The Sign of the Prancing Pony by Uvatha the Horseman

Nob stood across from the Prancing Pony, taking in every detail of the tavern sign which hung high above the street from an iron bracket. On it, a white stallion rearing up on its hind legs against a green background, and letters in careful white script declared the name of the Inn, The Prancing Pony.

The germ of an idea was beginning to form.

Nob went back inside before he was missed. On his way down to the kitchens, he saw Bob, the other hobbit servant who worked here, carrying an armload of firewood to the rooms upstairs.

“Bob, the first of April is coming up. I’m thinking that, in honor of the occasion, we should do something with the tavern sign.”

The young hobbit stared at him. “I thought you were happy here. Why would you want to prank the sign?”

“You don’t understand. If the first of April came and went, and we did nothing, Mr. Barliman would think we didn’t care about him. It would be like not wishing him a happy birthday. He’d be hurt.”

A line appeared between the younger hobbit’s eyes, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him.

“Just come outside and have a look at the sign. I just want your advice. It will take five minutes of your time.”

“Do what you want, but leave me out of it,” said Bob.

“You can have my dessert,” said Nob.

A few minutes later they stood in the street, looking up at the sign.

“We can’t do anything to the sign itself. We’d get in too much trouble,” said Bob.

Nob turned to go back inside, his toes dragging on the cobbles. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

Bob turned his attention back to the sign. “But we could swap it out for a different one.”

Nob perked up. “So, all we’d have to do is get a slab of wood about the same size, and paint it?”

“And install the hardware to drop over those hooks.”

Nob looked where Bob was pointing. The tavern sign hung from a pair of iron hooks on the underside of the sign bracket.

“Are you sure it comes off?” asked Nob.

“Oh aye. Last year, before you got here, they took it down to touch up the paint.  It was me that lifted it from the hooks and brought it down the ladder, and me that hung it up again. It wasn’t hard.”

“It looks like they made iron fittings to hang the sign over the hooks. We don’t have anything like that.”

“A pair of iron staples would work fine, but we’d have to space them exactly right. Otherwise, when we tried to hang it, the sign would dangle by one corner.”

Nob peered at the sign, estimating the hook separation distance between his hands.

“Just so you know, that’s not how it’s done.” Bob went to the stables and came back with a ladder. He leaned it against the wall, just above the highest part of the archway.

The archway was a tunnel leading to the Inn’s inner courtyard, formed by the common room on one side and the stables on the other. The tavern sign hung above the highest point of the arch from a bracket the height of two men about the street. Men, not hobbits.

Nob put a foot on the lowest rung. When his feet reached the height of Bob’s knees, he froze. There was no solid wall behind the ladder, and there wouldn’t be until he reached the very top. Until then, he’d have to stare into the yawning mouth of the void.

Bob sounded concerned. “Do you want me to do it? You could stand on the ground and hold the ladder. It’s not all that steady on these cobblestones.” Nob climbed down and Bob shot up the ladder like a squirrel.

When he reached the top, he stood with one foot on the highest rung and held onto the sign bracket for balance. He took a piece of string from his pocket and stretched it across the top of the sign. “Between these two knots. That’s where we put our staples.”

Mr. Barliman appeared in the archway. “Bob. What do you think you’re doing?”

Bob jumped, and the ladder scraped against the stone.  It would have gone over completely if Nob hadn’t been holding it. “Oh, well. Since you ask, the thing is, now that you mention it, I’m cleaning some bird poop off the sign.”

“With a piece of string? Next time, you might want to use a rag.”

Nob found Old Harry at his post at the West Gate, looking out at the road. That was new. Most days, he sat in the gatehouse. Nob set the basket on the table in the gatehouse. “Since you don’t get a dinner break anymore, Mr. Barliman sent you a nice meat pie and a flagon to wash it down.”

“Thankee, Master hobbit. When the world got so dangerous all of a sudden, the mayor ordered the gates secured. It cost me my dinner break and all of my smoke breaks.

“Secured?” asked Nob.

“Both myself and Old John at the South Gate are to question every living soul that passes through and have them to write their names in the ledger. And the gates are to be sealed after dark. Not just closed, sealed and barred shut. We’re not to open them for any reason, not even to let folks out.”

“But why? Has something happened?” asked Nob.

“A lot of somethings have happened. A group of Dwarves were seen heading along the Greenway on some mysterious business. You don’t see their kind around here very often.”

Back at the Inn, Nob ducked behind the front desk to reach the servant’s stair. The flight up led to the guest rooms, and down, to the laundry and kitchens. He headed for the kitchens. On the way down, he passed two girls carrying armloads of linen upstairs to make the beds. The Prancing Pony was a family business that had been handed down for generations.

Nob came to work here almost a year ago. He reached a milestone birthday, and his parents reluctantly agreed he was old enough to live away from home.

He smiled, remembering his first day at work. He didn’t know anyone by sight, or know that the girls were daughters of the owner. He saw them helping guests at the front desk. They looked too young to be working for wages.

Nob had asked them, “Are you servants here?”

They looked at him with a straight face. “No, we’re slaves.”

Nob came back upstairs and found Mr. Barliman behind the front desk. “Tell me, why does Old Harry have to guard the gate during the day and bar it shut at night? Did something happen? Is it about the Dwarves who were spotted recently?”

Mr. Barliman looked worried in a way Nob hadn’t seen before.

“Something unnatural is brewing. You already know about the Dwarves. The Squint-Eyed Southron paid Bill Ferny a visit not long ago. Why? No one knows, but it can’t be good.”

Mr. Barliman lowered his voice. “And the worst of it is, them Rangers is getting bolder all the time. You used to see them once in a blue moon, but lately, they come through every few weeks, as bold as can be. From what I hear, they operate, maybe not quite outside the law, but not quite inside it, either. They give me the heebie-jeebies.”

Nob turned to go, but paused. “What should we do if things go bad?”

“I’ve been through some dangerous times before and learned a thing or two. I keep a club under the bar. Let's stash a few more around the Pony, hidden but in easy reach in. And if things get any worse, we might want to set a watch at night.”

Khamul surveyed the town below.

The town of Bree was built against a granite cliff and protected by a hedge that completely surrounded the town. The Great Road ran through it, piercing the hedge where it entered and left/in the south and west/. Sturdy gates had been constructed at those points.

Behind him, the horses stomped and tore at the new grass. The Nazgul had pitched camp at the edge of a forest high above Bree, near the last of the  three villages they’d visited that day.

A mist that wasn’t quite rain had been falling all afternoon. After the first hour, it soaked their hair and clothing.

Adunaphel was in a foul mood.  She strode back and forth, her black robes sticking to her legs in the wet. “Archet was a waste of time. Thirty people in the whole village, and so isolated, none of them have heard a thing. Combe and Straddle were no better.”

“We should have better luck in Bree. It’s a large town at the crossroad of two major roads,” said Khamul. Far below, a foot traveler moved west along the Great Road toward the town. He reached the South Gate and stopped, even through the gate stood open.

“Why did he stop?” She didn’t have the trained eye of a hunter and tracker, and often missed that details that he was able to see.

“He’s talking to someone. A watchman or gatekeeper, I think. It appears that the South Gate is guarded, even during the day. Now the watchman is opening a book. I think he’s writing something in it.”

A strong gust of wind brought more rain. Their campfire sputtered and went out.

“Are you going to fix that?” Adunaphel looked at him expectantly.

Khamul knelt by the pile of charcoal that had been their campfire, now cold as well as wet. He sang a spell to coax a small tongue of flame to life, then fed twigs into the fire. It looked promising for a moment, but then went out. Neither his considerable skill as a woodsman, or his fairly powerful magic, were enough to keep a fire going in this weather.

“Don’t you have that thing started yet? I thought you were the Easterling version of a Ranger.”

Khamul bristled. He didn’t like being called a Ranger. Rangers were highly skilled hunters and trackers who lived in the wild, so he had that in common. But they were also members of a secret order sworn to defend these lands against evil creatures like brigands, wild animals, and trolls. They would certainly regard the Nazgul as evil creatures and treat them accordingly.

The Nazgul were in Ranger country now. Although he’d kept his fears from Adunaphel, the last thing he wanted was to run into them. The previous day, in the forest between villages, he’d jumped at every startled bird or snapped twig.

“The wood is wet. I can light it with a spell, but magic won’t keep it lit.”

“Maybe you weren’t trying hard enough,” said Adunaphel.

Khamul ignored her. He was in love with the proud Numenorian, but at this particular moment, he didn’t like her very much.

Bob and Nob found their way into the Inn’s kitchens, looking for something to eat.

“Where have you boys been? No matter. I have a chore for you.” Mrs. Butterbur handed each of them a berry basket. “I’m making blackberry tarts and I don’t have any blackberries. Fill these up, and don’t eat them all on the way home.”

They stepped out into the street, each with a basket over his arm. Above their heads, the Prancing Pony sign swung in the slight breeze and squeaked on the bracket hooks.

The blackberry thicket grew on top of Bree-hill, above the town. To reach it, they’d have to go out the gate, go around the outside of the hedge, and up the granite cliff. The route overshot and doubled back, so traveling by it took longer than it needed to.

Bob turned into the first alley they came to, then took the lane that ran along the face of the cliff. Nob was unhappy about the detour. “Are we stopping at your house? I thought we were going to the South Gate.”

“You’ll see,” said Bob.

The lane led to a narrow lane that hugged the face of the cliff. The cliff side was lined with hobbit holes. Not just low houses with round doors so common in Bree, but genuine hobbit holed burrowed into the cliff.

Bob’s house was the last in the row. His parents thought he was too young to live away from home, so every night after work he returned here.

“So what’s the plan? Your Ma has a store of blackberries and we’re going to borrow them?”

“She would still have some, if I hadn’t eaten them,” said Bob.

The Hedge was just beyond Bob’s house. Bob walked up to it. “Let me show you the shortcut through the Hedge.”

“But Bob, the Hedge is supposed to be impenetrable.”

“Yup, they do say that. But that doesn’t mean they’re right.” He dropped to all fours and disappeared into the tangle of thorns.

“Your turn.” Bob’s muffled voice came from inside the Hedge. Reluctantly, Nob followed him into the low tunnel of green branches with the handle of the berry basket in his teeth.

Nob made it through the densely matted shrubbery, which was wider than he was tall. Once he was on the other side, he stood up and brushed himself off.

“How do you like my little shortcut? If we’d taken the ordinary route, we wouldn’t even be through the Gate yet.”

“Do your parents know about it?” ask Nob.

Bob looked proud of himself. “Nobody knows, and hopefully it will stay that way.”

They jumped across the trickle of creek running through the ditch surrounding the Hedge. Bob pointed up the cliff. “The blackberry thicket is up there, at the top of the hill. There’s a path. I’ll show you.”

They climbed the hill. It was so steep that in places, they had to go on all fours.

The brambles grew thickly in a meadow at the edge of the forest. Thorns tore at their clothes, but most had canes were heavy with blackberries. Soon their baskets were full and their mouths were purple.

“Let’s wash up before we head back. There’s a spring in the forest. It feeds a creek, the same one that encircles the Hedge,” said Bob.

“What lives in the forest?” Nob wasn’t so sure about going in.

“We’ll only go in a little way, and we’ll never lose sight of the meadow.”

Bob led the way. Within a hundred paces they came to a spring, a deep pool in a basin of rock. Leaves floated on its surface, and a trickle of water flowed from the lower end.

“See? It’s not far.”

They washed their hands and faces until they presentable, or at least less sticky, although nothing much could be done about the scratches and mosquito bites.

In the mud at the edge of the creek was an enormous paw print.

“Oh oh.” Nob backed away, his eyes wide. “I thought there weren’t any wolves around here. That the last of them were driven out over a hundred years ago.”

Bob came over to look. “Someone up here must own a large dog, a wolfhound or mastiff.”

“I think it was made by a wolf,” said Nob.

“Would you be able to tell a wolf’s print from a dog’s? I wouldn’t.”

It was the middle of the day, but twilight came early in the forest. Whatever happened, Nob did not want to get caught in the forest after dark. It was creepy in the dim light, and it would be easy to get lost.

Nob picked up his basket. “Let’s get out of here.”

The Nazgul arrived at the South Gate a little after noon. Beyond it was their target, the town of Bree. Khamul reined in. “Let’s find a quiet place to leave the horses. Somewhere they can graze, but won’t be seen.”

“I’d put a concealment spell on them, too. No sense trusting things to chance.” Adunaphel said.

The road passed though a wooden gate, a structure of heavy timbers bound in iron. At the moment, it stood open. Beyond it, the buildings and shops of the town were easily visible.

To reach the gate, they had to cross a footbridge over the trickle of water running in the ditch outside the Hedge. Khamul set foot on the weathered boards. Almost immediately, he felt unwell.  Adunaphel held his elbow until they reached firm ground on the other side.

The gate stood open. The gatekeeper, an old man, blocked their way. “What’s your business here?” He glared at them as if all his problems were their fault.

“We’re just passing through on our way to the Greenway and points north.”

“I'm not happy about letting your kind in for any reason, not even during the day.” Our kind? We’re the only ones here. The other seven are bottled up in Minas Morgul.

The gate-keeper waved a hand to the outside of the Hedge. “If you want the Greenway, go around outside the Hedge.”

Khamul fingered the hilt of his dagger, out of sight under his cloak. “I’d hoped to stop by the Inn, the Prancing Pony. We just talked to Nob’s father, and he asked us to check on his boy.”

“If you give me the message, I’d be happy to pass it on.”

Adunaphel took over. Her voice was low and persuasive. Khamul recognized the spell she was weaving, having falling under it himself. The gatekeeper seemed to relax. His forbidding manner became helpful and friendly. “Stay on this road, and you’ll see the sign,” said the gatekeeper.

That was unexpected. Khamul sheathed his dagger.

The gatekeeper opened a ledger book. “What are your names? Your true names, mind you. None of that secret identity stuff you folk are given to.”

Khamul spoke to Adunaphel’s without words. “What is he talking about?” Nazgul go by their true names, unless they had a compelling reason not to. He looked at Adunaphel, who shrugged. They wrote their names in the book, and the gatekeeper waved them through.

Once they were through the gate, Khamul looked around. Well-kept houses with tidy gardens lined both sides of a broad street paved in cobblestone. The houses were closely spaced. In many cases, they touched.

They knocked on the first door they came to. No one answered. On the fifth knock, a door did open a crack, but before Khamul could say, “Can I ask a question?” the door slammed in his face.

Many of the structures on the main street housed shops, including blacksmith, cooper, and baker. The tradesmen listened to their questions and accepted their coins but didn’t tell them anything useful.

Adunaphel unfolded a sheet of parchment. “The map says there’s an alley just ahead, off the main road.”

The alley consisted of back gardens facing each other with a footpath in between. Withy fences protected the rows of cabbage and string beans from wandering livestock and free-range children. They could have been in any village in Middle Earth.

There was no one around, or so they thought at first. In one back-garden, a woman was hanging laundry from a line between fruit trees.

Khamul leaned over the withy fence. “Will you talk to us for a few minutes? I have money.”

She couldn’t slam the door in his face because they were both outside. She couldn’t avoid them, short of going inside with her task unfinished. She did start to pick up the basket, still half full of wet clothes, but she put it down again.

Khamul offered her a coin. She accepted it with a look that said, ‘I’m only doing this to get rid of you.’ “Fine. But make it quick. I have chores to finish.”

“Has anything strange happened around here recently?” asked Khamul.

“You’re in Bree. We’re not an isolated farm village like Archet or Straddle, we’re at a major crossroads. That’s why they say, Strange as news from Bree.”

“Has anyone developed a skill all of a sudden, like speaking an unfamiliar language, that they didn’t have before?

Khamul heard Adunaphel's voice in his head.  “Let me try. She might be open to girl talk.”

Adunaphel spoke in a confidential tone. “Have you noticed if anyone’s acquired an almost supernatural knack of finding things that are lost? Like a thimble you loaned to someone, but forgot who? A letter you put somewhere safe, safe even from yourself?  A jar of coins buried in the garden that you couldn’t find later, when you went to dig it up?”

The woman seemed to relax. “Ask me if I couldn’t I use a magical power like that! Just yesterday, the plunger for the butter churn went missing. I had the heavy cream all ready, and the plunger was just gone. Come to find out, the boys had taken it outside to play sword fighting, and they left it under a bush.”

She picked up her empty basket and balanced it against her hip. “But have I heard of anyone being able to do that? No, nothing of the sort. Not for anyone in all of Bree. I’d have heard. But a gift like that, it sure would come in handy.”

The alley tapered down to a narrow track that climbed the side of the hill through wild scrub-brush to the face of the granite cliff above them.

Khamul turned around. “Maybe we’ll have better luck on the next street over.”

“Not so fast.” Adunaphel held up the map. “This path is a shortcut to a lane full of houses.”

“Your path is a natural feature. I don’t think it goes anywhere.” But Adunaphel was already scrambling up. Khamul rolled his eyes and followed her.

It was a struggle to climb up the track, which was less of a path than a steep channel cut by rainwater around small boulders. In places, Khamul had to grip the trunk of a small bush to pull himself up. After a hundred paces, the trail leveled off and threaded between withy fences enclosing neat rows of cabbages.

They emerged at the end of a lane running along the cliff face. It stopped just before it met the Hedge. A row of round-windowed houses had been built along one side of the road, dug into the living rock itself. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Are you ready to knock on doors?” Adunaphel asked.

They approached the house closest to the trail head, the last on the row. It was unexpectedly small. The top of the round door came no higher than Khamul’s chest.

“Dwarves?” asked Adunaphel.

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see any Dwarves working in the blacksmith shop, so there probably aren’t any.”

“I don’t see anyone around at all. It’s the middle of the afternoon. I expect no one’s home.”

Khamul bent and knocked. There was no answer, but a curtain twitched and fell back.

“Or else they’re ignoring us,” said Adunaphel. “Let’s try the next house.”

An almost invisible footpath, a slight depression worn into the soil, ran from the end of the lane to the Hedge.

Khamul walked over to look.

Adunaphel was already moving down the lane. “Where are you going? The next house is this way.”

Khamul knelt in front of the Hedge. It was all thorns, the branches intertwined and tangled together. Against the granite, a a crawlway no more than knee-high ran through the base of the Hedge. A broken twig hung over it, the leaves not yet withered.

“There’s something here,” said Khamul.

Adunaphel came over to look. “I don’t see anything.”

“There’s a passage through the Hedge. And if I interpret the broken branches correctly, it’s been used in the last day or two. What do you suppose it’s for? People can go in and out the main gates whenever they want, at least during the day.”

Adunaphel threw up her hands. “That passageway was made by children. I doubt their parents even know of it. If they did, they would have blocked it up by now.”

The aroma of new hay filled the stables. In the stalls nearby, the customers’ horses snorted and stomped.

Nob gone to the mayor about the wolf print, but he hadn’t taken it seriously. It left him feeling frustrated, and surrounded by unseen dangers.

He watched Bob piece several narrow planks together into a single large slab, the same size as the Prancing Pony sign.

“It’s almost done. How do you want me to paint it?” asked Bob.

“It should look exactly like the original, dark green with a white horse,” said Nob.

“Couldn’t we do something more attention-getting? Maybe do the background in red?” asked Bob.

“The prank must be subtle. We’re only going to change the name of the Inn.”

#

When they met later in the day, the weather was still fair, but towering clouds moving in the west held the threat of evening storms.

Bob showed off his work. He’d painted the bare wood a dark green, and added a white horse exactly like the original. Then he’d installed the staples for hanging the sign. He’d left a portion of the green background empty. That’s where the new tavern name would go.

“All we have to do is letter in the name.” Bob picked up a brush. “What did you say the new name going to be?”

Nob looked away. “I have no idea.”

They were running out of time. Bob chewed the end of the brush.

“How about The Lightened Purse? The Lumpy Mattress? Bedbugs R Us?”

Nob shook his head. “It should have something to do with Inns. Come On Inn? Inn The Middle? Inn A World Of Trouble?”

Two figures filled the doorway, blocking the light. They wore dark clothing and their hoods obscured their faces. One of them offered a coin in a gloved hand.

“Do you know of anyone who’s suddenly attained great power? Developed the ability to become invisible? Attracted an army of minions?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. Can you think of a good name for a tavern?”

“Don’t Go Inn?” the faceless figure suggested.

“Oh, that’s good! Bob, start lettering it in.”

Bob sat back on his heels. “No, I really think it should have something to do with horses. The Swaybacked Nag, or The Lame-Gaited Palfrey.” He tossed out a few more suggestions.

“Bob, you’re brilliant! That’s going to be our tavern name. And do you have enough white paint to do a second horse?”

Soon, Bob would have to start on evening stables, and Nob would be needed to wait tables in the common room. In the few minutes they had left, Nob reviewed the plan. Bob would climb the ladder with the sign and hang it on the bracket, while Nob would stay on the ground to hold the ladder.

“We’ll meet under the sign just after midnight, when everyone’s in bed. It’s important that we do this without being seen.”

Bob looked alarmed. “My folks would never let me stay out that late.”

“Can’t you put a bolster under the bedclothes and sneak out the window?”

“My Da would kill me. Then he’d resurrect me and kill me again. Do you think you could manage alone?” asked Bob.

“Bob, you’re the one who’s done it before. You hung it last year when they touched up the paint.” And Nob wasn’t good with heights.

“Sorry, but I really can’t be out past midnight. If you want my help, we’d have to do it right after it got dark.”

Nob didn’t like it. There’d still be a few people on the street, and he’d be still be working, carrying trays and filling tankards. But he couldn’t hang the sign by himself.

Reluctantly, he agreed they’d hang the sign not long after dark.

Rain beat against the windows. From the serving hatch, Nob watched the common room filling up. There’s nothing like bad weather to drive folks indoors, as they say in Bree.

Two dangerous-looking men entered the common room. They appeared to be woodsmen, or possibly outlaws. Water dripped from their clothing, dark-colored from the wet, and hoods concealed their faces. Nob was surprised to see them indoors. Men like that usually slept rough rather than seeking a bed beneath a roof. It was rare for a storm to drive them indoors.

The men were unusually tall, and they crossed the room with long, confident strides. They chose a small table almost hidden in the shadows beside the chimney, where they were difficult to see but had a good view of the door.

Nob approached their table and set a tankard in front of each of them. Seen up close, one was an older man with a grey stubble of beard. The other was a youth as slim as a girl.

“What can I get you to eat?” asked Nob.

“Whatever you’re serving tonight, and lots of it,” said the older one. He put a silver penny on the table. That was a lot of money for one coin. “Can I run a tab?” Nob nodded and hurried to bring them their food.

Back at the serving hatch, Mr. Barliman leaned over and lowered his voice. “Those aren’t ordinary woodsmen. They’re wearing swords. I think they’re Rangers.”

“I’ve never seen a Ranger before!” Nob stared at them, his mouth open.

“Not ten days ago, a pair of them was in here, although whether it was this lot or different, I couldn’t say. They all dress alike, and they keeps to themselves. Something about them is just not right. But try to treat them like any other customers.”

Nob felt uneasy. He wouldn’t have chosen to get this close to Rangers. No one quite knew what they were, hunters or brigands.

The fire had burned down to almost nothing. Nob went over to add a few logs. The woodbin was empty except for a few broken-off twigs and some pieces of bark. He darted into the rain and came back with an armload from the woodpile. Water on the bark soaked into his shirt.

He knelt in front of the hearth. Rain dripped down the chimney, spitting when it hit the logs. The last of the flames sputtered and went out. He laid a few twigs on the embers and blew on them. Steam hissed from them, but they didn’t catch.

Adding to his discomfort, he realized he had an audience. The Rangers were sitting at the table beside the chimney, right next to him. Nob felt their eyes on him and tried not to look.

The older Ranger got up and stood over him. “Allow me.” He knelt before the grate, his scabbard resting on the floor beside him. Nob backed away to give him space. The Ranger arranged the smallest of twigs in a little tent-like structure. He sang in a deep, low voice, in a language Nob didn’t understand. It might have been a ballad, or it might have been the words to an enchantment.

A tongue of flame appeared on the smallest twig. It spread to the whole structure of twigs. The Ranger fed sticks into the little fire. The embers under a log awoke into a blue flame, hissing in the wet. Flames sprang up almost to the mantle, and yellow firelight filled the room.

“There. Will that do?” The Ranger got to his feet and returned to his table.

Nob found Mr. Barliman at the serving hatch. “Did you see how the Ranger lit the fire? I think he used a spell.”

“Or he has very good woodcraft. That’s what you’d expect from a Ranger,” said Mr. Barliman.

“You don’t understand. The wood was soaking wet. He used a fire-lighting spell, I’m sure of it. I watched him sing the enchantment.”

Mr. Barliman sighed. “What did I tell you about treating him like any other customer? This is Bree. We see a lot of strange things here. Now bring them this tray. It’s late, and I’m sure they’ll be wanting their supper.”

Nob brought the tray laden with bread, cheese, and a meat pie to their table, and topped off their tankards from a pitcher. He felt uneasy the whole time he was near them, and left them for his other customers the first chance he got.

The Prancing Pony was on the Great Road, not far from the West Gate. The Nazgul already knew where it was. They’d stopped by in mid-afternoon and found it closed and dark. There hadn’t been another soul around, other than the two stable lads painting a tavern sign.

The Inn’s tavern sign, a white horse on a green background, hung over the tunnel-like archway that led to the Inn.

The sounds of a commotion inside reached the street. Khamul ventured into the archway. It smelled of dampness and stale beer. Shouts and curses echoed from the stones overhead.

In the inner courtyard, a crowd had gathered to watch a brawl. Even the rain wasn’t enough to drive them indoors. They cheered each blow landed or dodged as if they were watching a sporting event. More spectators stood on the stairs leading up to the Inn’s main entrance, jostling for a better view of the brawlers.

A tall, muscular man with an air of authority pushed his way down the half-flight of stairs. “That’s enough. Break it up.” He separated the brawlers, then marched the larger and more violent one out of the tunnel and into the street.

“Show’s over. Everyone clear off,” a heavyset man in an apron shouted from the top of the stairs. People headed up the stairs. Khamul let himself be swept along with them.

Khamul entered the common room with Adunaphel right behind him. Inside, a dull roar of conversation filled the large space. A massive stone fireplace dominated the far wall, flanked by windows that looked down onto the street.

Standing in the doorway, Khamul became aware that his cloak was as soaked as if he’d fallen into a ditch. The linen shirt beneath it was plastered to his skin. He smelled like wet dog. He hoped no one noticed, or if they did, that they blamed it on someone else.

He scanned the room for an empty table but saw nothing. A few were unoccupied but covered in tankards and dishes. One by one, they were reclaimed as spectators returned from the courtyard.

“You’re back already? Your table’s still there, waiting for you.” The jovial man in the apron steered them toward a small table tucked away, almost out of sight, against the river stones of the chimney.

Khamul took the chair that backed the window. The perch, almost hidden behind the chimney, gave him a good view of the room. Normally he wouldn’t turn his back on a window, but they were half-a-story above the street, too high for anyone to sneak up behind him.

“When we were standing with the crowd, did you hear anything interesting?” asked Khamul.

“The man who started it was a lout and a mean drunk. The other, the little one, is a spineless toad. They were fighting over a woman, which was pointless because she doesn’t like either of them. And no one has seen the mysterious peace-keeper before.”

From the talk of people around him, he’d learned that the man marched out was a mean drunk and a trouble-maker, that the scuffle was over a woman, and that the fight was pointless because she didn’t like either of them. No one had seen the mysterious peace-keeper before.

On the table in front of him was a pewter plate that held half a meat pie. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He took out the knife he used for eating.

“Do you want that?” Adunaphel pulled plate towards herself. Khamul sighed. Do you want to win, or do you want to stay married?

At the next table, two unusually ugly rogues stared at them with furrowed brows. One leaned close to the other and said, “I tell ye, those are not the same Rangers.”

A hobbit servant came to their table with a pitcher. “Another round for you?” He poured until the foam spilled down the side of the tankard. “This is your third round. Can I bring you something more to eat? Same as before? I’ll be right back with another meat pie, bread, and cheese.”

The boy left, and Khamul said, “I think he confused us with somebody else.”

Across the room, the boy spoke to the barmaid. “Did you see those two Rangers? When they first came in, one of them lit the fire for me when the logs were so soaked, they might as well have been underwater. He sang a few words of a spell over the wet logs, and whoosh! Flames shot up as bright and cheery as can be.”

Adunaphel snorted. “You’re right, he has mistaken you for someone else. Someone who can make a fire-starting spell work on wet wood."

Khamul barely heard her. “He has uncanny powers of persuasion, went through the gate and then vanished, and now we learn that he started fire with a spell? Rangers are highly skilled woodsmen, but they don’t have magic. Our Ranger may have found the thing we seek.”

The roar in the common room fell to a murmur. Khamul looked up. A Ranger was standing in the doorway, staring directly at him. Khamul wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a whiff of Kingsfoil, the caustic herb used by Rangers to weaken, or even negate, the Nazgul’s most powerful spell.

It was the man who broke up the fight. He looked to be of middle years, solidly built, with a three-day growth of grey on his chin. It was, in fact, the man who’d broken up the fight in the courtyard. The man exuded menace.

A slender boy followed close behind him, probably the Ranger’s apprentice. Unusually tall, he had a mop of curly hair and an overly-prominent Adam’s apple. He looked as if he was eager to impress his teacher, but was not quite sure about the situation they were about to get into.

The Ranger’s sword came out of its scabbard. He stepped forward and knocked a table aside. A shard of pottery crunched under his boot.

We are in serious trouble.

Khamul wanted to kick himself. He should have been watching the door. That’s why he always sat with his back to wall. But he was tired, and he’d allowed his attention to wander.

The Ranger bore down on them, sword drawn. Khamul sprang to his feet. He drew his own weapon and stepped to one side, very slowly, to shield Adunaphel with his body. Both of the Nazgul wore broadswords, but the blades were made from ordinary steel, with no magic about them.

In a loud, ringing voice, the Ranger ordered, “Clear the room.”

Chairs were pushed aside and tables overturned. Plates and tankards struck the floor as people pushed and shoved to get closer. A throng of tradesmen and farmers, men and hobbits, formed a circle around them. Whatever happened, they weren’t about to miss it.

Khamul sang the words to unleash the Black Breath, one of his most powerful spells. Some of the onlookers threw themselves on the ground, weeping brokenly and whimpering in fear.

The Ranger withdrew something from a pouch. A grey-green powder sifted between his fingers. The stench of Kingsfoil filled the room, and Khamul’s arm sagged under the weight of his sword. Those in the crowd who lay sobbing on the floor got up and dusted themselves off.

The Ranger’s mouth curled in contempt. “I know what you are, and I know who you serve, though I won’t speak his name in this place. He served under the first Dark Lord as one of his less successful captains.”

Khamul’s hand clenched on the hilt of his weapon.

“From what I hear, your master was under the first Dark Lord on a fairly regular basis. That’s how he got promoted so fast.”

 “Enough!” Khamul raised his sword and prepared to strike.

The Nazgul and the Rangers circled around each other, their blades reflecting the firelight. It was difficult to move in a room crowded with furniture. Chairs were shoved aside when they got in the way. When Khamul got trapped against a table, he upended it, sending crockery and pewter to the floor.

The crowd must not have seen swordplay before. because they oooed and ahhed at every feint and repost.

The Ranger turned to his apprentice. “Pull a firebrand from the hearth. Keep those creatures away from the townspeople.”

Backed against the window, Khamul couldn’t see the fireplace, but he could see the orange light it cast on the opposite wall. The flames must be burning high. Adunaphel stiffened. “He’s use it on us.” For the first time, there was fear in her voice. A flaming branch could do more hurt to the undead than could a sword.

Khamul unsheathed a Morgul blade, the deadliest of all his weapons. Exposed to air, the blade burned with an icy blue-purple glow. The Rangers flinched and fell back. They were right to be afraid. A scratch from a Morgul blade was deadly poison. The smallest cut could kill you. And if you died from the wound, you might lose not only your life but your soul.

Khamul jerked his chin toward Adunaphel and spoke to her in their own language, the Black Speech. “He has what we seek. We kill him and take it.”

The Ranger whirled around. He raised his weapon, a broadsword edged on both sides. Words were engraved down the length of the blade.

It was as if the Ranger understood everything Khamul had just said. He cursed himself. He should have known that the ability to understand Black Speech was one of the powers it conveyed. Worse, speaking his intentions aloud had cost him the element of surprise.

The Ranger spoke, his voice deep and threatening. “Do you know who I am? I am the one who will erase your kind from the earth. You are a blight, a spreading fungus, strangling tentacles of slime, and I want you gone.”

The Ranger’s posture was relaxed, as if he’d already won. “I’ve been hunting you. Through the Chetwood from Archet, Combe, Staddle, and now Bree. Did you know that?”

Khamul’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t known.

“It’s over. Lay down your arms,” ordered the Ranger.

Khamul should have used the Morgul blade on the Ranger when he had a chance. There’d been maybe one moment, half a second long, to get inside that wicked sword and close in with the poisonous dagger. But he’d hesitated, and now it was too late. If The Ranger had what Khamul believed he did, he had the power to command the Nazgul.

Khamul knew what was coming next. The Morgul blade would slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor. His mind would grow foggy, and he would sink to his knees in subjugation.

He waited. It didn’t happen.

Beside him, Adunaphel held her sword in a fighting stance, her face hard. She was commanded by nobody’s will but her own. That meant only one thing. The Ranger didn’t have it.

Khamul spoke to Adunaphel using thought. “When I say ‘Rush the door,’ it means, ‘Break the window and jump out.’” She nodded, her eyes resolute.

Khamul picked up a heavy chair and held it with the legs facing the Rangers. He struggled not to drop it. The Kingsfoil was still affecting him, making him sick and draining his strength. Adunaphel picked up a three-legged stool. Her arms trembled under its weight. She was affected, too.

“On my mark, we rush the door.” He spoke in Black Speech, loudly enough to be heard across the room. The Rangers backed up to the doorway and raised the tips of their swords.

“Now!” The Rangers covered their ears, as if they’d never heard a Nazgul’s screech before.

Khamul wheeled to face the window and smashed the chair against the glass. The window beside his shattered at almost the same moment.

Through the splintered mullions and shards of broken glass encircling the hole, he held back for a few precious seconds to see Adunaphel safely out. She hit the ground and fell, but regained her feet in an instant and took off running.

Behind him came shouts and curses, the scrape of tables shoved aside, the thud of boots. The pursuers were almost close enough to clutch the folds of his clothing. He put a hand on each side of the window frame and a boot on the sill, and jumped.

It took longer than expected to hit the ground. Khamul landed on hands and knees, but was up in an instant. He took off running. He’d catch up with Adunaphel on the road, or find her outside the Hedge where they’d left the horses.

But under the tavern sign, he collided with a ladder that hadn’t been there earlier and went sprawling. It teetered and fell, leaving a hobbit dangling from the bracket, kicking his feet like a hanged man. Another hobbit lay pinned beneath the fallen ladder like a bug.

“Sorry,” said Khamul.

The sounds of pursuit echoed in the archway. He ran for all he was worth. The road led straight to the South Gate. The West Gate was closer, but the South Gate was where they’d left the horses. Khamul thought he could make it, if a loose cobblestone didn’t send him sprawling flat on his face.

Adunaphel reached the gate first. Khamul saw her stop in front of the heavy timbers, then turn around and walk back, looking dejected.

Khamul slowed to a stop. He put his hands on his knees, drawing deep breaths. There was a tickle in his throat and he tried not to cough. Adunaphel walked up to him. “The gate is barred, and they’ve set a watch on it. Do we take it by force?”

“I’d rather go out through the Hedge,” said Khamul.

Down the street, torches fanned out, showing where their pursuers were searching the side roads and alleys. “I thought they’d have run us to ground by now, but they’re acting like they’ve lost the scent,” said Khamul.

“I cast a confusion spell,” said Adunaphel.

The mouth of the alley was right beside them, the one where the woman had been hanging laundry. They ducked into it and raced along its length. The shouts of men grew louder, and the light from their torches showed between the houses.

They reached the end of the alley and scrambled up the narrow gully. At the top, they burst from between withy fences and sprinted for the Hedge.

“Go!” Khamul barked. Adunaphel hit the ground and belly-crawled into the thorny crawlway.

Khamul risked a last glance over his shoulder. Along the length of hobbit row, there were no torches, no pursuers.

He hit the ground and crawled after Adunaphel, her boots almost in his face. Thorns scratched his arms and drew blood. And if anyone came back to look for evidence they’d passed through here, they might find a few scraps of black fabric hanging from the thorns.

Khamul emerged on the far side of the Hedge, not far from where they’d left the horses. He straightened up and dusted himself off. For the first time in hours, he began to relax. “Well, that went all right.”

Adunaphel looked at him. “I don’t want to spoil your day, but the Hedge is surrounded by a deep ditch, and there’s a little creek running through it.”

Running water. And just when I thought this day couldn’t get any better.

The first of April dawned bright and clear. Nob left his bed in the attic and found his way downstairs. In the kitchens, Mrs. Barliman was taking crusty loaves from the oven. The aroma of newly-baked bread filled the room.

“Have you heard?” Mrs. Butterbur asked.

“Heard what?” Nob put on his most innocent face. He assumed it was about what they’d done to the tavern sign.

Upstairs, Mr. Barliman was standing in the door of the common room. “I always said them Rangers was trouble.” He stepped aside. The common room was a shambles. Furniture had been knocked over, the floor was covered with broken pottery, and two of the windows were smashed.

“You and Bob wouldn’t know because you’d already gone to bed, but we had some excitement in here last night. Two gangs of Rangers bumped into each other and got to brawling. It got so bad, some of them jumped through the windows. Through the windows, as in, not opening them first. I watched the whole thing and I still don’t know what it was about.”

Nob and Bob were outside hanging the sign when it happened. Nob was steadying the ladder when the glass broke behind him and the bodies hit the ground. He would have liked to find out what happened, but he had to get Bob down first.

Nob set the tray down on one of the few tables that hadn’t been overturned. Then he picked up the nearest chair and set up upright. He swept up fragments of broken glass and pottery. As soon as he had a spare moment, and was sure no one was watching, he stepped out onto the street to check on their sign. It was still there. And it was beautiful.

The pranked sign combined Bob’s desire for a horse theme with Nob’s sight gag. And it looked so much like the original, people wouldn’t notice at first.

Now to wait.

It took until about ten in the morning. The bell jingled over the door, and one of the regulars came in, a shopkeeper from a few doors down. “Morning, Barliman. I see your tavern sign has acquired a second horse.”

“What? I don’t have a new sign. It’s the same as always.”

Nob polished the same piece of glassware over and over. If he laughed, he’d expose himself as guilty, and if he didn’t, he’d explode.

Mr. Barliman came around the counter and stepped into the street without taking off his apron. Nob followed, and so did everyone who’d overheard.

The new sign looked even better in bright sunlight than it had in the dimness of the stables. Bob had pained an almost perfect replica of the original pony, then added a second pony beneath it.

In a script identical to the original, careful lettering announced the Inn’s new name. The Covered Mare.

Barliman looked appalled. “What are those two horses doing?”

“I couldn’t say, but it looks like they’re having a pretty good time,” observed the oldest of Mr. Barliman’s daughters.

An old farmer rolled his eyes. “What does it look like they’re doing? Don’t you know about the birds and the bees? Well, I’ll have you know the birds and the bees do that, too.”

Mr. Barliman wrung his hands. “Who could have done this” Who could be clever and wicked enough to pull this off?” He turned to the boys, his face suggesting that, while he hadn’t yet, he was about to put two and two together.

Nob grabbed Bob by the arm. “Run!”

Warning - Adult Content (R)

("It's about married people who love each other very, very much," - Homer Simpson)

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The Nazgul rode until the horses were lathered and panting. An almost-invisible farm road lay just ahead. Khamul reined in. "Let's turn off here."

It was dark under the trees, and hard to keep to the narrow lane. They came to a meadow, overgrown to the point of having saplings among the tall grasses. A crescent moon showed through ragged clouds. At the edge of what appeared to be an abandoned pasture stood a lean-to shelter. A small amount of straw lay in places on the ground beneath it.

They unsaddled the horses. The straw in the cattle shelter was deep and soft, if not particularly new. Adunaphel spread out her cloak over the stray, then lay down on her back. Khamul glanced at his companion.

"You wanna?" she asked.

"No, I'm too tired. I just want to sleep."

Her robes, still wet from the rain, clung to the swell of her breasts. It seemed that the spell she'd cast on the half-Orc back at the tavern had reached him too, and he was still feeling its effects.

"Maybe I'm not all that tired. Is the offer still good?"

He rolled on top of her. She squirmed as if trying to escape but was pinned down by his weight. His breath came in shallow pants. He grabbed a handful of fabric and lifted the hem of her dress.

"Get off of me!" She slapped him, hard.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I thought…"

"Get off of me, you foul-smelling cut-purse, or my father the sheriff will see you hanged!"

That was all he needed to hear. He gripped her wrists and pinned them against the ground, then with his knee, forced apart her tight-clamped knees. The pretend sheriff's daughter struggled for a time, but then turned meek and frightened.

"I beg you, sir. I am an innocent maiden, untouched by any man. Pray don't bring me to shame!"

From the tavern-sign banter that afternoon, a phrase came unbidden to his mind.

All The Way Inn.

The next morning, the Nazgul rode west on the Great Road. The rain had stopped, for which Khamul was grateful. The horses clomped along. The town of Bree lay just ahead. They hadn’t learned anything at the small hamlets and villages, but in a large, bustling town, they’d surely have better luck.

Khamul chose his words carefully, speaking to Adunaphel as a superior officer rather than a spouse. “We’re here to gather information. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. Remember what I told you about unnecessary violence. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” Adunaphel didn’t like to be scolded. She fell into a petulant sulk.

In the distance, a short, stocky man walked behind the plow, scattering handfuls of seeds from a burlap bag. “I thought the planting would be done by now. It’s already the end of March,” said Adunaphel.

“You grew up in Númenor. We’re a lot further north, and the planting season is later.”

Khamul turned his horse into the field. “That ploughman. I want to talk to him.”

They approached the ploughman, who proved to be a hobbit. He was of middle years, with leathery skin that suggested a lifetime outdoors.

Hobbit children playing in front of a nearby farmhouse stopped their game and stared openly. A curtain twitched. Moments later, a housewife came out with a basket of laundry. She spent far longer than it should have taken to hang up the clothes.

Khamul launched into his pitch. "Has anything strange happened around here?

“What do you mean by strange?” asked the farmer.

“Has anyone exhibited an extraordinary level of skill all of a sudden, amassed great wealth, or suddenly recruited a large number of followers?”

The farmer appeared to consider this. "Can't say that I have."

Khamul took out a copper and tossed it at the farmer's feet, who picked it up and bit it. He then shared what he knew. “I personally haven’t heard anything, but in town, there’s been talk of some strange goings-on. You know what they say, Strange as news from Bree. And I mean strange, even for Bree.”

The farmer turned over the coin in his hand. “Tell you what. When you’re in town, go to the Prancing Pony and ask for news. My boy Nob works there. Tell him his Da sent you."

They were about to leave, but Adunaphel went to the farmhouse and ducked inside. She came out a few minutes later. In their own language, she said, “I slashed their throats and left their bodies on the beds.”

Khamul couldn’t even speak for a minute. “We talked about it, and you promised me you wouldn’t do it again. No one knows we’re here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I’m kidding. I just went inside to ask for a drink of water.”

Khamul raced back to the farmhouse and flung the door open, his mouth as dry as dust. Inside, a hobbit grandmother sat at the table, braiding the tops of onions together. At her feet, a toddler played on the dirt floor with wooden animals, and a baby slept in a cradle. The old woman looked up, startled.

“Sorry, my mistake.” Khamul backed away and pulled the door shut behind him.

Adunaphel stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. “You could have taken my word, but nooooo! You had to go and see for yourself.”

“I would have done, but your track record ain’t so great.”

Late in the afternoon, a heavy overcast moved in, threatening rain. Twilight came early. Shops began to close, and people disappeared from the streets.

The Nazgul had reached the western-most part of town, where the houses were scaled down in size, with round windows and doors. The folk who lived here were of a distinctly different race than those on the east side of town, of shorter stature and stockier.

Khamul was getting discouraged. “I think we’ve approached every single person in Bree. Most wouldn’t talk to us at all, and the ones that did didn’t know anything useful.”

“What about that lady sweeping her front step?” said Adunaphel.

“We already talked to her. Remember how she went on about her cats?

“That shop is open. The one with bolts of cloth on the counter.” She pointed to a draper’s stall, where bolts of fabric in spring green, deep red, and sky blue were on display.

“You just like shopping. Do you really have to buy something everywhere we stop?”

The counter was of ordinary height, but the shop-keeper stood on a box to reach it. They tried to speak to him, but he waved away the coin they offered.

They trudged back toward the Great Road. The streets were empty, and every shop had been shuttered for the night.

“My feet hurt. Let’s find somewhere to sit down,” said Adunaphel.

They came to a small square with a fountain at its center. Adunaphel sank to the curb surrounding it and refused to move. “I just want to pull off my boots and soak my feet for an hour. Will you join me?” She patted the stone beside her.

Khamul approached, but only so far. “Sorry. I don’t like running water.”

Twilight became night. “Why do we have to keep looking for it? Couldn’t he just make himself another one?”

Khamul sighed. “We’ve had this conversation. Numerous times.”

Time went by in silence, until Adunaphel said, “You know what? The Inn must be open by now. We should go back there to sit in a quite corner and listen to what people say after they’ve had a bit to drink. We could learn more at the Inn than we did all day.”

“You just want to sit down and not do anything,” said Khamul.

“I also want to get something to eat,” she said.

Fat drops of rain stuck the cobblestones, leaving splashes the size of pennies. Within a few minutes, it began to rain in earnest. Adunaphel wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. Khamul offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet.

“I just realized, we haven’t talked to the gatekeeper at this end of town. He’d have questioned everyone who came in. Maybe he knows something.”

The West Gate, where the Great Road passed through the hedge, was sealed off by a pair of heavy wooden doors secured by a stout beam. Even the openings that pierced the gate. the spy holes and a sally port little bigger than a cat door,  were closed.

A light burned inside the gatekeeper’s cottage. Khamul pulled the bell chain. Metal clanged on metal. There was a shout from within. “The gates are sealed. No one goes in or out until morning.”

They huddled together under the eaves, which afforded a little bit of shelter from the rain. “I don’t need to go out, I just want to talk to you,” Adunaphel said in her sweetest voice.

The old man came out holding a lantern. Misting rain showed in its light. “Make it quick.” But he must have been bored, or lonely, because he seemed willing enough to talk to her.

“Has anyone come in today, maybe someone with abilities you wouldn’t expect them to have?” Adunaphel’s voice was low and soothing.

A feeling of warmth spread over Khamul. It made him feel safe and trusting and relaxed. And annoyed, because he knew what it was. He stepped away from her, leaving the shelter under the eaves for the full force of the rain. The feeling faded. Adunaphel’s persuasion spell had a very short range.

The old man, who was standing quite close to her, seemed to be liking it. He had relaxed considerably, and he was talking as if he wanted to impress her.

“Something odd did happen today. I had a funny customer. One of them Rangers he was. I should have sent him around the hedge, but for some reason, I let him in.

“He didn’t even write a proper name in the ledger, not like you’re supposed to. Under the florid script, it said ‘A. Traveler.’ And his boy didn’t sign the ledger at all.”

“His boy?”

“His son, I was thinking at the time, but it could have been some other kinsman, or a servant. I didn’t ask. I felt sort of woozy when I talked to them, and didn’t enforce the new rules as strict as I might.”

“Once they were through the gate, my head cleared, and I realized I shouldn’t have let them in. I went to call them back, but they’d vanished, him and the boy both. It was like they’d just disappeared into thin air. There weren’t on the main road, and they weren’t in the alleys. There were just gone.”

Khamul listened closely. It sounded like the Ranger had used a spell of some sort. Rangers had amazing skills in woodcraft and tracking, but unlike the Nazgul, they did not have magic. So if this Ranger had used magic, where did he get it?

It was possible the Ranger had found that which they sought. Khamul felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“If they stayed in Bree, where might they be?” Adunaphel asked the gatekeeper.

“Unless they were just passing through, which seems likely for folk who live in the wild, they’d be staying at the Prancing Pony. There are a few widows in town with a spare room to let, and a few ale-houses with a counter for pouring and a bench outside, but only local people would know of them.”

“Next stop, the Prancing Pony?” Adunaphel asked him.

Khamul felt torn between his desire to lay hands on what they were seeking and his fear of Rangers. But if anyone had it, it would be a Ranger, not some farmer or alewife who wouldn’t understand its importance.

Khamul steeled himself for whatever lay ahead. “Let’s go.”

Two men on the far side of the room rose unsteadily to their feet. Both appeared to have gotten an early start on their drinking, and it hadn’t improved their tempers any.

The larger of the two was a lout, well-known to be irrationally jealous. “She’s mine, and if you so much as look at her, I’m going to make you sorry.”

For someone as heavyset as Mr. Barliman, he could move awfully fast. He grabbed the club from under the bar and raced across the room to separate the two men. “I don’t care which of you she likes best. Take it outside.” Mr. Barliman marched them to the door.

Several customers followed them, and a few more after that. It was well known that only vulgar people go outside to watch a brawl, so they spoke in whispers and took small, careful steps, as if moving quietly would made them invisible.

The sound of yelling and cursing in the courtyard escalated to blows being traded among some very angry men.

A chair hit the floor. The Ranger ran for the door with the boy was close behind him. They jostled a table, knocking over the tankards. Yeasty-smelling suds ran across the table top, then spilled over the edge in a cascade of foam. Nob hurried over with a rag to wipe it up.

The Rangers sprinted out the room’s only exit. There was a sound of blows, some whimpering, and then all was quiet. Mr. Barliman watched them go. “So that’s what Rangers do. I always thought of them as outlaws, but maybe it’s in a vigilante sort of way.”

What with so many of the customers in the courtyard watching the fight, the common room was nearly empty. Nob’s duties were suddenly lightened, at least momentarily. This was his chance to hang the sign.

He slipped out with the others. Mr. Barliman wouldn’t scold him much for abandoning his duties for a few minutes to watch the only exciting thing that ever happened around here.

In the middle of the courtyard, the two Rangers, if that’s what they were, faced off against the very drunken louts, one of them larger and stockier than either of the Rangers. The lout was getting the worst of it, yet he never seemed to land a blow. Nob would have loved to stay and watch the melee. But he was here for a reason, and he only had a short time to pull it off.

The front of the Inn wasn’t visible from the courtyard. They could do it without anybody seeing them, if they were quick. Bob was already outside, sheltering under the archway from the misting rain. He saw Nob and gave him a thumbs-up.

Nob drew a deep breath. “Are you ready? Let’s do this.”

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