[shaggydog]

"Jims! Are you ready? We do not have much time."

Jims seemed to have been frozen to the spot at the elf’s words. He swallowed hard but his mouth was bone dry of a sudden. A knot had formed in his stomach and he half wished he had said nothing and pinned the loss of his horse on the apparently equally missing stable lad. Then, amazingly, Songo grabbed up a pitch fork from the corner of the stable where he stood and marched out into the yard to stand beside Gwathagor. Taking a deep breath, which seemed to stick in his throat, Jims grasped his staff tightly and pushed past Dick, striding in as confident a manner as he could manage to stand next Songo.

Dick, showing eminent sense, departed quickly, saying, ““I...I’ve got to find Will. Good - good luck!”

Resisting the urge to follow the innkeeper back into the stable, Jims asked instead, “Alright, Gwathagor. Where do we make our stand?” Jims hoped the nervous timbre of his voice wasn’t as readily noticeable to his companions in arms as it was to his own ears. He tried as best he could to push the elf’s words to the back of his mind. "There was only one wolf here and it was small - compared to its fellows . . . “

Before the elf could answer, though, there was a clatter of hoofbeats on cobbles as a small pony turned into the yard at a reckless pace. The rider, a hobbit, did not draw rein but practically galloped right into the stable. Unsure of the import of such haste, the elf, the man and the hobbit exchanged puzzled glances. But Gwathagor was not to be deflected from his chosen course. “Come. Let’s choose our positions.” He said in a steady voice. With a last glance to where the rider had disappeared into the stable, he added, “They may be closer than we think.”

Praying mightily that Gwathagor’s sword would be enough to deal with however many ‘fellows’ might return with the scout, Jims followed as the elf and the hobbit made their way to the clump of trees not a stone’s throw from the stable. Obeying Gwathagor’s silent signal to take up his position behind a large oak, Jims knelt down, leaning against his staff. It was stout ash, two inches thick. But crafted for walking, not fighting off large, hungry wolves. His eyes as big as saucers in the growing twilight, Jims glanced over to see Songo resting comfortably against the pitch fork, his face calm and fully alert now. The little fellow certainly had some hidden aplomb, Jims realized. Trying to configure his own features in a similarly relaxed mien, he peered into the road and wondered how long they would have to wait.