[Ealasaide]

Barrold Ferny

The chill rain that had begun to fall with the dusk, grew steadily harder and faster as evening faded into night, but still Naiore Dannan pressed onward. Barrold hunched his shoulders against the cold and sunk deeper into his cloak, too wet and miserable to bother with spitting or swearing or anything else for that matter. Stubbornly, doggedly, he continued walking, placing one foot after the other on the slick, muddy path, taking care not to slip, but paying no mind to the footprints he left behind as each step sunk ankle deep into the gray, sucking mud. Barrold Ferny’s mind was elsewhere.

Watching the slender, straight figure of the southern woman walking ahead of him, Ferny’s mind was already in the Dale. According to his fantasy, he had already taken the finest room at local inn and invited his envious friends over to show off not only his prosperity but his prize, the black-haired beauty who would wait on him hand and foot and see to his every paltry, petty want. He could see it all so clearly: the fire crackling in the grate, the wide oaken table laden with every hot and inviting dish he could think of... mutton, spiced beef, roast venison, a roast goose with golden, crackling skin, and, oh.. the poacher’s pie. Pitchers of the inn’s finest ale would wash it all down, the southern woman dutifully filling his tankard each time it ran low, piling his plate with food until he ate his fill, a soft flush rising in her cheeks each time he looked at her, waiting patiently for his friends to go away that they might be alone. Ferny grinned in spite of himself. He was just reaching out to stroke her satin skin when an icy trickle of rainwater penetrated his hood and ran down the back of his neck like the cold finger of death. The rosy glow of the inn vanished instantly and the lovely southern woman, who only a moment earlier had seemed so warm and inviting, became a cipher, a slim gray silhouette, ever just out of his reach, and barely even visible to him through the gloom and pelting rain. He frowned darkly and began trying at once to re-conjure the vision.

“Ferny!” barked Naiore. She had stopped several paces ahead of him and stood pointing at something on the ground at her feet. Grumbling as the cozy vision of the inn disappeared forever, Barrold Ferny slogged over to where she stood and looked down. There at her feet were fresh hoof prints, just filling with rainwater. Whoever it was, the rider was heading toward the Anduin and had only recently crossed their trail. Ferny pushed back his hood and squinted into the east, half-expecting to see the vague shadow of a mysterious horse and rider.

“Get me that horse,” hissed Naiore. “If the rider has any sense at all, he won’t have gone far in this mud and rain. The footing is far too treacherous.” She paused for a moment and grew silent as though searching the night, then nodded. “The rider remains nearby. Bring me his horse.”

“And then?” ventured Ferny gruffly. The happy fantasy of the inn still hovered near the top of his mind. If the elf kept her word, he might be able to make it a reality sooner than he thought.

For an instant, Naiore’s eyes glittered dangerously in the depths of her hood, but when she spoke her voice seemed cool and without malice. “Bring the horse to me,” she said calmly. “Follow my trail due south from this point until you find us. When the horse is in my possession, you shall have the woman.”

“And you won’t need me no more, neither?”

“You shall be free of your obligation to me and may follow whatever path you like.”

Needing no more instruction or confirmation, Barrold Ferny grunted his acceptance of Naiore’s terms. With a final glance at Benia Nightshade, he turned and jogged into the night, closely following the trail of hoof prints. He had not gone more than a few hundred feet when the one set of prints became two. The rider had dismounted. By then, the rain had begun to come down in sheets. Ferny bent nearly double as he ran, keeping his face close to the ground so as not to lose the trail that he followed, glancing up only occasionally to make sure that he would not accidentally overtake his quarry before he was aware of it. Finally, as he rounded a bend in the trail, Ferny’s sharp eyes caught the faint flicker of a small fire. Seconds later the sharp smell of smoke struck his nostrils. The fool has built himself a campfire. Ferny smiled.

Slowing his pace, Ferny drew his dagger. Holding his body close to the ground, he kept to the shadows as he crept closer and closer toward the fire. As he grew nearer, the horse, a mud-spattered brown mare, began to stamp and whinny nervously. The man who had been riding her stood up from the fallen log he had been using for a seat and squinted into the darkness. Ferny froze, holding his breath as the man’s gaze passed over him, not seeing. Ferny studied his prey.

The stranger was a big fellow, as big as Ferny himself, with a broad good-natured face, a trusting face. A farmer, no doubt thought Ferny. Too bad for him that he should be out on such a night. Ferny also noticed the heavy sword he wore at his side, which was unusual for a farmer, at least under ordinary circumstances. He wondered if the farmer really knew how to use it or if he wore it more for the purpose of intimidating any would-be highwaymen or footpads, such as himself. Not wanting to find out, Ferny decided that stealth would be the best option. The shelter the farmer had chosen was nothing more than the shelter offered by the spreading boughs of an ancient oak tree. He had built his sputtering little fire between the roots, and tied his horse to another raised root nearby. As far as Ferny could see, the man’s position was completely exposed. Ferny grinned, tightening the grip on his dagger.

Seeing nothing but darkness and rain, the man turned and gave his horse a friendly pat on the neck before sitting down to warm himself at the fire. As soon as he was settled, Ferny again crept forward, skirting the trail to his right so that he might come up behind the unsuspecting traveler. It was over in seconds. Ferny leapt upon the stranger before he was even aware of what was happening and, in a single fluid motion of his arm, slit the man’s throat, nearly severing the head from the body. A warm rush of blood poured forth over Ferny’s arm, mingling with the rain. Ferny dropped the man’s lifeless body beside the smoldering remains of the fire. Then, he carefully and deliberately searched the man’s pockets, removing among other things, his purse and an old pocket watch. Ferny held the watch up to his ear. Hearing no answering tick, he flung it into the fire and continued his search, finding nothing else of interest but a fairly serviceable pocketknife and packet of pipeweed, both of which he tucked into his tunic, alongside the man‘s purse. Then, with nothing else left to be done, he untied the horse’s reins from the tree root and flung himself into the saddle.


**********************************

Benia

Feeling more like a salmon than a human being, Benia trudged doggedly onward through the rain. With Barrold Ferny gone on his mission to steal a horse for Naiore, Benia found herself leading the way with the elf walking several silent paces behind her. Still they pressed southward. Having overheard the conversation between the two co-conspirators, she knew that she would soon be leaving the Ravener’s company and felt a spark of hope. While she feared Barrold Ferny and what he could ultimately do to her, she feared Naiore Dannan far more. Knowing that her chances of escape would be better once Naiore had gone her own way, Benia felt almost optimistic. She could handle Barrold Ferny. In fact, she had a feeling she could take care of him for good if she could just lay her hands on a few leaves of oleander.

“Or belladonna,” she murmured under her breath, remembering how she had had the same thoughts regarding Kaldir, as she and Gilly had rode behind him and his gray horse through the streets of Bree. How long ago it seemed, although it had only been a matter of weeks. Now Kaldir was dead, having given his life to protect her, and she would have given anything to bring him back. A single tear welled up in the corner of her eye and trembled there for a moment before breaking free and mingling with the rain on her face. How easy it was to think of murder and killing and how hard was the reality, she thought. Yet, at the same time, she knew that Barrold Ferny was no Kaldir. Even when she had feared for her life at Kaldir’s hand, Kaldir had shown that trace of nobility of spirit, that hint of kindness that belied the man beneath the rough exterior and the scars. Barrold Ferny showed nothing of the sort, only ruthless self-interest and greed. She remembered the way he had struck her in the face when she tried to warn Kaldir away from the camp above Rivendell and the way he had swung at her again for no reason when he had tripped and fallen on the rocky path coming out of the mountains. Unless she managed to escape, he would beat her mercilessly. She must do what she could to preserve herself.

Benia shivered and blew on her cold hands that were bound in front of her. She must do what she could...

She was still thinking along these lines when she heard the distant clop-clop of hoofbeats. The rain had slackened to a light drizzle, and the hoofbeats approached rapidly. Benia stopped walking and glanced back to see that Naiore had stopped walking a few paces earlier and now stood in the center of the path with her hood thrown back and her clear eyes focused on the path they had just come by. A look of cold triumph came into her face as Barrold Ferny reined the horse to a halt in front of her. At that moment, the moon sailed out from behind the blanket of clouds and Benia saw with horror that Ferny’s right arm was red with another man’s blood. She lowered her eyes and murmured a soft Haradrim prayer for the dead. Murder. To think, only seconds earlier, she had been contemplating murder herself. Seeing the blood still fresh on Ferny’s sleeve, the crimson evidence of such a crime, she knew that even if she had the poisons she had been thinking of, she would never use them. She could not coldly and deliberately take a life. She must find another way to save herself.

She watched as Ferny dismounted and exchanged a few sentences with Naiore, looking several times toward Benia as he spoke. Idly, he wiped his bloody hands on his tunic and grinned. A clear expression of disgust flitted across Naiore’s fair features, then vanished as she nodded and smiled serenely, speaking some last parting words to Ferny that Benia was unable to hear. Finally, without another glance toward either of them, the Ravener swung herself gracefully into the saddle and rode away into the darkness toward the south.

As the last rumble of hoofbeats faded into the distance, Benia found herself alone with Barrold Ferny.