[Ransom]

In all of its sixty-five year history, the village of Hoplad had never expanded past a two-dozen buildings. Originally, the town had consisted of the battered inn, Soldier’s Rest, and a few scattered farms spread throughout the countryside. The innkeeper during the reign of Ecthelion II, a shrewd businessman named James Gidland, had convinced a number of merchants to resettle near his venue. Besides serving the needs of the local farmers, the trade caravans hauling goods up from the port city of Pelargir often needed the skills of blacksmiths and carpenters to keep their carts in working order. However, even the little hamlet had not been spared from Denathor’s mobilization for war. Most of the young men in Hoplad and the surrounding countryside had been drafted into the army. Furthermore, a number of fresh mounts had been housed in the Rest’s stables to provide fresh mounts for the errand riders.

The current owner of the Soldier’s Rest had elected to adorn the walls of the common room with a weapons and armor. While many a suit of armor sat gathering dust on the walls of the inn, the weapons had been wisely confined to the area directly behind the counter. Thom, his errands completed, sat in a corner playing with a wooden sword while his mother busied herself wiping the counter. Barak and his companions, no doubt, would inspire no small amount of gossip for traveling on such a miserable day. But for now, the group ate a quick meal of bread, cheese, and several slabs of beef leftover from last night’s dinner.

With a bang and a sudden blast of wind, the door of the inn suddenly opened to admit Charles Gidland. The most recent member of the merchant Gidland family and proprietor of the Soldier’s Rest inn was a short, forty year old man experiencing the gradual loss of hair that came with his age. While not especially heavy, there was still ample evidence that Charles was not in the best physical shape. Grasping a long, thing case not unlike the map cases used by Gondorian generals in one hand, he took one look around the room before quickly dashing toward Barak.

“Sir, you wouldn’t be happening to be traveling to Minas Tirith, would you?”

Barak calmly set down a piece of bread before standing and turning to the nervous innkeeper. “Perhaps, master innkeeper, or perhaps not. What would catch your attention as to drag you outside in this horrible weather?”

“One of the farmers outside town found one of the military horses wanderin’ through the fields this mornin’. One of the riders switched off two days ago on the same mount, but ‘e didn’t come back. There’s some blood on the saddle, but the poor beast’s only a bit cold. I know the messengers carry their messages in a little case, so I took it back ‘ere to give to the next messenger out. I haven’t touched it, honest!”

The knight took the map case from the man and examined the wax seal. While the material was slightly cracked, the seal of the Steward was still quite visible. “Thank you, master. I’m sure you’ll be commended for your…wisdom…in this matter. If you would, please load a day’s travel rations into our mounts. We’ll be leaving after the noon meal.”

After waiting for the man to leave, Barak quickly sat down and broke the seal. The Rangers in the group looked on with a mix of surprise and curiosity, in part because opening a message with the Steward’s seal was punishable by death. The knight scanned the message for a moment before quickly replacing the documents into the case.

“It appears that we have found one of the three messages. The rider’s mount wasn’t injured or captured, which suggest that our rider was taken by surprise while on the road. Arbrook’s the next village, a day’s ride south. Possibly long enough for his mount to make it back to its stable.”

“Suggestions, observations, or questions? Bear in mind that the storm is probably keeping whoever ambushed the riders in the area for the moment.”

[ May 22, 2003: Message edited by: Ransom ]