There are moments when patience must yield to resolve.
For weeks, Atgar had followed whispers, pieced together scattered clues, and placed his trust in unlikely allies. What had begun with a stolen crate in Pickdean had led him through Bree's hidden corners, along the southern roads, and finally to the forgotten ruins where the Greenway Knives had made their stand.
The time for questions had passed.
Now it was time for steel to speak.
Gathered before the South Gate of Bree stood not merely adventurers, but dwarves of Durin's Folk, determined that no brigand should make a habit of preying upon their merchants. Alongside them stood Buck, whose tireless tracking had brought them this far, and Erchirion of Gondor, who had offered his sword in the hope of restoring peace to the roads.
Buck led the company to a rocky overlook from which the ruins below could be surveyed.
The sight confirmed his suspicions.
The Greenway Knives had done more than establish a hideout. They had fortified the ruins and raised a blockade across the road leading into Cardolan, taxing fear as readily as coin. Brigands patrolled the walls, while stolen goods lay gathered within, awaiting transport farther south.
There were many of them.
But they were brigands, not soldiers.
Poorly equipped.
Poorly disciplined.
Confident only because no one had yet challenged them.
Atgar looked to the dwarves around him and found no fear upon their faces.
Only determination.
Rather than batter their way through the main gate, the company followed Buck's plan. A stout rope was secured, and one by one they descended the cliffs to a lower terrace overlooking the stronghold.
As the last boots touched stone, smoke began to rise above the gate.
Buck had slipped away unnoticed.
Moments later flames climbed the brigands' barricade, and shouted orders echoed through the ruins as the defenders rushed to contain the blaze.
The distraction was all the company needed.
They struck swiftly.
Steel rang against steel.
Axes bit deep.
The Greenway Knives, so accustomed to ambushing merchants, suddenly found themselves overwhelmed by disciplined warriors pressing through their own stronghold.
Several storehouses were searched as the fighting continued.
Crates were pried open.
Bundles overturned.
Goods examined.
Yet the first searches yielded nothing.
Only after pushing into a lower courtyard did Atgar's heart finally quicken.
There, among countless stolen wares awaiting transport south, stood a crate bearing the unmistakable mark of the Durin's Folk Trading Company.
Untouched.
Unbroken.
His crate.
For a brief moment the weeks of hardship seemed worthwhile.
The company quickly secured it before turning their attention to the last pocket of resistance.
There, amidst the crumbling stones, waited the brigands' lieutenant.
He met them not with surrender, but with arrogance.
He boasted that the Greenway Knives ruled the southern roads.
He claimed they held influence even within Bree itself.
And as his hand tightened upon his weapon, he promised that their true master would soon make them all pay for this day's work.
Atgar answered not with words.
With a roar worthy of Durin's Folk, he stepped forward and brought his axe to bear, granting the brigand what he grimly called a measure of dwarven pity.
The lieutenant's boasts died with him.
Silence settled over the ruins.
As the company searched the remnants of the camp, Buck's sharp eyes noticed something others had missed. Hidden behind loose bricks within a crumbling wall lay a poorly concealed cache.
Inside rested a single note.
Its contents proved more troubling than any weapon.
The blockade had never been intended merely to rob travellers.
It formed part of a larger scheme orchestrated by the Greenway Knives' unseen leader—a plan to manipulate the movements of the Bree Guard, undermine their authority, and tighten the brigands' grip upon the southern roads.
The lieutenant had spoken truth in one regard.
The Greenway Knives were not yet broken.
They had merely lost one of their claws.
Still, as the company began the journey home with the recovered crate in tow, Atgar allowed himself a rare smile.
The promise he had made to himself on the day his cookshop was robbed had been fulfilled.
His goods had been recovered.
The men responsible had answered for their crimes.
The road south would, for a time at least, be safer for honest merchants.
Back in Bree, Atgar offered his heartfelt thanks to every companion who had stood beside him—from Buck's keen eye and steadfast guidance to the courage of the dwarves and the aid of Erchirion. Without them, none of it would have been possible.
There would be no grand speeches.
Only a simple invitation.
The cookshop in Pickdean had been restored.
Its hearth burned warm once more.
Its tables were ready.
And there, surrounded by friends rather than foes, Atgar intended to repay loyalty with the one craft he knew better than any other:
A feast worthy of those who had earned it.
For the first time since the robbery in Pickdean, honest merchants could once again look to the southern road with a measure of confidence.
Yet as Atgar reflected upon the note found within the ruins, he could not ignore the uneasy truth it revealed. Though the stolen crate had found its way home and the Greenway Knives had suffered a crushing blow, the hand that guided them still remained beyond reach.
Justice had been done upon the southern road.
But somewhere beyond the hills of Cardolan, another reckoning waited.
