The attack had commenced from the southerly entrance, the horse-master had said, so that is where she began. She fetched her horse and rode out of Hengstacer’s farm to follow the trail of mud-prints. Five Men had stormed upon the farm from the south, but not a single one had returned.
The blood the battle had left didn’t reach far. The skirmish was a quick affair, but she had been told one of the dying warned the horse-breeder that more would come for them. It was a single mission, or so Brenith had said, and so she was here, in Bree-land of all places, seeking out the refuge of brigands who threatened the settlements and roads.
The attackers weren’t clever in their approach. They did nothing to disguise their means to the horse-fields. Their trail curved, but only, it seemed, to avoid hills, rocks, and other difficult terrain. She suspected they were youth or folk freshly down on their luck. Or maybe simply upstarts who thought so highly of themselves they didn’t consider the need for discretion. She still followed the trail at a careful pace. It would not be wise to follow the trail confidently into a brigands’ trap.
She stopped when she saw the single trail of footprints split. So this was their gathering place: a rocky hill crested with a small copse of maple and a three-story boulder. From the hill she could see not only Hengstacer’s, but the Festival Grounds, glimpses of the grey ruins, and Archet. So they are familiar with the territory, she thought, to have as many landmarks in their sights. Bree-landers, she guessed first, or else others driven out of neighboring lands: Evendim, the North Downs, or her own: the Lone-lands.
Now the question was which of the divergent footpaths to follow. She dismounted and walked as lightly as she could around the site, measuring the footprints and marking their pathways. This was never easy. A boastful leader might strut and stretch his way about a small camp, but a stoic one might hold court on a log for days. There was no telling which of the prints belonged to anyone, so she trusted luck and set out in the direction that three of the five had come. The horse-master had told Catesby that three were there first, and only two came as reinforcements, after all.
The trail split off, and she followed where two Men marched instead of three. Eventually the trail joined other patterns of disturbance in the wild--trampled grass, broken saplings, a curious patch of wild carrot missing from a field otherwise infested. She was close.
She found a copse she felt was far enough away and safe to let her gelding graze on his own and ventured into the prairie on foot. Not long after investigating the anomalies rarely seen in nature did she spot one of the many grey ruins–crumbled towers that lacked the decoration of the ancient Dunedain ruins. Younger, less sturdy. Brigands were not always fond of inhabiting them for one reason or another, but she thought again: young blood or the purely desperate.
Returning to Hengstacer’s and alerting the horse-breeders to her discovery was not an option. She returned to her horse in the wood, removing his saddle and tack and burying it shallowly in the grove. She kissed his jowl and scratched his neck and whispered into his ear, then sent the beast off to reenact the fantasy of a wild life as he galloped for Seradan’s cabin.
Redstart had come up with a new plan.
