He knew he would be lucky to get away with it. He knew his boss, Naraal, had told him to leave the Elves alone. Ham Gorsefoot had told him to have his men stand ready. Well he had done as they said!
Jexson had left the elves alone until they started fighting back, and he had told his men to stand ready on the Elves land and kill them. What was wrong with that? His Men had all made a bit of profit. He had the silver bracelets and rings that looked and sounded like the sea. They would make a tidy price if he sold them at the right time, before a Town celebration or something perhaps? Women would always appreciate fancy trinkets at times like that, or so he had been told. He would sell it all at auction, apart from the ring he had wedged on his small finger. He liked the look of it. Though he had no idea what the stone was, he felt well, relaxed, when he gazed into its opalescent hue. Relaxed like lying on a beach at the shores of a lake and watching fluffy white clouds speed overhead.
Bah, he thought, twisting the ring on his finger. He should have taken the largest one. He thought the one he had chosen might just be stuck.
And his men, those who had lived, had made away with several boxes of cut gems, and more than a dozen gold ingots.
Yes, it was their lucky day.
He looked around his room in ‘The Dirty Doublet’. It was the nearest he had to a home these past four years. He was familiar with the small, grimy window, from which he could observe the comings and goings of folk. The dark wood decor, the creaky but oddly comfy bed with the faded green and brown coverlet. Home? He deserved better at his age, and he meant to have it, and avenge his brother at the same time.
But Jexson also had three problems.
The first, and most pressing, was his injured finger. Although he had done what Merrybell had told him, things had only got worse. The finger was constantly throbbing, painful to touch, and hot. He had tried keeping a wet kerchief round it, but that had also done next to naught. Silently he cursed himself for sending for Merrybell. She was a pretty woman right enough, but she hadn’t a clue about healing. He should have saved his coin and gone to a proper healer straight away. And that’s what he planned to do later that morning. There was a reputable Man in Combe. It would mean a short ride, but if he could just stop the pain…. The big man had a nasty feeling that the only way to stop the pain was to cut off the finger. That would not be his preferred outcome, but it would be better than the pain, and the blackening flesh.
His second and third problems were related. One was tall and wiry and called Magen. He had met him before a few times, when Naraal was away on some business or another. The other was a newcomer, going by the name of Phargazar, or something similar. Now he looked like he could be a problem. He was arrogant in manner, acting as if he thought himself better than everyone else. Jexson had no time for folk like that. Phargazar almost constantly rested a hand on his sword hilt, as if he was always looking for a fight, he preened himself at any opportunity, and he had disturbed Jexson’s time in his favourite Tavern.
Jexson didn’t like the man.
Both ‘Southerners’, for both had the tanned skin and brown eyes of folk from Southern Gondor or Umbar, had descended on him a few nights ago, demanding to know what was being done about the Elves, and that the ‘boss’ wanted them delivered soon. He had received the letter, hadn’t he? He knew what to do. Well… he was working on it. He hadn’t told the Southerners much. He hadn’t told them that he had his best men watching the Elves return to their wrecked village. Nor that he had men looking to take captive a couple of the Halflings the Elves seemed fond of. No, he hadn’t told them anything like that. Such cases needed planning and tactics. Not swooping in with sharp swords.
Naraal’s boss wanted them alive. There was only one way to ensure that. No fighting. They had to go willingly!
Jexson chuckled at his own cleverness. All those brigands had been slain in the ruins. His men could not beat the elves in a straightforward fight, nor even an ambush. But he had a feeling they could be encouraged to lay down their arms in certain situations.
The demon Elf, Estarfin….Jexson did not want his men just tangling with him. In fact he wanted to deal with that Elf himself when the time was right. But not in Ered Luin. He could be led north, Jexson reasoned, if they had the right bait.
With a hearty chuckle, the man finished off his ale, laying the empty mug on the rickety side-table. He rose to his feet, buckled on his sword, took up his brown cloak, and headed for the stairs. He could get rid of one pain within the hour he reckoned.
