The Sign of the Prancing Pony by Uvatha the Horseman

Nazgul Enter the Inn

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.