Dale in the Fourth Age (campaign background, system discussion, Session Zero)

Dale in FA 60

The city of Dale has been rebuilt twice within the last 200 years. After the conquest of the Lonely Mountain in TA 2770 by the Dragon, and the subsequent depredations of the monster which made the shores of the Long Lake too dangerous for any dry-land dwelling, Dale fell into ruin when the Men removed to Lake-Town. On the fall of Smaug, Bard led as many of the survivors of Lake-Town back to Dale as were willing to go with him – which was nearly all, especially as his possession of one-fourteenth of the gold and silver of Smaug’s hoard made him a wealthy man indeed, and a wealthy King by the eager acclaim of its people.

By then Bard was already on exceedingly good terms both with King Dain, the new overlord of Erebor, and Thranduil the Elven-King, and he was wise enough to listen to these two older heads when investing his considerable wealth in the re-founding of the old kingdom. Thanks in no small part to the Dragon’s wasting of the surrounding lands, there were many miles of abandoned territory to be put under spade and plough, and few enemies – even the wicked creatures of orc-kind and their allies were severely reduced thanks to the Battle of Five Armies, and Bard spent the remainder of his life ruling over a city that was being splendidly rebuilt in both wood and stone and a kingdom that was promising to grow in numbers and in wealth at an impressive rate.

Bain, his heir, saw his holdings increase further; but the rebuilt kingdom was not fated to endure so much as a whole century of peace, and in the time of Brand, only two generations after Bard the Dragonslayer, the shadow fell upon the world again and there were once again enemies at the gate. The Men of Dale stood firm, but were forced to give ground and take refuge with their allies in the Mountain, where after the heroic defiance of King Brand and King Dain the Mountain itself proved an impenetrable fortress during a siege that, thankfully, collapsed with the destruction of the Ring and the downfall of Sauron; upon which King Bard II and King Thorin III “Stonehelm” sortied with their armies and put the remaining besiegers to rout, but not in time to have saved Dale from a second and most destructive sacking.

Nevertheless, at the dawn of the Fourth Age the Men of Dale still had much stored wealth and their ancient friendships with the Dwarves and the Elves, and with a worse horror than the Dragon gone from the world there was abundant will to reconstruct the fair city as good as before, if not better. With the passing of the years even the withered lands of the Desolation of Smaug had regenerated themselves enough to be both habitable and attractive. Traffic between the Mountain, the Lake and the Wood was and remains frequent and mutually beneficial, and travellers from further afield still are by no means uncommon.

King Bain II now rules Dale. He was no more than a child when his grandfather died in battle, but is now a man of quite advanced years, for the Bardings are not the Men of the West and live perhaps to eighty if they are strong and enjoy good health. While he has never been tested in battle as some of his forefathers were, and he has had no aggressive ambitions, he has overseen a prosperous kingdom for some years now and enjoys the loyalty of his subjects. Meanwhile in Erebor, King Thorin III is only beginning to feel the distant pull of old age, having passed the age of 200 about a decade since and, while noticeably grey about the temples and the beard, can expect to live two or three score years more. Still, he rules a people few in number. The War of the Ring cost some lives, although less than other suffered, and the Dwarves generally do not rebuild their numbers fast enough to keep up with natural wastage, not in this age of the world. Dwarves sometimes remove to the Mountain from far away or from the Iron Hills, but perhaps fewer than those who left willingly (and with Thorin III’s blessing) to dwell with the Lord of the Glittering Caves far away to the south, where Gimli Elf-Friend, hero of the great war and ally of both Rohan and Gondor, reigns over what will perhaps be the last new dwelling of Durin’s Folk.

Given Dale’s lively trade with the Elves of the Wood and the Dwarves of the Mountain, some representatives of both peoples are almost always to be seen in the city – and indeed a number of dwarven craftmen have made semi-permanent homes there, where their skills are much in demand; equally, a few Elves seem to spend at least as much time in Dale as they do in their own lands up the River Running. Some dwarves wander through from the Iron Hills or from other settlements from time to time. Some Elves of other kindreds are occasional visitors, although High Elves have become increasingly rare as time has passed since the War. Now and then even some of the Avari from very far away put in an appearance, sometimes returning whence they came with hardly a word. Also rare are such folk as the Beornings, men from Rohan or Gondor, or the Shire-folk; yet, in all cases, “rare” does not mean “unknown”.

Stranger still, a few folk who come through the gates of Dale seem to have a faint orcish taint to their blood. There were rumours, sixty years ago, that Saruman had interbred orcs and men; there have been rumours since that some of these survived the War and have left descendants. If so – few of the men or women of Dale were more than children when the War ended, whatever harm Saruman’s creations did was done far away, and many citizens hold the view that no creature can help its ancestry. So, while such people may be carefully watched lest they live down to their reputation, at least it may be said that they are given the chance to prove that they only wish to live in peace.

Nevertheless, while Dale enjoys an age of peace and prosperity, it has known such times to come to an abrupt and premature end before, and there is always half an eye to the distant Northern Wastes and the East from which fire and sword came before.

Wonderful! There's a ton of room in the canon to play around with here; the North is under-treated in the source material after The Hobbit.

For those who are joining from outside the first game (and for the rest of us, who did this a decade ago and only dimly remember the first game) I played Deor, a Wizard of the Rohirrim. This time I've got my eye on a light cavalry archer, also probably Rohirrim, but I'm quite open to other characters or character archetypes, so if that's stepping on anyone's idea, let me know.

Adventurers that may be found in and around Dale include but are not necessarily limited to:

Fighters, paladins and rangers: Note that in the Pathfinder system these all have access to the same weapons and advance in levels at the same rate. After the end of the War of the Ring, some survivors of the Grey Company, now that the Shire needed less watching than before, roamed farther afield in search of worthy candidates to pass on their skills to.
Wizards, sorcerers and clerics: None of these are common but they are not entirely unknown
Druids: Some of these may have been trained by Radagast the Brown or by one of his pupils. Some (mainly Beornings) claim to have picked it up as they went along, if they talk about it at all
Rogues: They may call themselves "scouts" or "expert treasure hunters".
Bards: For those who haven't played anything more recent than AD&D: there is no longer anything druidic about these, and their "bard" abilities kick in from Day 1

Players who have something else in mind are welcome to ask away.

Men, dwarves, elves and hobbits are all available, except that I would stat elves up as Pathfinder half-elves, for technical reasons. Actual half-elves are vanishingly rare in Middle-Earth. Equally, Beornings looking to get in touch with their inner bear other than by being Druids (Bear Shaman Druids, most likely) would get statted up as Pathfinder half-orcs, largely to give them early access to a usable bite attack :), although of course there isn't a drop of orc in them. As intimated in the first post, though, there are actual half-orcs about the place if anyone is interested.

Stat-wise, I'll be giving all players the same stat block to assign as best fits their character conception: 15, 14, 13, 12, 10, 8. For the benefit of those who don't know Pathfinder:

* Humans, half-elves and half-orcs can choose any one stat to give a +2 to
* Dwarves receive a +2 to Wisdom and Constitution, but a -2 to Charisma
* Halflings receive a +2 to Dexterity and Charisma, but a -2 to Strength. As they are Small, they receive +1 both to their attack bonus and armour class (in Pathfinder, high numbers are good for AC) but use small weapons (which use a die size one smaller than their normal version, so a hobbit "longsword" becomes a 1d6 weapon instead of 1d8
* Benefits and penalties based on ability scores accrue for every +2 above 10, or for every -2 below 11
* No character class has a "meaningless" ability score requirement
* Number of spells per day, and the difficulty of resisting them, is affected by the character's "casting stat": Int for wizards, Wis for clerics, druids, and rangers; Cha for sorcerers, bards and paladins

More on request!

Good stuff - thanks, Malacandra! Your take on Dale looks like it fits into the Professor's legendarium seamlessly.

For those who might be interested, here are two online LOTR Wikis that I've found helpful:

https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Dale
http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Dale

Why, thank you. (Take it all in all, I have read quite extensively on the subject.)

THE GREAT SMIALS


Tuckborough


Not very long ago...

From the long walls either side of the hall, generations of Tooks looked down on the visitor. There was Paladin Took, the previous Thain; older, its colours darkening a bit with time, old Gerontius Took himself at the splendid age of one hundred and twenty-two; and many others from between those two and still earlier. It was perhaps only the visitor’s imagination that made it seem that all these Tooks were looking down their noses. He sat uncomfortably in a chair a size too large for him, one of a pair made for the two tallest hobbits in recorded history, old friends who were, even at their advanced age, the most important and well-regarded in all the Shire, with only the Mayor worth mentioning in the same breath.

One of those two was on his way even now. With perfect good manners, the Thain had left instructions as to the visitor’s welfare, and there was a tray on a little table with a pot of tea and a plate of seed cakes that were no doubt excellent, if only the visitor had the stomach for them today. From time to time a servant came and replaced the pot with a fresh, hot one. They didn’t offer conversation or even pass comment, but the visitor had a certain sense that they knew exactly why he was here. His handsome features were downcast, to say the least; and by any sensible measure, there was reason enough.

When the door swung abruptly open, it would have taken a cooler customer than the visitor to keep from scrambling to his feet. Framed by the doorway, the tall hobbit should not have looked as if he had to duck, not in the grandest hobbit-hole in all the Shire where even one of the Big People would have had head-room; and he shouldn’t have looked as if he towered over the visitor from a dozen strides away either. But even with more than fourscore years behind him, the Thain was an imposing presence, nearly four feet ten inches tall in the high black-and-silver helm he wore, matching the black cloak about his shoulders. That, more than anything else, said without words that the Thain was very much here in his official capacity; for otherwise, his comfortable woollen jacket and breeches, heirloom clothing worn by several Tooks before him, and the brocade waistcoat that, supposedly, buttoned and unbuttoned itself by magic, would only have been those of a very prosperous country gentleman. And those dozen strides the Thain covered with remarkable swiftness for an elderly hobbit now said to need a cane to walk anywhere (but there was no cane in evidence today), and with a stamp in his tread that should have been impossible for a hobbit.

“Well, sir!” roared the Thain. “What have you done?”

The better part of wisdom at a time like this, it was generally held, was to say nothing at all, and certainly not to try to make excuses or share the blame; and the visitor was sure that Thain Peregrin Took would answer his own question soon enough.

“I will tell you what you have done,” continued the Thain in tones that dropped to an icy half-whisper. “You have disgraced yourself, your family, all the Shire and every hobbit in it with your bestial, licentious conduct! The very earth trembles in outrage beneath our feet. Why, you who were a Shirriff and a well-regarded one:”

- The visitor didn’t miss the word were and he knew what was coming and why he had been told to wear his hat with the feather in it, for the Thain seized the feather and tore it away angrily -

“You, who have the good fortune to be well-favoured by nature, and in a secure, responsible position that should have won you the wife of your choice in any Farthing you preferred… How could you, sir? How could you? A – a mother and her own daughter? What could you have been thinking?”

It was unheard of for the Thain to so much as stumble over his words, even at his advanced age; but he seemed momentarily at a loss, though he must surely have been turning the matter over in his mind in advance of this interview. Still, he recovered the thread of his thought enough to resume with only a brief pause. “A respectable matron and an innocent young hobbit-maid not yet out of her tweens! Did it amuse you to think to tie a knot in someone’s family tree, sir? To make a mother and daughter each other’s sister-in-law? Perhaps some little lad to grow up not knowing his cradle-sister was his half-sister and auntie all at the same time, and that his mother and his grandmother were one and the same woman? Did you even think it through so far as that? Or was it all just fun and games and nothing to come of it?”

Peregrin Took let that sink in for a few moments. One thing was for sure: any hopeful fantasy that the Thain was a man of the world who would drop a few wise, understanding words and then see that the whole business was discreetly buried was a thousand leagues from becoming fact. The visitor watched him with the same helpless fascination that a rabbit has for a stoat, and with about as much hope for the future.

“Natural urges are not something to be ashamed of,” the Thain went on. “On that the Mayor and I are agreed – and he has thirteen children and knows what he is talking about. But… that’s what marriage is for, sir, as everyone knows. And as for… but there is no need to flog that horse any more. No. There’s no excuse for such depravity. When we came back from the War and found the Shire in the hands of a Wizard gone bad and the worst kind of Men doing much as they liked with our own soil, our own people and our own possessions, I thought I had seen the depths, the very worst, but I do not think that even they…

“No. The Shire cannot swallow this. You will leave, sir, leave at once, and that is a lifetime sentence; and in your heart of hearts you must have known this.”

It was nothing to the point that both the ladies had been quite amenable to persuasion and seemed more than happy with the arrangement, and the visitor didn’t even bother to mention it. The Thain gestured. “Come with me!”

By the grand front door every Took in the house and every house servant were drawn up in two neat lines, and what seemed like every face in Tuckborough was hanging over the hedge. It was anyone’s guess when they’d arrived, but it was certainly no coincidence. On the bottom step, Thain Peregrin bid the visitor halt.

Peregrin Took held out his hand, and his son Faramir placed a riding-crop in it, and in answer to his father’s gesture: Give me room!: he and all the other Tooks stepped back three paces. Then, with an inarticulate cry, the Thain horsewhipped the wrongdoer on the very steps of Great Smials before as many witnesses as cared to attend. Rage put strength into the ancient hobbit’s arm; but what stung worse, the moment the beating was over, was the sight of the tears streaming down the old Took’s face.

Only Faramir could have been close enough to see; and he waved and called to the onlookers, “You have seen all there is to be seen! Go to your homes!”, before leading the household back indoors. The visitor tottered, unable to bear the Thain’s anguished expression, and he felt his legs beginning to give way. But:

“Don’t you dare kneel before me now!” hissed the Took; and in a few moments he was calm again. Thain, Companion of the King; once mistaken for a Prince of the Halflings by all the men of Gondor, it was said; and still master of himself in any grief or trial. Only now he seized a walking stick from by the door and gestured curtly to the offender. “Come. Walk with me as far as the gate.”

They were long steps, and slow taken, that must be the beginning of the longest journey of all; but at the gate the Thain halted him with his upturned hand, and the pair stood quite alone. “I believe you may misunderstand your sentence,” Peregrin Took said.

“No sir,” said the visitor at last. “I understand it well enough. What I did’s not to be encouraged or even condoned, and I’m to be the example for that.”

“But when I said it’s a lifetime sentence,” said the Thain, “I was referring not to your lifetime but to mine.”

The visitor’s heart gave a sharp thump, and only the old Took’s swiftness kept him from falling.

“I have nearly ninety years,” said the Thain calmly, “and while I come of a long-lived line, I know it will not be for ever, and perhaps not for long. Oh, don’t snivel, sir! I’ve faced worse. But you’re to travel, do you see – travel far from here, until you come to a place where the word of your conduct isn’t even a bawdy song in a tavern, and folks here have the chance to forget. Then, one day, the news will come to you that I’ve gone where my father went, and all his fathers before him, and many a one that’s not had my good fortune. Oh, the news will come! I say it proudly: I’m the King’s good friend, I am, and when one such as I passes, that is a tale to be told anywhere and everywhere. So you’ll hear, don’t be doubting that. And on that day – why, by all means start home again and see that you have a tale worth telling when you get here, so folks will talk of what you did in foreign parts, and not of why you went away.

“There’s some things under the tree there for you. Nothing too grand, mind; that has to be earned. Still, it should help you. Off you go now.”

He muttered something else that the visitor didn’t dare comment on; and the Thain went back into Great Smials, where the evening lights were beginning to glow. But the visitor went and inspected the bundle under the tree: some food and clothing, and a little sword that wasn’t the match of the troll’s bane the Thain was said to have about the place, but a good enough one for all that, and a stout leather jerkin that might help him keep a whole skin, and a knapsack that should be good for many long miles of travel. The visitor took them gratefully and looked back once at the Tooks’ home before starting on his way, the Thain’s last whisper echoing in his ears:

“And by every star in the sky I say it: O that I were young enough to be coming with you!”

SMOKEHOLES

By the Great River

Not long ago...

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. It was not a very grand hole, nor yet a large one, for it consisted of only three rooms with walls of bare earth that sometimes threatened to crumble a little in a long dry spell, and floors that were strewn with clean rushes gathered by the river. Still it was cosy enough, with a living-space big enough for the hobbit’s favourite chair made of wicker where he liked to sit by the little sod fire that he never allowed to go out (for it is long, hard labour to light a sod fire from cold) and a table, also of wicker, that he set his wooden platter and clay bowl on for meals; and a bed-space further in with a wicker bed with a rush mattress on it and a quilt made of all manner of animal skins; and a store-hole for the hobbit’s food and drink, which was mostly fish (smoked), roots of several kinds, cakes made of beech-mast and other nuts, and some jars of a drink that the hobbit brewed for himself out of berries when they came into season.

By day the hobbit was a sod-cutter; that is, he cut sod with a special two-handed knife from a big bank of sod, or peat as others call it, that was on some land belonging to Gaffer Greybeard, who received twelve pennies a quarter and all the sod he could burn for his rent. The hobbit, whose name was Tom Gamgee, earned those pennies and some more for himself by selling sod to his neighbours. There were about a hundred of these in a little hamlet by the Great River that they called “Smokeholes”, for each of them let out a steady stream of smoke from their sod fires by day and night, and one or two holes were made extra smoky on purpose to smoke their fish so that there would be food when it was not fishing season. Between cutting sod for his neighbours and taking care of his little hole, taking out the rushes when they began to look shabby and pulling fresh ones, the hobbit was kept pretty busy, but sometimes when the weather wasn’t right for sod-cutting he would go and sit by the river and stretch out a fishing-pole over it, with a big rug (also made of all manner of animal skins) wrapped around him and a low-crowned hat with an extremely wide brim to keep the rain off. He didn’t always catch a fish, because the best fishing-spots along the bank belonged to Gaffer Greybeard and the hobbit couldn’t afford another rent on top of what he paid for the sod bank, but he was always delighted when he caught enough to have fresh fish for dinner for a change.

While the hobbit had to work about one day a week just to afford the rent, as well as having to put by another day’s work every quarter to top up the Gaffer’s sod pile, he never minded very much, because the Gaffer always seemed pleased to see him on rent days and invariably had something special to eat or drink while they sat and had a talk together. For the thing about sod-cutting, and also about fishing on your days off, is that it gives you plenty of time to think about all manner of things, and Gaffer Greybeard was about the wisest old hobbit you could want to talk over all the things you had been thinking about. By the bye, the whiskers on the Gaffer’s chin were no more than a dark-haired lad of the Big People might think of as his first beard, while older men laughed at him and told him to scrape it off and try again in a few years; but for his part, Gaffer Greybeard couldn’t have been prouder of the hair on his face if he had been a real dwarf-king, and you should know that dwarf-kings have mighty splendid beards, all the more if they come of the line known as the Longbeards.

“Gaffer,” said the hobbit one rent-day, “why is it that there are so few of us? Have there never been any more?”

“Why yes, young Gamgee,” chuckled the oldster, “or so the tales tell us. Far more. Far more! Enough to fill every sandy bank around here with hobbit-holes, and every hole with a thriving family.”

Now that, the hobbit thought, would have been a sight to see; for Smokeholes now boasted no more than eight or nine different families, according to how you reckoned them, and as for Tom himself, he was the last of the Gamgees unless he married and got children, which would leave one family the fewer. He took a sup of his drink and followed up: “Where did they all go, then? Did they die out?”

“Not at all. No. They left, ever so many of them. They left to go and set up home in some new land far away,” said the Gaffer, shaking his head for such foolishness. “I shouldn’t wonder but what they’ll think better of it one day, and come home again.”

“Why? When did they go?” asked the hobbit.

“Oh, about a hundred years ago,” the Gaffer told him sagely. The hobbit blinked.

“You mean,” he ventured, “in your father’s day?”

“Certainly not!” bridled the Gaffer. “I mean a hundred years ago!”

Tom (who had some idea how to count) didn’t argue the point, but he bid the Gaffer a good day soon afterwards and went back to his hole. And the next day, when one of his neighbours came by to order a new load of sod, he found that Tom was not at home, and everything Tom owned that was light enough to carry was gone, along with Tom himself; except for his sod-cutting knife, which he left outside his door for whoever was going to be cutting sod in future.

* * *

Tom paused in his sweeping and inspected the bristles of his broom, before finding them still in good order and going on with his chores. Zebulon, the wizard (or so people called him), wasn’t a hard master at all and didn’t expect more than sweeping, cooking and other such light work from Tom in exchange for his room and board, but he did expect them to be done every day without fail, and done well.

After months of travelling, and also some months over-wintering with the Elves of the Greenwood, the hobbit was still getting used to living in a great city full of Big People. According to the Elves, one or more hobbits had passed this way not very long ago (but Tom was starting to wonder if that meant the same to Elves as it did to other people), and the people in Dale would be able to tell him more; but Tom was willing to wait a little longer until he knew his way around a little better. While he was waiting, he had plenty to occupy him: practising the wonderful Elf-language he had picked up so quickly and making the letters that the Elves had taught him, for a start. How wonderful it was, to learn that thoughts and speech could be set down and read again later – and how beautiful and perfectly logical the elf-letters were, too! Then, old Zebulon had a bit of garden around his house, with all manner of flowers and shrubs growing that were so unlike what Tom had been used to; and the markets of Dale were filled with a thousand delicious foodstuffs that the hobbit had fallen upon with glee after a lifetime spent trying to wring some flavour and variety out of no more than a dozen different ingredients he’d had to use at home.

Life was very sweet indeed, Tom thought as he set to work on the floor of Zebulon’s study – a room he seldom set foot in, but which needed sweeping as much as any other, Tom supposed. It was all the sweeter for having run across the Elves no more than a moon-cycle since leaving home. There was the odd Big-People settlement he’d left well alone, staying out of sight as any hobbit knew how, but when he strayed close to the eaves of the Greenwood he had learned soon enough that elven eyes were not so easily dodged. But they were a friendly people, more so than at any time before in several ages of the world, and they delighted over the curious hobbit and made something of a pet of him before setting him on the way to Dale. Then, once in Dale itself, a hard-working hobbit had no trouble finding a householder willing to feed and shelter him while he found his feet; especially since it seemed that Zebulon was finding good help hard to come by.

He paused in his sweeping to admire a rather lovely hiking staff the wizard was working on. It was no more than half a head taller than the hobbit himself; not like the wizard’s staff that Zebulon used for his magic, or so Tom supposed, nor as ornate, but a clean piece of work made of some white wood that had the scent of elves about it, just barely seasoned. Tom put his broom down and picked it up, finding it a nice size for a hobbit; and he chuckled as he brandished the staff and made mock gestures with his free hand as though he were a wizard himself. Laughing quietly at himself, Tom put such foolish thoughts aside and transferred the staff to one hand while moving Zebulon’s out of the way with the other

and a jolt passed from hand to hand right through the hobbit’s body

and Tom staggered back with a gasp. He let Zebulon’s staff fall and leaned on the other for a breath or two, lights blinking on and off in his brain. A shower of elf-letters seemed to scroll past his vision, circling one after the other, as though they were made of sunlight. Tom panted for breath and seized the white staff all the more firmly, trying to make sense of what he saw. One letter in particular seemed to catch his eye, the letter anga, the initial of his own surname; and the hobbit steadied his breathing, made a strange shape with the pointing finger of his right hand, and whispered the letter’s name.

A bolt of light shot from his extended finger and exploded silently against the far wall.

When Zebulon came home, he found the hobbit still clutching the white staff, and looking almost catatonic with shock.

* * *
“It was never meant for a wizard’s staff,” Zebulon told him; “except that it would have been a perfectly plain staff that happened to belong to a wizard, that is, to me. Something remarkable has happened – and something so rare that I never heard of it happening to a hobbit before. In just a few seconds, it seems that you learned something that took me many years of patient study – while in other respects you are shockingly ignorant, and you had better be careful of that.”

“What do I do, Master?” pleaded Tom.

Zebulon shook his old head in amused bafflement. “That I cannot tell you. The safest thing for you would be to let this wild talent of yours wither half-formed, where it will do no harm. But I can’t promise you that it would wither safely now that it has taken root, and it would be a sad waste of a very strange gift even if you could be sure of it. I fear the best you can do is to take a firm hold and try to ride this wild horse wherever and to what strange adventures it may take you – perhaps with a few of the equally strange foreigners that pass through our town. I would teach you if I could, and if I dared, but I believe you may be unteachable, not for any fault of yours but simply because the magic will do what it will do. So you will have to do your own learning, young Tom.”

“But the letters, Master, the letters! They’re before my eyes day and night, and I can’t make them go away!” cried the hobbit.

“Oh, you don’t need to,” smiled the wizard. “Learn to love them and trust them, not to fear them. They will be your guardians and your friends, and in time – as you learn the way of them – they will be true and obedient servants.”

And with that the hobbit had to be content.

EDORAS


Rohan


Some months ago...


“I should put it from your mind, if I were you.”

The woman leaning on the fence-rail turned at the shadow falling on her, and saw between her and the rays of the morning Sun the tall figure of Eàdwig the Horse-master; a less stern man than many a Knight of the Mark, but a figure of some importance nonetheless. She gave him a crooked smile in response to his greeting.

“And what is on my mind that I should put from it?” she asked.

“Those,” said Eàdwig with a tilt of his head towards the colts running free in the paddock; young, skittish, and as yet untrained – just as the girl was, except perhaps a little more amenable. “It is only natural that your heart should be turned that way, but they are destined for the warriors, and we have men enough to go to war that need them, and never one horse too many.”

“What of those who would go to war who are not men? Is there no horse for them?” she demanded.

Eàdwig laughed. “Arewe, thou art as impossible as thy brother who is a wizard’s pupil! A shield-maiden trained indeed, but we do not send shield-maidens to war.”

Though she knew she was greatly daring, Arewe let her tongue run away. “Then the example of Dernhelm meant nothing?” She turned herself fully towards Eàdwig and away from the fence-rail, as though defying him to scold her for her cheek; but he favoured her with the massive tolerance that a seasoned warrior may show to importunate youth, and answered in tones milder than she knew she deserved.

“Of deeds done in desperate times we do well to make no lasting example,” Eàdwig told her gently. “The Shadow that lay on the world in those days seemed like to make an end of all, and the sister-daughter of the King took thought to seek one end in preference to another, with no hope of coming home again. Marshal Elfhelm knew this well enough, I deem, else he would never have connived at such a course. And as all know, much is forgiven when good unlooked-for comes of ill deeds, for the Lady you speak of and the doughty Holdwine of the Holbytlan accomplished the downfall of the Lord of the Ringwraiths himself, and nothing less, in vengeance for the slaying of King Théoden. The Lady went forth to war not as a warrior goes, and not after the manner of a shield-maiden, and while we sing of the deeds of valour before Mundburg we do not encourage a repetition of such actions – and certainly will not while the enemy is one we make war on far from our own homes, not at our own doorstep.

“Now go, and tell our old King to his face how you bandy around the name of his own sister – if thou durst,” Eàdwig added.

“Nay,” Arewe whispered, “that I dare not.”

The Horsemaster drew breath deeply, and made a gesture to the young woman to turn her attention back to the colts at their play. “He shall not hear of it… In truth, Arewe, thou hast no love for the lance and the blade that are the warrior’s weapons. There is strength in thine arm, and know well enough which end of a sword to hold – but it goes no deeper in thy soul than that. Which is my counter to thy next objection: that we do send some maidens of our folk forth on errantry, if not to war with the cavalry of the Mark then with some private band that has business elsewhere.”

“Sayst thou that I may not be one?” answered Arewe. Eàdwig laughed again, for he laughed often, and never in mockery or meanness, but as one who sees the jest sooner than others do.

“Thy tone is as taut as a bowstring. And at this I wonder not, for I see you have yet again that heathen weapon about you that Wealdhere brought back from the wars in the East,” he said.

“Aye, I do. And more than the weapon Wealdhere brought back; he brought back tales as well. Of those more in a moment; but is this heathen weapon so contemptible, at that?”; and Arewe strung the bow with what seemed little effort, yet Eàdwig knew that it was not so and that many a man of the Mark would have stumbled at the task at the first trying, or even the second or third. She held it out for his inspection: a cunning work of craft, shorter than the bows favoured by such Folk of the Golden Wood who still lingered there, and made not of one piece but of many, strangely curved and built of wood and horn and steel fastened intricately together. With an easy movement of the hand, Arewe drew a bell-like tone from the string. Eàdwig nodded.

“Whoever made this was a craftsman, which none can deny in fairness. Still, it is a Rhûnish weapon and none of our own.”

For answer, Arewe hitched up the skirt of her dress a little and vaulted to the top rail of the fence as easily as a Knight of the Mark might have sprung to the saddle, and she sat with the ease that all who were trained to the saddle from childhood possessed. “And it was well made for its purpose, which is to clear the mount easily from one side to the other and allow its wielder an easy shot at whichever foe he pleases,” Arewe said, bringing the bow to half-draw to her near side and her off and then easing gently to return the weapon to rest. “With such a weapon, and a mount trained to his will, a Rider...”

“A Rider could shirk close contest at arms indeed,” snorted Eàdwig, making a noise wonderfully like a pettish stallion. “Our own warcraft serves us well and won us the Mark: courage, steadfastness, trust in your fellows and a sure eye with the lance.”

Arewe was on the point of replying when both of them heard the rhythmic beats of a hard-ridden horse at the gallop; and they looked up to see Bundraeg the Northman, a tall scion of the Grey Company, at his exercises: an outlander, but one who kept his seat such as any man of Rohan might admire and who had travelled far and had the lore and learning of the Men of the West besides. He espied them and slowed to a canter, a trot, and lastly a walk, before reining to a halt beside them and letting his horse blow.

“A fair day to you both,” cried the Northman; and “A fair day to you,” Eàdwig replied, and added “and what are we to do with this young lady?”

Bundraeg listened judiciously as the Horsemaster rehearsed their talk so far (but he did not mention Dernhelm), then laid a finger alongside his crooked nose and said, “In summary: We have here a bold young woman of age to know her own mind, with her thoughts set on adventure and not on marriage -- ”

“Those that I desire do not desire me, and those that desire me, I desire not!” retorted Arewe, as if to teach the Northman to mind his manners.

“-- and surely there is yet time for that in its proper turn; Who knows the blade and the lance but loves them not; Who will never go to war, and if on errantry, then not as the folk of the Mark go abroad, but is set on some uncouth weapon out of the wild East. Which, in truth, is not a weapon worthy of contempt, as tales of the wars in the East show us; And who yearns to ride a horse of the Mark withal.”

Eàdwig snorted afresh. “And hast thou the wisdom to riddle this?”

Bundraeg said, “It is not the way of the Mark; but in certain times and places a horsebow might serve very well. Yet it is a difficult art, I ween. The Rhûnish who fight so are trained to it from before they can walk. Still, good Eàdwig, sell not this woman below her full worth. All the time I have been in your country, she has listened assiduously to all that I would say and has learned much from me.”

Arewe’s fair features seemed to flush; especially when Bundraeg added “And I should call her an apt pupil, too.”

“Then how would your judgement fall?” she asked.

His eyes fell on the Eastern bow. “The manner in which you hold that weapon alone tells me that it is your treasure of great price. Make it your own, in every sense: beginning by paying Wealdhere a fair price for it, and continuing by learning its ways as you have barely started to. Then take what is yours to risk, and go forth and find the adventure you seek.”

“And as to a horse?” Arewe pleaded – No, she was too proud to plead, but the question had to be asked.

“I have heard it said,” Bundraeg answered, “that sometimes the horse itself will choose the rider – when the time be right. Eàdwig, is that not so?”

“Aye. Sometimes the horse makes that choice: and when it is made, it is not to be gainsaid,” Eàdwig admitted.

Bundraeg turned to her and his eyes were serious. “Then you stand at a great crossroads, Arewe. Some of our Company leave for the North in a sevenday. They have business of their own; but they can lead you to lands where courage and skill at arms may be fairly tested. You have until then to make your decision.”

Arewe drew breath as an archer draws it before attempting a difficult mark. “You mean,” she replied, “I have until then to wait!”

* * *

For days now she had been travelling alone. Raftmen passed sometimes on the River Running, heading for the Long Lake and Dale, or else the other way for Greenwood; and once or twice she had been invited to ride with them, but Arewe had refused the kindly-meant offer. This was her journey, to walk to its end – or to its beginning. The way could not be missed and the journey, at this point, was a safe one. But after she reached Dale? That might be very different.

Whatever might come, she would not flinch and disgrace the land of her birth.

Turning swiftly around, she thought she might glimpse the horse again, skylined against the noon light. But today, all she saw were sun-dogs. Today, and the day before, and the day before that. Still, many times on the way North she had thought the horse was gone for good; and then as hope began to fail she had seen it again. The message was easy enough to read:

The time is not yet come. Not yet. But “not yet” does not mean “never”.

DALE


Rhovanion


Quite recently

“Ay, Rowena!”

There was a crowd of young men at the archery butts behind the Dragonfall Tavern, shooting for a firkin of ale against the green-tabarded young rips from the Rising Sun, their rivalry no less keenly contested for being all in jest and for sport. Rowena Ticehurst rolled her eyes and tossed her head, but hurried over to see.

She was pretty enough to turn heads, but no more so than many another of Dale’s maidens, and it was hard to define why she drew so much attention even in a gathering like this, but so it was; possibly because all knew that there was no young man that she favoured, nor looked to, and if any thought to try his luck he was sure to be let down gently but unmistakably and yet with no feelings hurt on either side. For sure her voice was tuneful, and that was some of the reason why the Dragonfall Tavern lads were calling for a song, but not all the reason. “Come on, Rowena! ‘Tis closely fought today, and a song would be just the thing for us now,” one of them said; and again Rowena tossed her head in mock exasperation, but drew breath to sing as they asked.

To one side an older man kept score on a stick he was marking with a knife, and the host side were a leg down with two more to shoot; three arrows each at the clout and then at the popinjay to finish, and every man on both sides a handy lad with the bow, as was Dale’s way ever since Bard put paid to the Dragon as the tavern sign showed. And for whatever reason, the boys had got it into their heads that a song from Rowena made them shoot the straighter, and she hadn’t the heart to say them nay when they were up against it, and the lads from the Rising Sun about to claim the firkin and drink it dry before the night was out.

She tuned a simple stave that floated out clear on the suddenly still afternoon air, while all the Dragonfall lads stood to their marks; and as she finished the verse the bows thrummed once, twice and again, and half a dozen clouts wore a collection of arrows well placed for the Rising Sun side to match as best they could. Then again as the stuffed red-and-green bird was launched into the air, and well though the boys from the Rising Sun shot, the Dragonfall team shot the truer, and there was going to be drinking and merrymaking to follow, and the cheers for Rowena were lusty and given with a will.

Ted Barr, captain of the Rising Sun archers, doffed his hat in salute to his victorious foes, and bowed low to Rowena with a bright gleam in his eye. “Well done… spellsinger!” he murmured; and Rowena felt her heart give a thump, but only shook her head.

“Am I an elf, then?” she answered musically. “Or a wizard from the age of heroes brought to life? No. It’s all in their heads – only that. The luck be with you next time”.

* * *

A scavenger hunt by night was good sport too, and dressed in something more mannish than her usual attire Rowena could move with the grace of a lynx. Even so, it was a test of skill and daring rather out of the ordinary this time, a tile from the Royal Dovecote itself, and none would have dared issue the challenge much less attempt it but that Dale had been enjoying peace for many long years, and neither enemies nor even simple thieves troubled the citizens enough that too strict a watch need be kept.

Still, there must be someone a-watch in the King’s own gardens, and while young Tessa Maddick might be an adept in the art of tumbling and could run like a black cat in the dark, the two of them were up against a guard who was almost sure he had seen something, and only wanted enough confirmation to summon help.

Rowena fixed her gaze where she knew Tessa was, a black-dressed shadow in the deep shade behind a tall urn that some southern plant was nursed in, and she focussed her attention on whispering precisely where she wanted to be heard, and not a foot to either side: “Stay still. Don’t be seen or heard. I’ll get him to move away from you. Run when you see him turn and not an instant before. You can answer very quietly, I can hear you.”

“Understood,” came Tessa’s answer, and it was as though she was right next to Rowena when she spoke, using a voice that wouldn’t carry three feet away. But anyone could have turned their hand to really, really listening, Rowena knew; it didn’t take elf-ears to turn the trick, much less any sorcerous art.

She began to sing softly, disguising her voice to make it sound as though it came from beyond the garden wall, and it was a wordless lullaby such as a nurse might use to a restive child. Only that and nothing more. The guard turned and smiled at a memory nearly as old as he was, and sat down to listen to the song in comfort; which was Tessa’s signal to flee, and she was up and fairly over the wall before the guard could be sure it wasn’t a cat loose in the bushes. But that left Rowena alone, with a guard on a hook she dared not let him off, and she knew she wasn’t as swift or agile as Tessa and needed a few extra seconds to get herself away unseen.

Did her song seem a little more intense for a moment, it was no more than natural, for Rowena could not help thinking: “Would it not be just as well, now, if you dozed off for just a minute, only a minute and no more in case your captain saw you?” – and her song gave way to a few words spoken in an undertone, in elvish or something stranger, and she saw him nod. Then the startlement as much as anything else put a spur to her sides and she was making her own dash for the wall on the instant.

Outside the garden, she caught her breath quickly and got herself under control. There was a tile fragment in her pocket… and a sense of unease in her head. Still: “That was lucky,” was all Rowena said to herself; and a few minutes later she was safe in a warm alehouse among friends, scraping a jolly measure on her little fiddle, and looking for an opportunity to suggest to Tessa that the least said, the soonest mended about the night’s events.

* * *

A day out duck-hunting was bidding fair to ease her troubled mind, and Rowena knew her craft well enough to put paid to a duck with little fuss and bother. A brace for her table, and a few more to take to the market where Benjamin Fowler would happily give her a coin or two, knowing he could sell them on and make something on the deal; that was all she needed and all she would manage with a day’s careful stalking and a true aim with her bow.

Out of town it was peaceful and quiet. There was no traffic along the River Running today, tranquil as it was on the last run in to the Long Lake, and even though she was wearing what she jestingly called her “war gear” (for it was as well to practise wearing it from time to time, after she had spent good money on it) Rowena was careful to move as stealthily as she could manage so that the wildfowl would not be frightened away. It would be a solecism to call them “tame”, but neither were they over-hunted to the point of skittishness, and it was at least possible to come within bowshot of one duck or another before it took wing, and if she drew and shot smoothly and quickly enough she could loose off one shot at a sporting distance at least.

There was a wolf in the bushes.

Her senses screamed at her as she picked up an unfamiliar but not unknown scent and saw a hint of something grey far too close for comfort. There was a sword girt at her waist but she knew she could not wield it well enough to put a wolf down at close quarters without an unreasonable slice of luck, and her only other weapon – for it was worse than useless to run – was the bow already in her hand. Hitting a wolf with an arrow was likely to madden it sooner than stop it dead, but perhaps if she shot close enough and fast enough it would seek safer game elsewhere…

If she had enough arrows left.

Quiver, don’t fail me now! Rowena implored out loud as she reached over her shoulder, drew and loosed, drew and loosed, beating a tattoo into the bushes that she hoped would scare the beast away and praying to Yavanna and all the Valar that might be listening that it would not break cover and charge her. But she would sooner shoot herself dry and die trying, and she dared not pause or even pay much attention to how many shafts she loosed, until she heard a scramble of feet and a huffing growl as of some angry but, for the time being, fearful animal running for deeper cover and more distant. Only when she was sure it was gone did she pause in her shooting and find out how many arrows she had left.

Her quiver was still full.

Mouthing a single word of denial over and over, Rowena took the quiver off her back and inspected it closely to be sure. There was no mistake. It was as though she had not fired a single shot, barring the shafts she had skewered a brace of ducks with earlier in the day. No, that couldn’t be! Such things didn’t happen. Unless…

Rowena laughed with relief. She held the quiver up for closer inspection. Surely she hadn’t looked at it before, not properly. An elf had made it, that was the answer. Somehow an elf quiver had made its way to the bowyer’s in Dale and in all innocence she had bought the craft of the Folk of the Wood. And their workmanship was legendary: they made boats that would not sink, shoes that would not break the crust on a snowfield, ropes that stayed tied until you wanted them and then unhitched themselves… and, clearly, quivers that would not let an archer shoot herself out when she needed more arrows for her very life. That was all it was. No sorcery, just accidentally stumbling on a piece of elf-magic.

* * *

But it was time to face the truth – and Rowena’s head spun in turmoil, though she played a merry tune on her fiddle as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Something was happening to her that she didn’t understand. It couldn’t be that she was a magician! Such things only happened to elves or wizards or people who lived long years ago in the age of heroes. Not to her, not to Rowena Ticehurst, an archer, a minstrel, sometimes not a wholly respectable one but no cunning-woman either!

What was she going to do?

There were strangers in town. Over there, by the fire where the ox was roasting, a couple of the Halflings from far away set to eat their own weight in free beef; by the wine-keg, a woman with a better bow than hers and of a stranger design, wearing some outlander device of a white horse on a green field; and perhaps one or two others. Yes. Strangers in town. People who needed someone to show them around and teach them the local sights, history, and customs. That would do very well for a while.

Rowena set her hat on straight, gave the strings of her fiddle a quick strum for luck, and strode over to greet the strangers as though she had never a care in the world.