“But Your Majesty! That was not the way it was supposed to go!”
Skithi Blackhand pled with the mounted elf as he stood next to the campfire and slowly pivoted, his arms spread out. Scattered about the flickering light other Dourhand dwarves sat chuckling at him and at Ulfar, the bound and gagged Longbeard dwarf. Just inside the reach of the flames’ glow, a small treasure wagon sat, its donkey unhitched and freely grazing about the small, high-walled glade.
Saddle leather creaked as she shifted her weight, and the sneer on her face was cruelly accented by her Elven beauty. “Did you really think the Longbeards would ever accept you and the rest of your … Dourhands? Do you truly imagine Dwalin and his lot would ever count you as a hero for rescuing a treasure for them? They hate you and all your clan, and you would do better to serve me, for it will be truly more profitable. All of this was staged to fool the Longbeard into falling into a trap, as we had planned. But he is worth far more in ransom for weapons and supplies than in any begrudged appreciation for Dourhands. And the artifact? Ah…. who knows what we can twist out of the Longbeards in exchange for that? Stop being a fool, Skithi Blackhand, and see the wisdom of the new arrangement.”
The lone dwarf’s mouth silently worked, but he could find no words for a reply. His eyes drifted down to the satchel at her waist, where he knew she carried powerful runestones, and he paused. “As you wish, Your Majesty”, he quietly answered and bowed. All fell silent as she regally accepted his acquiescence.
After a long moment, she finally spoke. “And what of the other fellow. Where is he?”
Skithi turned to examine the faces of the other dwarves, who were sheepishly avoiding her searching gaze. One finally mumbled, “His wounded horse carried him off into the swamp….”. Another chimed in, “We lost the trail….”, and a third added, “We couldn’t keep up…”.
Gilmorwen reached into her satchel and withdrew a stone. The air was suddenly alive with a low crackling hum, and the Dourhands, apparently knowing what that could portend, all dropped to their knees. “I would have him FOUND!”, she shouted. Quieting her voice to a cold commanding tone, she continued. “Skithi you will take charge of this … gang. Half are to return to the bog and find him. We cannot allow him to return to Needlehole and give up our location. The rest will begin to set barricades for defense. No one sleeps tonight!”
Cutch awoke to the smell of bog and a another’s hand over his mouth. His attempt to struggle was frozen by a sharp, dizzying pain in his back. His eyes focused on a face, a Dunedain, the ranger named Halros. “Hush, boy”, the man hissed. “There are Dourhands about, and we don’t need them visiting.” The young man relaxed as Halros removed his hand and cast his gaze about the moonlit swamp. “Looks like you took a nasty fall, Cutch. Luckily your quiver took the brunt of it.”
Halros slowly drew Cutch up to sit, and the eighteen-year-old showed the wherewithal to clench a cry of pain behind grinding teeth. “Sadly, most of your arrows are ruined…”. The ranger let the young man gather himself before lifting him up to stand, then paused again before helping him onto the ranger’s horse. “I found your mount in Waymeet. The hobbits there said he wandered in from the north with a dwarf crossbow bolt in his hindquarters.” The ranger paused to mutter something in Elvish to his horse. “I take it the artifact has been stolen by the Dourhands?”
Cutch blinked at Halro’s deft conclusion. “Aye, at the north edge of the bog, well east of the road. It was a trap! They knew we were coming! Skithi seemed to know…”
“The Dourhand…”, Halros interrupted. “It was just too good to be true, then.” The ranger did not pause to see the uncertainty on Cutch’s face, instead patting the horse on the rump. “Limlobor will take you to Waymeet. Rest up there and tend to your horse.” The mount immediately lunged into a gallop and Cutch had to put his full attention into hanging on.
