The Sign of the Prancing Pony by Uvatha the Horseman

At the Nazgul Camp

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.