The Sign of the Prancing Pony by Uvatha the Horseman

Closing the Gates

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.”