The Sign of the Prancing Pony by Uvatha the Horseman

At the Hobbit Farm

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.”