the little wagon through the Bindbole Wood and skirt the north of the Rushock Bog, and she agreed.”
Ulfar stared at Skithi and swished a mouthful of coffee around thoughtfully before swallowing.
“What was her name?” Ulfar suddenly asked.
Skithi blinked before blurting out, “Gilmorwen.”
Ulfar glanced once more at Cutch, who again shrugged.
The caravan leader leaned back, staring at Skithi, and after a long moment tossed the remainder of his coffee into the fire. “All right, Skithi, we will do this your way. But I will ride ahead, and Cutch will ride behind, as scouts. There will be no stopping until we get to Needlehole.”
Cutch finished feeding the dwarves and as he was packing up the provisions, Ulfar pulled him aside out of Skithi’s earshot. “Dwalin wants to trust this Dourhand, and I suppose I should, even though my belly sours at the thought.” He paused to look at Cutch, perhaps to see some inkling one way or another, but the young fellow simply listened attentively, apparently with no opinion to offer. After a moment, Ulfar continued. “You keep a sharp eye out today, boyo. Skithi may have been right before about brigands, but something has me on edge. Perhaps I am too leery of the Dourhands to trust this one, and maybe that says more about me than him.”
The trade caravan opened early for trade, but Ulfar closed things down by mid-morning, knowing that time was no friend to the three who would be taking the little treasure wagon on its shortcut. West of Brockenborings and across a bridged stream, Ulfar halted the caravan and announced the change in plans, accepting no objections from the other dwarf traders.
He ordered the wain drivers to continue their trip as they normally would, make their usual stops for trading, and make no mention to anyone of the little donkey drawn wagon. Ulfar watched as the caravan trundled southward towards Overhill.
Following a low stone wall, the wagon and its scouts meandered westward through the wood, the hours slipping away much faster than the miles.
Ulfar knew they would need to rest soon, to water and feed the donkey, for as doughty as the animal was, the pulling was tough over unprepared ground. As the woods thinned, Ulfar could see the Rushock Bog spread out before him. He looked back to see the wagon lurching along with Skithi at the reins, skillfully driving the donkey, and in the distance behind, just barely visible, Cutch ahorse and bringing up the rear.
The sharp snap of the crossbow gave little introduction to the bolt suddenly sprouting from the breast of Ulfar’s horse. Instantly dead from a ruined heart, the animal collapsed, its last breath wetly spurting out. Ulfar twisted out of the saddle and landed deftly on both feet, axe in hand, and looked back at the wagon. Skithi was rising from the driver’s seat, shouting, “Wait! Wait! It’s not supposed to go like this!” at several dwarves rushing towards him from the north, some with crossbows aimed, others with axes and hammers in hand. Another bolt struck Ulfar in the leg with enough force to penetrate his thick leather armor and bring him down. As he looked up at more Dourhands rushing towards him, he heard a horse screaming and saw Cutch barely hanging on to his mount, struck in the thigh but not disabled, running, and bucking into the Bog.
Pain and fear commanded the horse, and it ignored all Cutch’s attempts to bring it under control. Behind him he could hear dwarf voices, crying out “Get him!”, but they were fading fast and were soon left behind. The uneven ground made it impossible to hang on to the wound-crazed animal. It bucked and suddenly changed course. Cutch lost his grip and flew like a flopping rag doll through the air. He heard breaking, crunching noises as he landed squarely on his back, and the sounds of the horse continuing its flight. Unable to move, the young man watched the world swirl away into darkness.
