distraction and, forgive me, the shrill whisperings of those lawless insurgents known as Quicklegs and his outlaws. Let me speak clearly here. That man is a cruel usurper! He pretends to a crown only to rule you all for his own selfish purposes. And also blessed are we to meet this very eve without the, again forgive me, fear-mongering of this lesser wizard known as Stormhue …”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if confiding, “Who, by the way, brings bad news to cover the bad luck he spreads everywhere like a disease. This council, then, I hoped would avoid the dialogue of ‘great causes’ and also the, forgive me one last time, the pettiness of settling things for a few generations of your race.”
He marked this moment with a deep breath. “Let there then be no cavil as to the terms that can divide us bitterly or embrace us both to greater purpose and most blessed peace. I am prepared humbly to accept your terms, if you will but render me one small token. To fill up a parchment such as that unkindly gift of empty space and unfeeling heart which you earlier bestowed upon me. The token I ask is but a small ornament, suitable as a trifling pendant or ring. Plain, of little value to others yet sentimental to me and my lineage. Just as your lands and heraldry are … shall we say ‘precious’ … to you. Help me find this bauble, give me this which is mine, and I, along with my supporters—” he gestured to the lines on either side of him, “for as you can see they are neither slaves nor minions, but worthy men of principle and allies of orcs who have been unfairly harassed and ungentled by your houses from time immemorial — these all shall withdraw. The Long River shall make us good neighbours and its waters reflect unguarded borders, rather than warring camps sending forth boats of fire and war, from this day forward.”
The visiting ambassador waited a moment to respond. He was cold and unyielding in his manner. “We know not of this token, save by vague legend bandied about by those who pretend to have memories longer than my many grandfathers’ lives. But if you value it so, it may be of greater value than you admit, or perchance of use only to those of your kind. In either case we care little. If we possessed it, we would in all likelihood deliver it unto you as ransom alongside your fear of defeat, and seal this offer. But we possess it not, nor shall we divert to aid your search for this trinket. You have made war upon our lands and now amass your armies at our borders, and indeed stand here at this moment upon some mission of secrecy deep within our own territory. You summon to our vicinity those hated dogs of terror known as the Wraiths. We shall not take the bait of your soft words. Quit our lands or we shall evict you by defeat and death!”
The Dark Lord did not regard the man. He simply sighed and said, “May you feel such fear that your balls turn as brittle as stones.”
In response, the company under their proud emblems pulled forth their swords, their sudden ringing like a cry of metallic harmonies. Shiiinnnggg! The swords reflected the reddening light of day’s end.
Just as suddenly those in the forward ranks shrieked. The troll had let slip the brudarks. The ambassador was torn into pieces in a moment. His sword and helm spit into the air like mere twigs and crumbs. The stunned company turned in panic, gave spur to their mounts in retreat, and then suddenly reined them in.
Ringing the path of their escape were five mounted Wraiths.
“Finish them, and bring me their banners that we may use them as rolls in our latrines and sop-rags in our banquet halls!”
With that, the dark knights and the orcs fell on the hapless few who quailed now between the Wraiths and the brudarks.
Here the scribe’s hand failed, as if interrupted. There were scribbles, scratch-throughs, question marks, and redos of various symbols. There was half of a note, something about a trap awaiting the Bearer, then an arrow leading to the words “The trap is set for the next full moon!” After further space, the writing again gathered momentum toward Ara’s fate:
There followed hoarse shouts and the screams of men and beasts, clashing and banging, the dull thuds of weapons on bodies, and a hideous brudark roar. As these subsided, the howls of Dire Wolves, now loosed to search out survivors, filled the glen.
One approached Ara’s spot, picking up a scent and eager to tear into a quailing prey. It pounced at a darker spot in the grass. Its jaws set upon the limp and empty chords of her bonds.
Ara was gone.
Maddening! Cadence looked at the clock and then leafed through the pages until she found once again the sign of a sliver moon. She read with a flash of energy as she saw whose paths had crossed:
Ara had been here. The Bearer felt it.
He stopped, smelled the freshening air that rushed down this glen, and knelt facing the pathway before him. The breeze sang gently of distant snows and the awakening of the Winter Giants far to the north as it rippled in wavelets across the expanse of green grass. Sunlight and shadow danced an ensemble as the nearby trees swayed back and forth.
The patterns of light caught a glint.
There! Gone. There again!
He stretched and pulled from the grass a necklace of gold. It was broken, and dark stains painted its delicate links. It was Ara’s. Its lineage traced back to the treasure hordes of the Last Dragon. He had given it to her as their first exchange of gifts. (He had received from her a green
She had been here. Perhaps only hours before!
He leapt forward holding his Shandy tightly in his hand, his feet compressing the shallower grass of the path, and left that place forever.
There was a note in the margin of the passage. The note-maker scribed these lines perhaps centuries after the original document, yet still of a time lost to antiquity:
Where this most famous Halfling thus passed— proudly wearing his Shandy as portrayed in the famous Tapestries of Ulmarest — he was intent on his search for the footprints of Ara. The grass grows there even today in similar long-bladed fashion. The wind still ripples across this expanse, just as it did then. The earnest aromas of spring still arrive there yearly. The rich, sad smells that herald the onset of fall are identical there today. The hares and marmots of the nearby rocky hillside reside there yet. And to those who say Middle-earth has passed on, let them stand here! For they are shown the lie by this moment.
That world exists still, for any that would kneel down and smell the simple earth, stoop and partake of the plain and honest work offered by a fine summer’s vegetable garden, or gaze to the snow-crested, blue mountains that beckon one to adventure.
If, of a moment, you next linger in such a place, perchance travelling a rude and simple country road, ask thyself who trod this path before? What errands did they seek? What stories did they live? Where did this path take them in their long journey?
Indeed, where does it take thee?
She read on, obsessed now, and came across a context for the evil toward which Ara’s feet carried her:
An Account and Prophecy.
By Gifol, Historian of the Third Age in the Court of Hrothulf. My Lord,
The tale of Ara and the single moon cycle which ordered so much of the end of that world and the beginning of our own, cannot be fully understood without the history of the Source and its Embodiment. Unfortunately this comes to us in tatters, rife with dispute and contradiction. Was this embodiment merely a ring? Or, as various sages maintain, a shield, or sword, or symbol? Was it a secret incantation, with the story of a ring attached merely as a myth? Ruse and distraction infect all history from these times.
A review of its popular names from antiquity tells us little. “Un-still” it was sometimes called in the south, but by far it was known, universally and simply, by one name: “Bind”.
I repent now that my long research in the few scattered archives that survived the wreckage of those times is complete. This is what we know: there was an Embodiment of a kind. It was called Bind. It was most likely a pendant or a ring. It was indeed destroyed. With it went much of the magic of the world, along with a pernicious concentration of evil.
Alas, the nature of evil is that it lurks and gathers. It is a seed in the hearts of men.
Magic is more fragile. Have hope, my lord, for I believe it too has survived. The makers at the Source made another Embodiment. Its fate is at present unknown. It may conceal itself as a ring, a book, or perhaps a secret
