Mouser and the Black Rider

 

Mouser drew two long daggers as the black figure emerged from the midnight shadows. Somewhere behind the terrifying shape, Mouser heard a horse snort and stamp.

Old Barley was right about "black riders" after all, Mouser thought as the black-robed shape stood before him, swaying a little like a silent, ebony tree.

Barley was still shakey after his inn, The Prancing Pony, had been ransacked two nights earlier, "By men all in black, or more like...like shadows that has taken the form of a man." It had taken more cajoling, but the last thing he would say is, "They was after my guests, four nice Hobbits from the Shire. Then these Hobbits ran off with another ranger, meaning no disrespect to you yourself, you see."

Mouser, a ranger of the North, had been looking for Strider, his captain. Many roads and rumors had finally led him to Bree, where, it seemed he had barely missed the 90-day wonder of intrigue and mayhem. Even the old men of the town constables had dusted off scattered bits of armor from the mathom house to wear during their newly invigorated patrols around Bree.

He knew Strider was likely apoplectic at all the talk and attention. Strider, like all the Dunedain, shunned the company - and wagging tongues - of the simple folk.

The black rider seemed to sniff, still swaying, almost ignoring the ranger and his drawn weapons. He must have remained behind when his peers had fled, Mouser mused. A rear guard in case Strider doubled back.

Mouser could feel a strange...pressure in his mind. It was like a hurricane was raging just ouside a heavy door. He sensed something that wanted to get in, but he was somehow protected.

"Bloody hell!" A voice cried behind Mouser. "Put them weapons down right now, the both of ya."

Mouser stepped to the side and cut his eyes at the town constable. He was adorned in a mismatched, ill-fitting collection of armor that might have spent the last decade protecting a scarecrow by the looks of it.

"I mean it," he yelled, then he clattered to the ground, screaming and clutching his head.

"Bagginsss," the black rider hissed to Mouser. "Show me Bagginsss. I have gold."

The constable cried out again, kicking his legs as if he was fighting some invisible foe. Dogs barked; a baby wailed. Many villagers, still tense over the recent scare, started calling out from windows and doorways. Some had lamps, some had old swords or kitchen knives.

The black rider sniffed once more, his impenetrable hood moving left and right as new noises broke out. He growled and mounted his black horse, spurring into the night.

"What's all this?" Another constable appeared, leading a crowd of half-dressed villagers. The constable carried a butcher knife and yelled, "Dernie, you alive over there?"

"Aye, I'll live," the downed constable said weekly.

"Well, Ranger Mouser? You rangers seems to be in the middle of all our troubles these days."

Mouser put away his blades. "Just a simple misunderstanding, Mr. Redoak. The black rider that downed your man headed north if you want to chase him for questions."

"I do not," Redoak said. "Just see that you are on your way tomorrow, but tonight is even better." He helped Dernie up. A couple of villagers took over and guided the unsteady man away.

Mouser watched them all leave, muttering and looking back his way. Yes, tonight would be better. He grabbed his bedroll and haversack. Luckily, he had been able to buy some sausages, bread, and cheese before the village market - and just about everything else - had buttoned up for the night.

He took a nibble of cheese, wrapped it in a mallorn leaf, and started north behind the black rider.




/// Inspired by characters from JRR Tolkien's Fellowship of the Ring book.