[Elora]

Barrold

Barrold was by no means only faintly relieved that he had managed to slip away from Kaldir with his limbs and head still attached. Meeting the bounty hunter at night, especially this night when he had already been unnerved by another malevolence, was not something Barrold had enjoyed.

As he trudged back through Bree, considerably more cautious after bumping into Kaldir, he tossed the man's words about. They were fancy words too. What was an avocation? Barrold scowled, feeling very much like he was having circles run about him but folk that were too lofty for their own good. If he had to guess, and he did, avocation meant jobs.

There were a few pickpockets in Bree, as well as those that passed through like pilfering breezes. As for bullies, he was the king pin and if there was a bully about in his territory, he'd best step carefully. Barrold was in no mood to be professionally biddable or generous. Had he not encounted Kaldir, the gelding's circular bite mark that had been left on his rump had disposed of any scant generousity left in Barrold's spirit.

If it was Avanill that was about, poaching his game again, then it couldn't have come at a worse time. He had his hands full with Naiore. Turn your back and someone would usurp you. That was the lesson that Barrold had taught his cousin Bill. Barrold took a circuitous route back through Bree as he fumed and pondered. Sitting at the back of his mind was yet another deeply unsettling question. What business was Kaldir about, and Naiore for that matter?

Barrold had the sinking feeling that the ground had suddenly become very slippery, and he did not much like it. Consequently, when Avanill himself called out in greeting from the darkness, Barrold was in a temper indeed.

"Oi," he objected as he cast a furtive glance around the shadows, "Watch it!" His voice was a hiss as he cautiously neared Avanill. The last thing he needed was a spying Ranger to swoop down and collar him thanks to Avanill's racket. He levelled a nasty scowl at his competitor.

"Business slow and nothin' to do?" Barrold was in a perverse temper, to say the least, his tongue sharpened by the events of the night.

"Nothing is slow here tonight," Avanill countered knowingly. Barrold swore plainly and shockingly. Avanill was onto his game alright. It'd be easier to kill him and leave him for the Rangers, but that would only make it hotter in Bree. Rangers swarming over a local murder would likely enrage Naiore, who never seemed to understand matters from his perspective.

"I don't think you know what you're talkin' about," Barrold tested as he grabbed time to think about what to do. Avanill cut his delaying tactic short.

"You're wrong, Ferney, if you think you can manage this alone. It's your death, though, and she'll make it interesting. That you can be sure about. I wonder what she finds interesting?" Avanill was fishing, but Barrold could not know that. As far as he was concerned, the whole world was drawing in around Naiore and he was caught. He started in alarm, shivering in the night as he pondered what the Ravennor of Mordor might consider to be an interesting death.

He couldn't much trust Avanill, but he understood the man far better than he did his "client" as Avanill called such folk as Naiore. There was one inescapable truth. Avanill was right. Barrold knew he couldn't handle this alone. Naiore wanted supplies and Avanill was good at getting things that were hard to find.

There was the sound of a scuffle in the laneway that brought Barrold's feverish thinking to an end. He grabbed Avanill's elbow and muttered, "Come on then, if you really want in."

Avanill snatched back his arm in open annoyance and disgust and closely followed him the last distance to his house. Barrold flitted with the experience of one used to avoiding notice. He was far from graceful, but nonetheless was effective in reaching his dilapidated house without any further interruption. He stopped by the collapsing gate to check the stones. One was moved sure enough. Barrold breathed a faint sigh of relief.

"What," Avanill demanded in a hushed voice, uncomfortable with following Barrold anywhere.
"She's gone to ground and we have the place to ourselves," Barrold muttered as he straightened and continued on.

Avanill paused at the threshold to Barrold's filthy kitchen. Barrold plunged straight in.

"If you're afraid of shadows, you should go home now, boy," Barrold called back. Avanill's face twisted in anger and he entered warily to follow Barrold deeper into the house. He found the scoundrel in a hallway that led from the other side of the kitchen. Barrold had struck flint to light a tallow candle that gave off a faint but reassuring light.

"If this is your idea of ambush," Avanill started. Barrold favoured him with a mocking grunted laugh and shook his head.

"This, boyo," he said with emphasis on the young title for the younger competitor, "Is my idea of a business deal. She's too much for you to handle by yourself, in case you were wondering. We have a lot to sort out before dawn."

Barrold stepped to a hall cupboard and removed a battered pack that he had stowed weeks ago, anxious to be on his way to make his fortune once Naiore made good on her plans. He slung it over his shoulder, collected the flint and motioned for Avanill to follow him once more before he snuffed out the light.

Avanill trod light as a cat on a griddle as Barrold made his way back out the house again. Barrold's head swivelled back and forth as he scanned the old night shadows. There wasn't much time left to get sorted. Happy that they weren't watched yet, Barrold darted to the cellar.

It stood some distance from the house, built long ago by the original occupants who liked to store their supplies close to the stables where they unloaded their wagon. It was a brambled overrun area now, but Barrold knew he way through the mess very well, for he had been using the cellar to store other things for years himself.

Avanill stood, nervously watching, as Barrold pulled open a door, waved Avanill on and then followed himself. In the darkness of the cellar, the shutting door seemed absolute. Once again, the spluttering tallow candle was ignited and the bare, bleak space was revealed. Barrold dropped his pack with a thunk and waved at what he had kept in the cellar on this night.

"You won't believe this," Barrold started, "But that there is Naiore Dannan's daughter and she plans to use her to take the Shire and sack it."

Avanill took in the prone, unmoving Elf who lay in a corner, astonished to see the same face as the Elf from the Forsaken Inn. Barrold unfolded the job, according to him.

"If she's anythinh like her mother, I reckon Naiore could do it. Imagine, two of 'em. She don't want the booty, just the Hobbit's atonement as she calls it. The rest is left to me....

You help, no tellin' what you could get. A nice parcel of land, taxes... protection payments... but we need things."

Avanill's mind was racing.

"What things?"

"The usual," Barrold said with a smile of false ease. "Food, drink, horses... poisons. I here you're the man for that sort of thing. Not my area of expertise," Barrold said in a fleeting bid to be magnaminous. Now that Avanill had seen Vanwe, he needed the man to agree to help.

Avanill levelled a plain stare at Barrold.

"She's not dead, is she?" Barrold shook his head.
"No, but check for yourself if you like."

Avanill crossed the cellar and watched Vanwe for a moment. He prodded her with the toe of his boot, and it seemed that she moved as if in a deep slumber. "So I get you things and you cut me in?"

"Aye, you help me and I'll cut you in, lad. You won't find a better scheme. And Naiore has bigger plans once she has the Shire. We'll be the two who she comes back to when she expands," Barrold said, recalling Naiore's own inducements and her sketchy reference of orc activity elsewhere. "Take you a long time to make the same sort of profit in business. It's a rich pot, fitting for those as is bold enough to take the risk and stand up to claim what could be ours."

Barrold fell silent, awaiting Avanill's reply, thinking about how best to dispose of his body if he turned him down. Whilst Avanill considered matters, Barrold recalled Kaldir once again. He had his bully, but who was the pickpocket? Dawn was coming and he needed to be away with Vanwe and things organised else Naiore would not be pleased.