Barliman Butterbur was in his downstairs room
struggling with the Inn accounts when the door slammed
open.
It was Beomann, his oldest boy, round eyed and
panting "Dad! the Rover just walked in." his father
dropped his pen and shot down the corridor to the
common room.
The Rover was sitting in the Rangers' usual corner
by the fireplace with the sparse handful of other
customers clustered around him, all talking at once.
The Innkeeper pushed his way through them to find the
Ranger looking more than a little bemused by his
unaccustomedly warm welcome. The first words out of
Butterbur's mouth sounded plaintive, even to his own
ears. "Where did you go?"
"There was bad trouble away up north and in the
east." the Rover said. "We had to go deal with it."
"We had some pretty bad trouble right here,"
Butterbur told him. "fighting even. Some people were
actually killed!"
"So I've gathered. I'm sorry."
The Innkeeper pulled out a chair and sat down.
Shaky with relief, and a little ashamed of himself for
being so. "The Road's not safe these days, we've got a
nest of brigands somewhere out there in the Wild -"
"Not any more." the Rover interupted quietly, grey
eyes suddenly very cold.
Butterbur stared at him, swallowed hard. "There's
other things too," he said a little huskily. "Wolves,
and ghosts or something like it gibbering around the
hedge at night."
"Wights." the Ranger said grimly. "That's bad. I'd
not have expected them to grow so bold. Don't worry,
we'll see to it."
Butterbur looked at him, really looked, and saw the
pallor beneath the grime and lines of strain and
control around mouth and eyes. "Are you all right?"
The question clearly startled the Rover and he
hesitated a little before answering. "Well enough."
"You don't look it." the Innkeeper said bluntly.
"You'd best stay here tonight. A hot meal and a good
sleep in a proper bed is what you need."
The steely grey gaze softened. "Thank you, I will."
Butterbur stood up, hesitated. "Rover, what's your
right name."
The other Man smiled, something Butterbur couldn't
remember ever seeing a Ranger do before, said gently.
"I am Gilvagor son of Armegil."
He should have known it'd be something outlandish.
The Rover read the thought in his nonplussed face and
laughed aloud. Another thing Butterbur couldn't
remember seeing a Ranger do before. "Make it Gil. That
should come easier to your tongue."
*************************************************
Butterbur was yanked from his slumbers by a
pandemonium of voices floating up the main stair. He
rolled out of bed, pulled a dressing gown on over his
nighshirt and padded downstairs, his good wife at his
heels, to confront a passle of distraught townfolk
clustered around a hysterical, tearstained Woman
wrapped in homespun shawls.
"Here now, what's all this?" he demanded and the
Woman, The Widow Thistlewood from Alderedge Farm,
threw herself into Mrs. Butterbur's arms sobbing.
They're gone! They took them, they took them!"
"Took who?" his Missis asked, guiding the other
Woman to the settee before the hall fire.
"My babies!" the Widow wailed, "Tom and Daisy!
Skeletons, skeletons in white robes! They crawled
through the windows and dragged them out of their
beds!"
"When?" Gil's voice clove through the confusion like
a sword. Mrs. Thistlewood, struck silent, sat mouth
open staring at him. "When?"
"Just now." she answered, staring as if she
couldn't look away. "I ran after them but lost them in
the fog."
"I heard her wailing and calling and brought her
here." Will Rushlight, the west gatekeeper, put in.
"We may still be in time if we move fast." the
Ranger said, half to himself. His eyes swept the
assembled Men, bright with strange fires. "I will need
help."
***********************************************
Barliman Butterbur never really understood exactly
how he came to find himself walking through a chilly,
eldritch fog towards the dreaded Barrow Downs with his
clothes pulled on anyhow, a torch in one hand and a
wood axe in the other, surrounded by a dozen or so
neighbors similiarly armed. The Rover strode at the
head of their ragged column, grim and purposeful, the
fog rolling aside before him.
The Breelanders found themselves following him,
against all reason, off the road right into the
sinister downs. It was bitter cold, unaturally so, and
shapes moved in the mist on either side. Steel
whispered as Gil drew his sword, the long bright blade
caught the starlight, glistening, and the shapes and
the fog that cloaked them seemed to draw away in fear.
They came at last to a long barrow hunched at the
foot of a steep down, the dark door gaped open and
dead cold air flowed from it.
The Rover turned to face them. His eyes glistened
like his sword and power went out from him like heat
from a fire. "Fear is the Wights' chief weapon, so do
not fear! They fear the light and brave Men, so stand
firm and you will prevail. I count on you to keep them
from my back - for those two children's sake." He
turned, and ducking his head disappeared through the
black door.
The moment he vanished the fog, and the things in
it, drew closer encouraged. Panicked Butterbur thrust
his torch into a mowing skull-like face and it shrank
away. Geoff Heathertoes swung his scythe exactly as if
he were harvesting grain and a boney arm clattered to
the ground, wriggling in a tattered white sleeve. The
fog drew back.
Panting hard, the Men exchanged looks, spirits
rising. It was true then, they *could* do this - if
they kept their nerve and held their ground.
*****************************************
Beomann Butterbur was never able to adequately
explain to his father, to Gil, or even to himself, the
impulse that sent him into the barrow on the Ranger's
heels. How much help was a green boy clutching a
kitchen cleaver likely to be? and yet for all that it
stuck in his craw to let the Rover face whatever was
there under the earth alone.
Gil carried no torch and neither did Beomann, it
should have been black as pitch inside the barrow, but
it wasn't. A cold, unholy light burned in the burial
chamber and crept, sickly pale, up the passage.
And there were voices. Thin, cold, moaning voices
drearily chanting in a language Beomann couldn't
understand but which seemed to drain the warmth from
his body and hope from his soul.
And then Gil cried out a word that stopped the
chanters' tongues and shattered the spell like like a
dropped plate. Beomann gave a great gasp of relief and
crept closer to look in the burial chamber door.
The first thing he saw, with horror, was little Tom
and Daisy laid out on a slab of stone as if for burial
decked in cold, dead gold with a naked sword lying
across their throats.
The second was the three Wights, their white bones
clothed in rags of skin and tattered silk. And lastly,
facing them, the Ranger. Tall and terrible in worn
green leather, eyes and sword gleaming with a pure
silver light. He spoke again, clear ringing words that
fired Beomann's heart though he understood them no
better than the Wights' song.
The undead things shrank and gnashed their
fleshless jaws then, snarling, drew long greeny-white
swords and sprang at Gil. His blade flashed clean
silver flame as it cleaved the formost Wight from
skull to breast bone. It collapsed in a heap of
splintered bone and a cold wind rushed, wailing, past
Beomann and up the passage, fading into the distance.
He unscrewed his eyes and uncovered his ears in
time to see Gil slice the head from the shoulders of a
second Wight and had the sense to get quickly out of
the way of whatever it was that fled wailing into the
night. More Wights were coming out of gaping openings
to other chambers or passages, converging on the
Rover. Beomann launched himself at them with an
inarticulate cry.
Old dry bone splintered under his cleaver as he
hacked at limbs and rib cages. It caught on something
and was ripped out of his hand. Ducking under the
swing of a Barrow Wight's sword Beomann grabbed for a
blade lying on the floor, rolled onto his back and
skewered the Wight as it bent down to stab him. He
scrambled to his feet, swinging the sword inexpertly
with both hands as he charged back into the fray.
Suddenly the sickly light went out. Beomann
stumbled over a tangle of bone and fabric, fell and
lay still, panting, afraid to move in the blackness.
The Rover's voice, breathless but calm, came out of
the dark. "Who's there?"
"B-Beomann Butterbur."
A rustling and a warm strong hand clasped his arm.
"Are you hurt?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, Beomann, I don't know how you came to be
here but thank you for your help. Now let's get the
little ones out of here."
***********************************************
It turned out Beomann was hurt, a long gash along
his jaw, another running from shoulder to elbow on his
right arm, and a bloody hole through his left thigh.
But he didn't feel them until after they'd arrived
safe back at the Pony and his mother descended upon
him with a sharp cry of dismay.
The Widow Thistlewood hung, wringing her hands and
dripping tears, over the cold still bodies of her
children. "Are they dead?" she moaned, "are they
dead?"
"No," Gil answered her, "but their spirits are
lost, wandering in Shadow, and must be called home."
Little Tom and Daisy, still in their barrow jewels
and silken burial robes, had been laid out on a table
in the common room with what seemed like half of Bree
jostling and craning their necks for a look.
The Rover leaned over them and spoke commandingly in
the same strange language he'd used in the barrow.
"Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan na ngalad!" Silence fell
abruptly over the crowded room, but the children did
not stir.
Gil reached to take each by the hand. "In the name
of Elendil the King and of Hundeth the Chief I summon
thee. By the oath that binds thy kin to mine I bid
thee come back to the Light!"
And Tom gave a great gasp and opened his eyes. And
his sister uttered a long wail and held her arms out
to her mother. Gil stepped quickly back as the Widow
caught her children up in a tight embrace and the
crowd of Bree folk surged forward to congratulate and
exclaim. Came over to where Beomann sat on a stool
before the fire with his mother tending his wounds.
"You must watch for infection." the Ranger warned
her. "Wightish weapons are notoriously unclean."
"I can imagine." Mrs. Butterbur sniffed. "Nasty
undead things!" squinted up at him. "Are you hurt?"
"Not a scratch, though I might have been killed if
not for your son." and he gave Beomann a smile that
made him feel warm clear through and a good foot
taller. "That was brave, my friend. Not very
intelligent, but brave."
"I'm that proud of him." Mrs. Butterbur agreed and
threw her son a sharp look. "But if he ever does the
like again I'll kill him myself!"
"Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum." Beomann said meekly. But in
his heart he wasn't sorry at all, and in the back of
his mind an idea was born to lie hidden, even from
himself, for a long while.
His mother was studying the Ranger again and
clearly not much liking what she was seeing. "You look
like death," she told him. "and you say you're not
hurt?"
"Not by Wights." Gil answered, which was a mistake.
Ishbel Butterbur had raised four sons and three
daughters, she knew an evasion when she heard it.
"By something else then?" the flash of guilt in his
face was all the answer she needed. "Get up, Beomann."
she ordered. Then to the Ranger. "You, sit down." he
opened his mouth to protest. "I said sit down, young
man!"
The vivid laughter that briefly lit his face made
him look young indeed. Meekly he took Beomann's place
on the stool. Under jerkin and shirt was a bandage and
it had blood on it. The wound beneath, a nasty
diagonal gash across the ribs, had been neatly
stitched closed but oozed blood here and there where
it had broken open again.
"Taking on who knows how many of those horrid
Wights with a great gash like this in you," Mrs.
Butterbur scolded as she cleaned, salved and
rebandaged the wound. "have you no sense at all?"
"Not much." Gil admitted, smiling. Then more
seriously; "What else could I do, Mrs. Butterbur, with
two children gone?"
That silenced her, more or less. She grumbled to
herself as she finished her bandaging, then ordered
Gil upstairs to bed and to stay there until she said
he could get up!
That made him laugh again. "You sound just like my
old Nurse. Very well, Mrs. Butterbur, I know how to
follow orders. Good night."
*****************************************
Two more Rangers arrived early the next morning
asking for Gil. Butterbur directed them to his room
but Mrs. Butterbur blocked the stairs and gave them a
good tongue lashing for not looking after their
companion better.
They listened in patient silence, with perhaps a
trace of amusement, until she got to the Barrow
Wights. Then a flash of alarm crossed Treebole's face
*1 and he picked her right off the steps, set her
gently to one side and shot up the stairs with
Silverlock *2 right behind him and Mrs. Butterbur hot
on their heels as soon as she got her breath back.
Gil was either awake or wakened the moment they
entered and smiled at them. "What's all the noise?"
Treebole crossed the room in three long strides,
took his wrist in one large hand, studied his face,
then shook his head. "Didn't I say you were using
yourself to hard?"
"Mrs. Butterbur has already given me one good
scolding," Gil pleaded, eyes twinkling, "I don't need
another."
"Might as well save my breath for all the good it'll
do." Treebole agreed ruefully.
"Tackling Wights in your state," Silverlock shook
his head, "what were you thinking?"
"Of the two children they'd carried off." Gil
answered quietly.
The Rangers exchanged a glance and a sigh. "There
was no help for it then." Treebole said resignedly,
gently laying down his arm. "Very well then, Rover,
we'll spare you more reproaches."
"Thank you. Do one thing more for me, see the
Barrow is cleansed. I couldn't do it last night and
Mrs. Butterbur has forbidden me to get up without her
permission, which I fear will not be given just yet."
and he gave the hostess, hovering in the doorway, a
smile that made her blush like a girl.
**********************************************
Mr. Butterbur was waiting for them at the foot of
the stair. "Begging your pardon, but I wanted to ask;
what should we do about this?"
'This' was the golden jewelry that had adorned the
two children, piled neatly on the Rangers' corner
table with Beomann's sword lying beside it.
"Keep it if you like," Silverlock answered, fingers
brushing lightly over rings and chains, "There's no
taint on it that I can feel." then he picked up the
sword and stiffened, eyes flashing outrage. "Mandos
consign them to your deepest dungeons!" he whispered
with frightening venom. "That they would *dare* -"
looked at Treebole. "It was Aradan's tomb."
The other Ranger set his mouth in an even grimmer
line and nodded upward. "Does *he* know that?"
"I don't see how he couldn't."
"Aradan?" Butterbur echoed blankly. "You mean King
Aradan who was killed in the Witch Wars?"
Both Rangers turned to look at him in surprise.
"That's right," Silverlock said, "You know the name?"
The Innkeeper glared. "We remember the Kings, we
fought for them in those wars."
"Indeed you did," the Ranger agreed somberly, "and
bravely too." he looked down at the sword in his hand.
"Aradan and his sons fell before the gates of their
citadel and were buried together with the knights
who'd stood by them at the last." raised dark blue
eyes to Butterbur's. "Your kin as well as ours lie in
that barrow." suddenly he extended the sword, hilt
first to the Innkeeper. "Give this to your son. The
brave Man who bore it would be glad for him to have
it."
Butterbur took the sword automatically, eyes never
leaving Silverlock's. "The King's People," he breathed
wonderingly, "that's who you Rangers really are. You
didn't die or go to the Elves, you've been right here
all along."
"Where we belong." said Silverlock.
**********************************************
Several of the Men who'd followed the Rover out to
the Downs the night before, including Butterbur
himself, decided to go back with Treebole and
Silverlock.
Not that they were of much help finding the barrow,
what with the fog and the dark last night. Luckily the
Rangers didn't need assistance but followed a trail
the Breelanders couldn't even see, unerringly to the
long Barrow beneath the steep face of a down. The door
gaped blackly as ever by daylight and a slight chill
still hung about the place.
Treebole knelt down to cut a big square in the turf
and roll back the dry winter grass. Then he and
Silverlock went into the barrow to bring out the bones
and pile them on the bare earth.
It was a nasty job but Butterbur remembered what
Silverlock had said about some of those bones
belonging to his kin, gritted his teeth and pitched
in. And after some hesitation the other Breelanders
did too.
When they finished the bones, including some ten or
fifteen skulls, were in a big heap and the Breelanders
drew back a little, uncertainly, to see what the
Rangers would do next. First they covered the bones
with shreded silk and tufts of dry grass, then
Silverlock took a crystal from his coat and used it to
focus the sun's rays on the tinder. After a long
minute it began to smoke then caught little pale
flames running all over the pile.
Butterbur cleared his throat. "Why -?"
"Sunfire cleanses." Treebole explained quietly,
glanced at his troubled face and added: "If we just
buried the bones the Wights could reclaim them. This
is the only way to keep that from happening."
"Oh." There was something funny about the fire, the
flames were pale but burned very bright and hot -
almost like the sun.
Then Silverlock began to sing, a strange, slow song
in words Butterbur couldn't understand but which
filled his head with visions of high walled cities,
sceptered kings, a golden land patterned with
prosperous farms and towns, and a darkness held at bay
by shining swords.
The song ended. Butterbur sniffed and rubbed away
the tears rolling down his cheeks with his sleeve. His
neighbors' faces were wet too, but none of them could
say why.
Silverlock and Treebole went back into the barrow
and came out carrying armloads of treasure; gold and
silver jewelry glittering with gems, swords and
daggers, and shields ensigned with stars and trees and
ships and other devices. This they spread on the grass
and invited the Bree Men to take whatever they fancied
and leave the rest lie in the clean sunlight, free to
all comers.
"But - it's wrong to rob the dead." Will Rushlight
ventured.
"The Wights have already done that," Treebole
answered, "this is how we break their hold and cleanse
the barrow of their presence."
"The King and his knights passed long ago beyond
the circles of this world," Silverlock said kindly,
"they care nothing for treasure now."
He bent and took from the heap a circlet of tiny
leaves in bright silver with a green beryl stone set
above the brow. Looked at it rather sadly for a
moment, before saying; "I chose this."
Treebole silently selected a big red-golden broach
in the shape of a coiled dragon. Thus encouraged the
Breelanders began to pick through the glittering pile.
Butterbur chose a chain of gold and pearl for his
Missis, another of adamant and beryl and topaz for
Peggy, a pair of wide silver bracelets set with
sapphires for May and an opal ring for Lusey. After a
moment's hesitation he also took a long dagger, its
blade damasked in a flame pattern of red and gold, for
young Gerry, since Beomann already had his sword.
For himself he took one of the shields, bright
gold, ensigned with sprig of butterbur in green with
purple flowers. Why a knight of old would have been
carrying it he couldn't imagine, but it would look
well over the bar.
**********************************************
1. So called for his height, even greater than that of
most Rangers. His real name is Arallas son of Dornlas,
(the same Arallas who is Captain of the Gate of Swords
in 'Return') at one hundred and nineteen years he is
accounted old even by the Dunendain.
2. So called for his silver blond hair. His real name
is Elfaron son of Ithilion. His ancestors were nobles
holding land on the River Lune. He inherits his silver
hair from an ancestress who was a Nandorin Elf of the
Evendim Hills.
The Nandor, btw, are Elves who left the Great
Journey to settle on the banks of the Anduin and in
Eriador. Though accounted 'Dark Elves' they are
considered a cut above the Avari who refused the
Journey altogether.
*****************************************
It turned out the Rover and his companions had had
another reason for coming to Bree, beyond a roof over
their heads and a chance to hear the news, they needed
to buy food.
"You have families," Farmer Appledore said blankly,
"women and children?" the three Rangers looked at him
and he blushed. "Sorry, of course you must, it's just
I never realized -"
"You weren't meant too." Gil told him. Continued to
the tableful of Bree's leading citizens: "Normally we
buy our supplies through the Dwarves, but as you all
know last summer and fall were anything but normal."
Fervent nods of agreement all round.
"With none of the usual fairs or markets open we
were forced to fall back on our stores, unfortunately
almost all of those were lost when the enemy burned
our holdings -"
"Enemy?" Butterbur interupted. "Surely you don't
mean those brigands from down South?"
"No," Treebole agreed grimly, "he means the Hill
Folk of the North and the Mountain Orcs."
"Not to mention Stone Trolls, and Hill Trolls.
Wights and Sergollim and other things left by the
Witch King." added Silverlock.
The Rover silenced his companions with a look. "As
I said, we've had troubles of our own to deal with."
Butterbur didn't like the sound of that. He was
begining to suspect Bree's 'bad trouble' had actually
been a very small matter indeed, and much worse might
have happened had the Rangers not put themselves
between the Breeland and the greater threat.
"What about your women and children?" his Missis
said suddenly, pausing mid-pour, ale pot in hand. "If
your homes were destroyed where are they? Surely not
camping out in the Wild!"
Gil seemed to hesitate a moment before answering.
"No, most have taken refuge in Annuminas."
"The old capital?" Ben Mugwort gaped, "but it's a
ruin now. The enchanted forest grew over it, didn't
it?"
The Ranger shook his head. "No, the Elves took care
of the city for us. The buildings are sound enough to
shelter our people but we need to buy food if we are
to make it through the winter."
Of course the Breelanders immediately agreed to
sell, it was certainly better than letting their
surpluses of grain and vegetables moulder in the
storehouses but -
"Are you sure you can afford to pay?" Mugwort
blurted, adding hastily, "I mean we'd be glad to give
you a discount in you need it."
Gil smiled, "Thank you but that won't be
necessary."
Mrs. Butterbur frowned at him. "I know you men,
this is no time for silly pride. If your folk are in
need -"
Astonishingly all three Rangers grinned. "I promise
you, Mrs. Butterbur, payment will not be a problem."
Gil's eyes twinkled. "You see, when our ancestors
abandoned Annuminas they left the Royal Treasury
behind."
The Breelanders gaped. "You don't mean vaults of
gold and silver?" Butterbur managed.
"In fact I do." Gil shrugged. "We were surprised
too."
"Though we shouldn't have been come to think of
it," that was Silverlock, "it's not as if gold or
silver would have been any use to them in the Wild."
"Comes in handy now though." said Treebole.
************************************************
The train of twelve large, heavily loaded wagons
jolted its way over the broken and grass grown stones
of the old North Road.
The Wild spread wide and empty around them, rolling
hills, stands of forest, jagged outcroppings of rock,
and here and there crumbling ruins that were once
towns or castles or who knew what. The sight of them
made Beomann's eyes sting.
The Wild hadn't always been waste, once upon a time
this had all been settled land - a grand and glorious
kingdom - and his ancestors had been a part of it. A
humble part but they'd obeyed the King's Law and
fought in his wars until the day the King and his
people had disappeared, leaving Bree to struggle on as
best it could alone.
Only they'd never really been alone. Adrift now in
this vast emptiness Beomann saw his homeland for what
it was, a tiny, fragile bubble of life and order that
never could have survived without the constant, secret
protection of the Rangers.
He found it hard to believe the Breelanders had
never guessed who those strange, green clad wanderers
and hunters really were. The old stories said the
People of the Kings were tall and dark haired and
possessed strange magical powers and lived for
centuries.
And of course Rangers were tall and dark and
magical too. And everybody knew they lived much longer
than ordinary folk did. Why Strider, who was King now
according to old Gandalf, had been coming into the
Pony since Beomann's grandfather's time - nigh on
sixty years if it was a day.
"How old are you, Gil?" Beomann asked suddenly.
The Rover, riding beside the wagon on one of the
big, shaggy horses Rangers used, shot him an amused
look. "About your father's age I'd say, just short of
fifty."
Beomann looked at him hard. It wasn't easy to gage
Gil's age, when he got that grim Ranger look he seemed
older than the hills but if he chanced to smile or
laugh he looked no older than Beomann himself. He was
smiling now.
"That's not very old as my people measure it. By
our standards I'm still little more than a boy."
"How old do you get?" Hobbits lived a bit longer
than Men but not even they considered fifty young.
The smile vanished. "If our lives aren't shortened
by violence or hardship or grief, perhaps a hundred
and fifty years or a little more. My kin may, with
good fortune, live sixty or so years beyond that. But
we've had all to little good fortune these last
centuries."
And there was that look again. Gil's reaction to
questions was unpredictable. Often they amused him but
sometimes he'd go all sad and grim, like now, as if
reminded of things he'd rather forget.
But then he'd see Beomann's face fall and make an
effort to cheer them both up. "Silverlock is just a
youngster, like me, but Treebole there is a hundred
and nineteen, old even by our measure."
Beomann stared slack jawed at the tall Ranger's
long back as he rode next to the lead wagon. Treebole
didn't look young but he certainly didn't look *that*
old! Of course all three Rangers had been coming into
the Pony as long as Beomann could remember and none of
them had aged a day in all that time.
"I can't understand why we never figured out who
you Rangers really were."
"You weren't meant to." Gil replied.
"You said that before," Dick Heathertoes said from
the driver's side of the wagon seat. "What do you mean
by it?"
"That you saw and thought what we wanted you to see
and think."
Both Breelanders stared at him. "You mean you used
magic on us?" Dick asked nervously.
Gil frowned. "I've never really understood what you
country people mean by the word 'magic' you seem to
use it for so many things."
"Well," Beomann groped for an example, "what you
did in the barrow was magic."
"That was Power." the Ranger agreed. "But fooling
the eye is a small thing in comparison, would you call
that 'magic' too?"
"Yes!" said both young Men in unison. Gil shook his
head bemused. "What would you call it?" Beomann wanted
to know.
Gil shrugged. "A trick, a play. It's a simple
thing, we learn it as children. Why I might even be
able to teach it to you."
"No thanks!" they chorused in lively alarm. And Gil
laughed.
"Are you doing it now?" Beomann asked, and the
Ranger smiled again.
"No, it's no longer necessary."
Beomann looked at him hard, trying to see a change.
Gil was still recognizably the Rover he'd known since
he was a boy, yet he'd never really noticed the fine
aristocratic features under the scrub of beard and
dirty hair or the quicksilver brightness of the wide
deep grey eyes. The old stories said the King's People
were beautiful and Gil was, but somehow Beomann had
never seen it before.
"I don't like the idea of being under a spell."
Dick grumbled.
"Oh it's not a spell." the Rover assured him
quickly. "I promise you those of us who can use such
arts do not do so lightly, and certainly never on our
own people without their leave."
Beomann suspected what Gil meant by a spell was not
what Dick meant by it, but kept his mouth shut. Dick
seemed reassured and Beomann wanted him to stay that
way.
As for himself it wasn't the magic he minded but
the deception. Their King hadn't abandoned Bree but
he'd hidden himself from its people even as he'd set
his own to guard them. It wasn't right.
Beomann felt a sudden, irrational surge of
resentment. Bree Folk had belonged to the King too!
Maybe they didn't have magic like the Men from Over
the Sea but they'd kept his laws and fought for him
too. It wasn't *right* he hadn't trusted them!
But how could he say that to Gil, or Silverlock or
Treebole after all that they and the other Rangers had
done for Bree down the long years? It was Strider, the
King, he had to say it too if he ever got the chance -
or had the nerve.
*****************************************
The high, darkly wooded Evendim Hills marched into
the blue distance left of the road. Half the
wagoneers, including Beomann, watched the forest like
they expected a three headed Oliphant to charge from
the verges at any minute. The other half resolutely
refused to look at it at all.
The Enchanted Forest had an evil name in the
Breeland and Gil's reassurances had been somewhat less
than successful. According to him there was indeed a
King and Queen of the Lake - but there was no need to
worry about them as they were friendly towards the
Rangers.
Better still, the forest really was packed solid
with spells and enchantments trapping all kinds of
nasty things inside it, but not to worry as the road
and the city had special protections placed on them.
Needless to say the Breelanders didn't find this the
least bit comforting.
Beomann's heart was in his mouth as the road turned
directly towards the forest. They passed under the
shadows of the first trees and found themselves faced
with a tall gate, intricately wrought in black iron in
the form of bare and tangled trees, between two grim
towers of dark stone crowned with iron spikes.
Treebole blew a long mournful call on a horn. A
moment's silence then the great gates swung smoothly
open before them revealing a spotless white road
running between tall, bare black trees. It wasn't
until they were actually passing beneath them that
Beomann realized the trees weren't real but, like the
gate, wrought of iron.
"The Gate of Iron." said Gil suddenly. "Also known
as the Gate of Winter."
There didn't seem to be much to say to that.
Looking back Beomann saw the gate had closed silently
behind the last wagon. There was no going back now.
Two miles or so on they came to a second gate
between towers of reddish stone topped by brazen
spikes. The Gate was bronze too, made to look like
tangled trees just like the iron one but covered with
bright copper leaves. And Beomann wasn't surprised to
see the trees beyond this gate were also bronze with
large leaves of beaten copper.
"And this is the Gate of Autumn." said Gil.
"Very pretty." Dick managed huskily.
"Thank you. They were made for Elendil long years
ago by the greatest Elven craftsman yet living in
Middle Earth."
Elendil, Beomann remembered, was the name of the
First King. The one who'd escaped from Westerness
before it was drowned. So these gates must be
thousands of years old - and not a spot of rust or
tarnish on them. "Are they magic?"
"I suppose you could call them so." the Ranger
conceeded.
The first and second gates had been strange and
beautiful but the third took the breath away. It was
of gold, and so were the glittering parapets of the
honey colored stone towers that flanked it. And the
trees that formed the gate and lined the road beyond
it were covered with leaves and fruits of jewels,
sparkling green, gold, red, pink and orange in the
sunlight.
"This is the Golden Gate of Summer." said Gil.
Beomann had to swallow twice before he could get
the words out. "Are we there yet."
The Ranger laughed. "Not quite. Still two more
gates to go."
Beomann exchanged a bemused look with Dick. It was
hard to see how they'd top that last gate. The Bree
Men braced themselves for further wonders.
Shining white towers with silver parapets flanked
silver gates wrought in the shape of new budding trees
covered with young leaves and blossoms. And the tall
silver trees lining the road on the other side also
glittered with pale green gems, the exact color of new
leaves, and many colored jeweled flowers.
"Don't tell me, the Gate of Summer." Dick blurted
and Gil laughed and nodded.
"And now you've run out of seasons," said Beomann,
"so what's your last gate called?"
"The Gate of the Two Trees." both Breelanders
looked at him blankly and he smiled. "I take it you
don't know that tale?"
Dick shrugged. "Beomann here's the expert on the
old stories."
The younger Man flushed a little but admitted. "I
can't say I've ever heard that one."
"Long ago, before the Sun and the Moon were made,
when Elves and Men still slept in the mind of Eru,"
Gil began, just as Bree storytellers always started
with 'Once upon a time when the King still ruled,'
"the only light in Middle Earth came from the stars of
Varda. But in the far West, in Aman the Undying, there
grew two Trees and from them light fell as rain and
dew.
"Telperion was the elder, the Tree of Silver, and
its light was purer and stronger than that of the new
moon. The Tree of Gold was known as Laurelin and a
firery rain, hotter and brighter than sunlight, fell
from its boughs. For long ages the Valar and the Maiar
dwelt in the light of the Trees, and when the Elves
awoke in Middle Earth they were called to Aman that
they might share in the light as well.
"But Morgoth, the Great Enemy, hated all light that
was not his own and he poisoned the Two Trees,
thinking thereby to plunge the world into darkness
unending. But before dying Telperion put forth one
last silver flower; and Laurelin a final fruit of
gold.
"And the Valar took them and placed them in vessels
imperishable and set them in the heavens that they
might give light to all Middle Earth. Thus the final
flower of Telperion became the Moon, and the last
fruit of Laurelin the Sun.
"And it is said that the Second Children, our race,
the race of Men, awoke to the first dawn of the first
day of the Sun. And so the Elves call us the Children
of the Sun and the dawn will ever bring new hope to
Men.
"But the High Elves remember and mourn for the
Light of the Trees, which lives now only in the
Silmarils - and they are lost."
Beomann shivered. Suddenly catching a vertiginous
glimpse of the vast, dark gulf of time underlying his
small familiar world, like a fallen leaf floating on
the surface of a deep well. "Silmarils?"
Gil smiled. "That's an even longer story, we'll
save it for another time I think." pointed ahead.
"There it stands, the Gate of the Trees."
A high, grassy green bank reared up before them and
in its middle stood tall, shining gates of gold and
silver intermingled, adorned with figures of the sun
and moon. And the gateposts were two gigantic trees,
one of silver and one of gold, more than a hundred
feet high. And the leaves of the silver tree were dark
green above and silver below and it was covered with
glistening flowers of pearl. And the tree of gold had
light green leaves, gilt edged, and firery clusters of
topaz blossoms dripping from its boughs.
"Is that - is that what they looked like? Telperion
and Laurelin." Beomann stammered.
"As close as craft can come to it." Gil answered.
"Enerdhil made them, who saw the Two Trees in their
glory before the coming of the Dark Lord."
The Breelander thought he'd never seen anything so
wonderful and beautiful, until the gates opened and he
had his first sight of Annuminas the Golden, City of
Elendil.
The road became a broad avenue lined with fragrant
evergreen trees, unlike any he'd seen before,
descending into a shining city of white stone, its
many domes and the pinacles of its soaring towers
overlaid with gold that glowed in the sunlight filling
the air with a warm radiance.
The Breelanders' wagons rattled past tall houses
with balconies of fretted stone and wide windows set
with colored glass like jewels. Pillared arcades
shading rows of empty shops, and grand public
buildings adorned with statues of Kings and Queens,
armored knights and fair ladies. There were green
parks and gardens full of unfamiliar but very
beautiful flowers. And everywhere the glitter of water
in pools and channels and hundreds of splashing
fountains.
And the people matched the city. More of them than
the Breelanders had imagined, tall and dark haired
with light, piercing eyes in proud, stern faces. Many
of the Men were dressed in the familiar Ranger
leathers but others wore long tunics and surcoats in
dark, rich colors under swirling cloaks fastened at
throat or shoulder by glittering pins. The Women were
nearly as tall as the Men and every bit as stern and
grim. But they were beautiful too, like queens and
princesses of old with their long hair hanging down
their backs and flowing, jewel colored gowns under fur
lined mantles.
And, unbelievably, there were children. Small,
bright eyed and noisy, running wild in packs. Chasing
each other through the columns of the arcades; barely
dodging, or failing to dodge, their elders; laughing
and calling to each other in the strange musical
language Gil had used for his spells.
Beomann could imagine what his mother would have
had say to his brothers and sisters if they'd behaved
so but the adult Rangers didn't seem to mind at all.
They just got out of the way, or failed to, and
exchanged smiles over the children's heads. *1
Finally the avenue came to an end in a great plaza.
Golden fountains cascaded down terraces of colored
marbles under the benign gaze of numerous statues and
above it all rose the towered and golden domed palace
glittering with jewel-toned window casements, its
great tower soaring high into the blue sky. Clearly
they couldn't take the wagons up there!
They turned left instead, skirting the terraces,
until they came to lacy gates of silver and steel
between doorposts carved in the forms of tall knights
armed and helmed. These stood open and they rolled
right into a large stableyard, distinctly grander than
the Pony's but still comfortingly familiar to the eye
and nose.
Rangers dressed in grey and white came to take the
horses. "I see your mission was successful, Captain."
one said to Gil.
"Thanks to our friends in Bree." he answered with a
smile for the wagoners, huddled uncomfortably together
unsure of what to do next. "Where is my Grandmother?"
"In the Hall tending to business." the Man answered
and shook his head. "There seems no end to it."
Gil nodded, grimly. "I never thought victory could
be so troublesome." he agreed then turned to his
companions. "Arallas, find quarters and refreshments
for our friends. Masters Heathertoes, Master Butterbur
come with me if you will."
Treebole herded the rest of the Breelanders off in
one direction while Geoff and Dick and Beomann
followed Gil and Silverlock in another. They passed
under an archway and through a pair of tall, ivory
doors carved with trees and stars into a broad hallway
with colored marbles set in intricate golden
arabesques on floor and high vaulted ceiling, the
walls hung with paintings and lined with carved
pillars and statues.
It made Beomann feel very small and grubby and
badly out of place. He looked enviously at Gil.
Somehow, dispite being every bit as dirty as the
Breelanders and the worn green leathers he wore the
Ranger fit right in with his fine features echoing the
sculpted faces of the statues and the regal bearing of
a king come home.
A second pair of doors, of gold inlaid with trees
and stars in silver and white stones, opened onto a
vast round hall. The high domed ceiling was dark blue
and patterned with stars that glittered with their own
light just like the real ones. A glimmering silver
tree grew out of the dais in the middle of the room,
its leaves chiming softly against each other as they
moved. A Woman sat in a silver chair beneath its
boughs surrounded by Rangers, all talking in quiet,
measured voices.
They made way for Gil and he led the three Bree Men
to the foot of the dais. The Woman rose to greet them.
"Master Heathertoes, Master Richard, Master Butterbur,
welcome to Annuminas."
Beomann felt his jaw drop, and he didn't have to
look at the Heathertoe brothers to know their
expressions would be equally sandbagged.
"N-Nightcrow?" Geoff quavered.
"Ellemir," she corrected, deep grey eyes like Gil's
glinting amusement, "Lady of the Dunedain."
She looked a lot like Gil, but then she would,
being his grandmother. Then Beomann remembered how old
Gil really was and gulped. Nightcrow - Ellemir - must
be nearly as old as Treebole! *2 But she looked
younger than Beomann's own mother. The long black hair
held back by a silver circlet hadn't a thread of grey
in it and her elegant, high boned face showed a few
lines but no wrinkles.
"We are grateful for your help, Master Heathertoes.
What foodstuffs in what amounts have you brought and
what was the agreed price?"
The prosaic business talk struck Beomann as being
badly out of place in this setting, but nobody else
seemed to think so. The Rangers listened with their
usual grave attention as Ellemir and Gil and Geoff
talked about grain and vegetables and the going rates
for cartage and delivery.
Beomann's own mind wandered, he looked instead at
the people around him. A very beautiful woman all in
dark grey with a long veil over her hair stood on the
steps of the dais next to a sleander, tired looking
girl also in grey.
A bearded Man in shades of green with a golden
chain around his neck sat on a stool on the step below
them, one leg thick with bandages and a short silver
topped staff leaning against his good knee. Gil too,
had mounted the dais to stand on the step just below
his grandmother.
Some of the people gathered at the foot of the dais
were dressed in Ranger leathers, others in dark grey a
few in brighter colors. And they weren't all Men, (and
Women) Beomann saw a trio of Dwarves, two red bearded
and one with a black beard braided with gold. And a
tall, slim, silver haired person who could only be an
Elf.
Something about those delicate features struck
Beomann as familiar. Jarred he looked at Silverlock
standing next to him, then back at the Elf. There was
a definite resemblance. Some said the King's People
were part Elf, apparently they were right.
Then Geoff and Dick were bowing, rather awkwardly,
and Beomann realized their audience was over. As
Silverlock herded them back towards the door he heard
Gil begin to talk in the musical Ranger language,
sounding both grim and sad.
For all their magical city these people were
clearly in trouble and Beomann wondered if there was
anything else Bree might do help. A shipment of food
seemed to small a repayment for the Rangers' thousand
unthanked years of defending the Breeland.
***********************************************
1. Annuminas is a tremendously exciting place for the
young Dunedain, even more exciting is the opportunity
to meet and play with a great many other children.
Something their usual lifestyle on scattered holdings
doesn't allow.
Though nowhere near as permissive as Elves the
Dunedain do tend to go easy on the discipline for the
first ten or twelve years of their children's lives.
Knowing only too well how grim their adult lives are
likely to be. Strangers are often painfully struck by
the contrast between the lively, high spirited
youngsters and their silent, watchful elders.
2. Actually she's much older. Ellemir is one hundred
and seventy five, a venerable age even for a member of
the Royal House.
*****************************************
Luckily the living quarters of the Palace, away
from the great halls and chambers of state, weren't
anywhere near as overwhelming - though not exactly
what a Breelander would call 'homey'.
Gil, Treebole and Silverlock didn't reappear but
Beomann made friends with the young Ranger in grey and
white who brought their lunch and their supper and
seemingly had been assigned to look after them.
He really was young too, just Beomann's age, and
only a little taller with soft black hair, brown skin
and startlingly pale grey eyes. His name was Danilos,
but he didn't mind being called Dan.
"Why do you all have such odd names?" Beomann asked
idly the next morning as he lay by a pool in the
Palace gardens with the Ranger sitting cross-legged
nearby.
Dan smiled down at the arrow he was fletching.
"Because they're in the Grey Elven tongue not a
language of Men."
"So you people are part Elf."
He shook his head. "Only some of us, the Line of
Isildur of course and a few other Houses. Most
Dunedain are mere Men."
Beomann's look was skeptical. Men maybe, but there
was nothing 'mere' about them.
"Our ancestors adopted the Elven speech three Ages
ago," the other continued, "when they allied with the
High Elves of the West against the Great Enemy."
Beomann sat up, blurting the question that had been
bothering him all night. "Dan, what's happened to your
people?"
The Ranger put the finished arrow down beside the
others and took an unfletched shaft from the pile, his
face grim and sorrowful and much older than it had
been just a second ago. "We have won a great victory
but it has cost us almost all we had."
"Gil said your homes had been burned." Beomann
offered awkwardly.
"There isn't a holding or strong place left
standing north of the road." Dan said baldly, hands
busy with his arrow. "And the south and the east are
little better off. Raiders even won through to Lune
Dale and the Tower Hills and that's never happened
before, even in the worst of the Flood Years."
Beomann frowned, puzzled. "Flood Years?"
Another bleak smile. "Our name for times when our
Enemy has come near to overwhelming us. This year was
the worst - and the last."
"There've been others?" Beomann'a blood chilled,
how long had this war been going on with Bree knowing
nothing about it?
"To many." Dan said flatly.
Beomann decided not to pursue that question just
yet. "And this is where the Rangers went when you all
disappeared?"
But Dan shook his head. "Only the children, the old
and some of the women. Those still fit to bear arms
went North to face the Enemy."
"Enemy, what enemy?"
"Angmar." the Ranger answered grimly.
"The Witch Kingdom? But I thought - wasn't it
destroyed?"
"Oh yes." even more grimly. "Carn Dum was leveled
and her people scattered. But that was no more the end
of them then the destruction of Fornost was the end of
the Dunedain.
"As the power of Sauron grew so did the numbers and
might of the Hill Folk and Carn Dum was rebuilt. Orcs
and Trolls multiplied in the Mountains, and other Dark
things came forth from their hiding places."
"Like the Wights." said Beomann.
Dan nodded. "We have been hard pressed these last
years. Foot by foot they drove us back until the Line
of Defense was just a few miles north of the Road.
Then, at the begining of March, Greymere fell and the
Line was broken."
"What was Greymere?"
"The seat of the Wardens of the Weather Hills and
key to control of the Road. When we lost Greymere we
lost the power to defend our country people from the
storm to come.
"So the Lady and the Captains decided to carry the
battle to the Enemy, and that the time for secrecy was
ended." Dan's sudden smile glinted like the steel edge
of a sword. "The Captains rode to Rivendell to get the
Arms and Banners of the Kings from Lord Elrond and the
rest of us brought out the weapons and trappings our
ancestors had put aside, at Aranarth's bidding, over a
thousand years ago when first we became Rangers."
"So Nightcrow - Lady Ellemir that is - is your
leader?" Beomann asked puzzled. "What about Strider, I
thought he was Chief of the Rangers?"
"And so he is, Isildur's Heir and our King. But he
was down in the South, as he still is, and in his
absence my Lady, his grandmother, governs the
Dunedain.
"Nightcrow is Strider's grandmother!" Beomann
interupted. And if she was Gil's grandmother too that
must mean - "Gil's royalty? He's descended from the
Kings?"
Dan gave him a look of mild surprise. "He is the
next in blood, the heir until the Dunadan gets himself
another." a faint smile. "Which he may now at last!"
Beomann flopped back on the grass. Stupid of him,
he should have realized as much for himself when he
saw Nightcrow sitting on a throne. "So you went
north?" he prompted.
Dan nodded, eyes shining. "It was like the Elder
Days had come again, the ranks of knights and
men-at-arms with the sunlight glittering on their
armour, and of archers with the great Numenorean
warbows over their shoulders, a full ten thousand in
all, and the banners of the High Kingdom, Arthedain
and the Heirs of Isildur flying over our heads."
"You were there?"
A look of surprise. "Of course." continued: "The
Elves of Lindon and the Lake sent what strength they
could spare to join us, in memory of our ancient
alliance, some nine hundred in all.
"We met the vanguard of Angmar's army, four times
our number or more, at the Gornen -" broke off
remembering who he was talking to. "but I don't
suppose you know the far northern lands?"
"How could I?" Beomann asked drily.
Dan smiled faintly and explained. "It's a small
river some fifty leagues north of here. In spring and
summer it carries snowmelt from the Rhudaur Hills but
spring came late this year, as I'm sure you remember,
so its bed was nearly dry.
"They were still in marching order when we
encountered them, mounted Hill Men in the advance and
Orcs on foot behind. The Captain led our horse in a
charge on the Hill Men while our archers and
foot-soldiers flanked them to engage the Orcs."
Dan's eyes sparkled at the memory. "The shock of
being suddenly attacked by a foe long thought dead was
too much for the Enemy, they soon broke and fled
northward, carrying their panic with them to infect
the main host.
"Their captains spent some days trying to find a
way round us, but finally braced themselves to face us
beneath the Angmar Hills." shook his head. "They chose
their ground badly, a narrow sloping plain with the
high Hills on one side and the deep gorge of the
Forochel River on the other, making it impossible for
them to spread out and take full advantage of their
numbers.
"The Captain set the Warden of the Weather Hills to
guard our left flank from attack through the Hills.
And himself took command of our left wing, giving that
of the right to the Lady Ellemir." Dan paused,
realizing from Beomann's blank expression he was
becoming too technical. "The Captain aimed his attack
directly at the leaders of the Enemy host while Lady
Ellemir and the Warden kept our flanks from being
turned, the Enemy from getting round us that is."
"I see." Beomann said. Military strategy was new to
him but he felt he had a sort of grasp of what Dan was
saying.
"They ran again and we followed to the plain before
Carn Dum itself." smiled grimly. "Then at last they
had us at a true distadvantage for their numbers
covered the field, protected by dikes and traps, worse
still they had two dragons -"
"Dragons!" Beomann interupted.
"Small ones, fifty or sixty feet no more." that
smile again. "We were expected to attack headlong, as
we had been doing, but of course that would have been
folly, instead we circled rightward around their
prepared position. The tried to stop us with cavalry,
then set the dragons on us. Our archers brought them
down and Ingloron killed them on the ground but was
sore hurt in the doing. Finally they were forced to
leave their entrenchments to attack us on ground of
the Captain's choosing, but even so we would have been
worsted had not the Ringbearer destroyed Sauron and
all his works just in the knick of time.
A raised eyebrow. "You do know about the Ring?"
"Heard all about it - from Gandalf and Mr. Baggins
himself."
"Of course, they would have passed through Bree on
their way home to the Shire. The Enemy broke and fled,
again, but that wasn't the end of it. We still had to
besiege and take Carn Dum, drive the Hill Men back
into their hills, and hunt out and destroy the
scattered hosts of Orcs and Wargs and other things."
"And that's what you've been doing since you all
vanished." said Beomann.
"In the north, yes. Our kin to the east and south
have had their own battles to fight. It is only
recently we've had the leisure to take up our
patrolling again. I know that's been hard on Bree and
the other country folk. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it." Beomann said, and this time
it was his turn to sound grim. "We managed."
*****************************************
Nobody seemed to understand how he felt, certainly
not his fellow Breelanders.
"Be reasonable, Beomann," Tim Brockhouse said
patiently. "We Breefolk aren't warrriors, neither the
Big nor the Little." Tim was a Hobbit. "What good
would it have done us, or the Rangers, if we'd known
all this? We'd only have worried ourselves sick over
things we couldn't help."
"Tim's right." Geoff Heathertoes agreed. "We're
plain, practical folk in Bree, not heroes or wizards.
The Rangers were quite right to let us tend to our
business in peace."
"While they defended us!" Beomann demanded.
"Why not?" Dan Rushlight chimed in. "That's their
business isn't it? Let them get on with it I say."
frowned a little. "Mind you we could have been a good
bit kinder and more helpful, would have been too if
we'd known."
The other Men and Hobbits nodded agreement. "Well
we know now don't we?" said Tim's brother Tam, "We'll
make it up to them."
"Oh you're all hopeless!" Beomann cried, and
slammed out of the room.
He stormed down the long, empty palace corridor and
out a door opening onto a sort of hanging porch or
gallery looking over the city to the Lake only to find
it already occupied.
For a moment he completely failed to recognize the
Man in dark grey velvet perched on the parapet between
two sleader pillars. Then he did and his jaw dropped.
"Gil?"
He nodded, eyes glinting amusement. "I clean up
well, don't I?"
That was an understatement! Gil's hair was clean
and combed and crowned by a thin circlet of silver
twisted with gold and there was a chain thick set with
pearls glimmering against the soft velvet.
He looked like a prince and Beomann remembered
abruptly he *was* a prince, descended from the King
who had disappeared and close kin to the one who'd
returned, and his hurt, frustration and anger
overflowed.
"You didn't tell us! The Elves and Dwarves knew all
about you but you hid yourselves from us, your own
people! It's not right, it's not fair!"
Gil looked at him in astonishment as he continued
bitterly. "But maybe you were right, the others don't
seem to care there's been a war going on for a
thousand years with us knowing nothing about it,
coddled like we were children." Beomann's eyes filled
with tears. "We were the King's people too, as much as
you, he should have trusted us."
"It was not a lack of trust." Gil said
emphatically, got up from his perch to put two firm
hands on Beomann's shoulders and transfix him with a
level silver-shot stare. "There are no braver or
loyaler folk in all Middle Earth than our own country
people, and nobody knows that better than the House of
the Kings. Men and Hobbits alike fought valiantly in
the Witch Wars and paid a bitter price for it. They
died by the thousands in the plague years, were driven
from their lands by the Enemy and lost nearly half
their men to war.
"When your fathers swore allegiance to the Kings we
swore in return to defend you from foes." a wry twist
of the lips. "It seemed to Aranarth that while you had
more than kept your side of the bargain we had done a
very poor job of keeping ours."
"That wasn't your fault."
"In a sense it was." Gil said soberly. "The Dark
Lord cared nothing for Men of your kind or Hobbits, it
was Isildur's heirs and the Men of Westerness he
sought to destroy. It was never your war."
"Tell that to Frodo Baggins."
Gil blinked, then laughed. "You're right of course.
The fight against the Shadow belongs to us all, and it
was not the 'High Men of the West' who won this
battle." he shrugged. "Forgive me, sometimes we tend
take to much upon ourselves." continued. "Aranarth
thought to give your people time to recover and
rebuild, and afterwards there seemed no reason you
involve you directly as you were doing good service as
you were."
Beomann gave him a look of open skepticism and he
smiled. "No truly, not only did you grow the food we
needed to sustain us but you kept Arnor from turning
entirely into the Wild."
The younger Man thought that over. "Well...maybe
you've got a point there. But I still think we should
have been told."
"Maybe we were wrong." Gil conceed, flashed a quick
smile, "it wouldn't be the first time. But please
believe we meant no slight to your people's valor or
their loyalty."
"All right." Beomann mumbled, feeling mollified
almost in spite of himself, and a little silly.
"I'm glad your folk hold no grudge as we will be
needing your help badly." the Ranger continued.
"*Our* help?" Beomann repeated, incredulously.
Gil nodded, picked up the letter he'd been reading
off the parapet ledge. "Aragorn - Strider, the King -
has in his infinite wisdom resolved to rebuild the
cities." his dry tone suggested he was none to
enthusiastic about the idea.
But Beomann's eyes glowed. "Rebuild the cities?
Norbury and Sudbury and Wutherington?" *
Gil's eyebrows rose a little and he tilted his head
thoughtfully. "The idea appeals to you?'
"Of course! You need us to help with the building?"
A shake of the head. "No, we'll have the Dwarves
and our kin from the South to help us there, We need
you to teach us how to live in a settled country
again." Beomann stared and he smiled wryly. "We've
lived lone in the Wild for more than a thousand years,
and its been at least that long since we practiced any
trade but war." his face turned suddenly sad. "Much
has been forgotten," he continued softly, "commerce
and crafts and the growing of food. We can relearn
those things from you."
Beomann had a brief, incongruous vision of a class
of solemn Rangers listening attentively as he lectured
them on innkeeping. "If that's what you want."
*********************************************
* Norbury is Fornost, Sudbury Cardol and Wutherington
was the city that once stood on the slopes of
Weathertop beneath Minas Sul, the Tower of the Winds.
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