[piosenniel]

Dunlendings

Dawn was near. A pale light crept through the trees, illuminating the figures asleep by the near dead fire. It was quiet; no sound of birds readying for the day – save for the deep, echoing croak of a lone raven somewhere among the towering trees to the north. A single figure sat huddled near the last embers, hood shadowing his face, head nodding toward sleep. His companions, there were eight of them, lay near – sleeping fitfully on the ground as if pursued by bad dreamings.

Wulfson watched them from his vantage point atop a high rocky outcropping to the south of the road. His tall, lanky form was pressed low against the flat surface, his dark eyes scanning the meager camp for any booty worth taking. He put his finger to his lips as his younger brother, Ulrich joined him. Both watched the scene for a few moments then withdrew to their cold camp a little ways away.

Four others welcomed them back – all tall men, swarthy in appearance, with long, braided black hair. Dunlendings, the rangers and Elves would have termed them. But in their own language they called themselves the Men of the White Horned Mountains, and they bore a deep and abiding anger against those who had displaced them from their homeland – the Rohirrim and the men of Gondor who had given away their land to the horse farmers. And any who aided these two groups were also fair game in their belief.

‘What did you see?’ one of them asked Wulfson, their leader. ‘How many and what kind gather about their little fire?’ asked another.

‘Nine there are,’ answered Ulrich, his eyes on his brother. ‘Two of the Fair Folk,’ continued Wulfson, ‘and seven of those meddling Rangers.’ He spat the last word out in anger. ‘They’re camped just off the Great Road. They look worn out, as if from battle.’

There were low grumblings at this turn of events. The group had been traveling along the road, beneath the cover of the trees for some time, bound for Breeland. A fine group of ten horses had been ‘obtained’ from an unfortunate farmer on the outskirts of the Mark, and they were now bound for sale to certain men in the woods of Breeland who would pay well for them.

‘Shall we head further south to avoid them?’ asked Ulrich, looking to his brother for direction.

A feral light rose in Wolfson’s eyes, and he shook his head ‘no’. ‘We are well rested and well armed and horsed,’ he said with a toothy grin. Pulling his long, double bladed knife from its sheath, he kissed it. ‘Why should we run? Let them run, instead. And our blades taste their blood when we catch them.’

Silently, the others drew their own knives and touched the pommel of each to his. Then two were sent to watch the Elves and Rangers and report back on their activities. The others packed up their few belongings and saw to the horses.

‘We’ll ride ahead to the marshlands before the Last Bridge. There are some rocky outcroppings there, thick with bushes to shield us from view. We’ll ambush them there. Take what we can from them.’

‘And kill them?’ asked an older fellow, who’d lost one eye in years past in an encounter with a Ranger.

Wulfson’s lips drew back in a gruesome smile, showing his ragged yellow teeth. ‘Kill them all . . . the Elves, too . . .’