‘Where had it all gone wrong? ‘Jexson thought again, for the umpteenth time. There he was, sitting on a stone in a cave in Angmar, barely able to stand or move or even speak. ‘What had brought him so low?’
He looked around the narrow cavern at all who were gathered there. He had departed Bree with twenty-two of his best, most skilled men. Men he had worked with on several endeavors and who he would have trusted, almost with his life. Where were most of them now? It was a rhetorical question, as he knew only too well where most had fallen. He was left with Wolfrun, the limping Rohir; Daviion, the trouble maker; Rusworth, the over-confident; Barkworth the sly; Heathstone the sturdy, and young Willet. Six men left, out of twenty two! He cursed those who had fallen for letting him down, he cursed himself for choosing the wrong men. But it made no difference. He knew he had not been their ‘leader’ for some time. What had he done to earn and keep their loyalty?
‘Where had it all gone wrong?’ The men were seated closer to their Umbari overseers now. They trusted them more than him, to see them through. That Balkumagan. Jexson had a hearty dislike of the man. He was dull, a kill-joy, solely focused on finishing the mission. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but he could have permitted them to have some fun along the way? Everything had been in a hurry. Everything!
He twisted the sea-stones ring on his little finger around, absentmindedly. He liked it, the way it shone. From the first he saw it on the floor of that she-elf’s workroom, winking at him, he had to have it. He had wondered a few times who she had intended it for? Possibly the High Lord himself, looking at the size of his fingers. Well, High Lord or no, it was Jexson’s ring now.
And then he had the sword. ‘Butcherer’ he had named it, for what he wanted it to do. It did seem a little delicate in his broad hands, but that didn’t matter. The sword was a killer with a lust for blood. He knew, when they all were home again in Bree, it would enable him to work his way to the top of the brigand fraternity. Yes, he would be the leader then, and none would stand in his way.
Looking at a few ripe and juicy apples that had been set on a nearby boulder, he ventured to take one. Maybe this time it would be fine? His mouth was so dry he had to chance it.
Raising the apple, he knew from the first smell of it that it wouldn't be. He gagged before it touched his lips. Desperation seizing him, he took a bite from it, luxuriating in the cool moisture, and then a piece stuck in his throat.
“Alright there, boss?” ginger haired Willet called back from picking at his own food.
“I don’t need no help,” Jexson shot back, just after successfully coughing out the apple. Truth be told, he actually quite liked the lad and thought him promising, but he could not afford to show weakness. Unstopping his water skin, he poured a little in his palm and rubbed it over his face and hair. He shuddered at the feeling like a Man poisoned.
It went wrong when they arrived at the Dwarven docks, he finally decided. Until then, things had mostly gone to plan. He hadn’t expected to lose anyone in the capture. That’s why he had brought along the two rats. But those damnable Elves had fought well. It was only having the ‘rats’ that saved the day. No matter. They had bundled their prizes on horses and ridden swiftly to the arranged meeting place.
Yes, that was where it started. Balkumagan, thinking himself the leader and lording it over the rest as if he were something special.
Curse the Southerners! Jexson had believed he had an ‘understanding’ with Naraal. That the two of them had a good working relationship in Bree. Now he wondered if it had ever been so?. And then, when Naraal himself arrived in the cavern and ignored him, he understood. He had been treated as something to be used. He knew many of the more capable brigands of the Breelands, and he had gathered them on Naraal’s instructions and the promise of good reward. Perhaps that reward would be forthcoming, but with sixteen of his men dead and cold on the trail, he was wondering if any of them were meant to reach this ‘Lady Zairaphel’, or if Naraal wanted all the reward for himself?’
He turned the ring on his finger again, eliciting a strange sense of comfort from the Elf-crafted jewellery.
And then there was the river voyage! Now Jexson was a Man who liked his feet on firm ground. There was nothing wrong with that. Many folk felt the same. And the ship they had taken was sturdily built. But as soon as he approached it he had felt nauseous. His head had hurt something terrible, and his eyes had blurred. In the end he had to take to his bunk, leaving the dratted Balkumagan giving orders. Daviion had been thrown in irons for defying the Man of the South, his Elf-forged sword ‘Hacker’, had been given to Burrwood, who had met his end but a few hours earlier that very day.
Then there were all those who perished just past the Dwarven hold. The ‘High Lord’ had escaped yet again. Tricky, devious and very fleet of foot, he could outrun them all. He had already made several escapes that the Men loathed him. Jexson was no exception.
“Who is your best tracker?” Balkumagan had shouted at him.
He had pointed at Burrwood without a second thought. But Burrwood didn’t want to go. He seemed to think they would all be up and away without him, to get a bigger slice of the reward.
‘Fool!’ Jexson had thought. ‘It won’t be much of a reward if we fail to bring that Elf to the one who wanted him.’
“You will do as I say,” and he had drawn ‘Butcherer’ threateningly. “Don’t make me send someone else.”
The younger of the two Umbari, Pharazagar, had threatened Burrwood too, but as the man drew his own sword to meet the challenge, it had fallen from his hand. That was unlike Burrwood, he was good with swords and usually took short shrift from any who threatened him. But the sword was picked up again, and Balkumagan sent Burrwood tracking. Jexson had sent others with him. Not that he would lose the Elf, but that he may drop his sword again when he found him. Then, some ten minutes later, Pharazagar had gone after them too, unsure even five could manage the task.
It had been early evening when Pharazagar and Burrwood returned with the High Lord a captive again, a single riderless horse, but none of the other men.
The She-Elf had smiled slyly. “He led you a merry chase, and you still don’t have the Demon Elf,” she had said, or something like it.
And everyone watched the High Lord very carefully after that. Burrwood had said he slew the others. Jexson had first thought to strike the Elf hard, to slay him, and then he had really thought.
What had Parnard slain them with? He left with no sword. And five armed men on horses had come after him, with only Burrwood surviving? It was Burrwood that Jexson had kept an eye on until Magan slew him.
Jexson cast another glance at ‘Butcherer’. Those two swords they had taken from the Elves upon their capture were worth their weight in gold, he considered. Not that he intended selling them. Such a weapon was a symbol of status, the finest sword he had ever seen, including those of the Umbari. It struck him, as he laid a hand possessively upon the hilt, that the two Southerners likely wanted them for themselves. Well, they could think again. Balkumagan it was who slew Burrwood, and now held ‘Hacker; in his keep. The other one, the one with the golden sword must be coverting his sword. He felt a surge of something from the hilt,a tingling in his fingers that made them and his palm itch. Was it recognition? His sword recognised him, even as his thoughts filled with the notion of slaying both Umbari.
