Land of Salvania

  There would be none to record this deed, Feather thought as he drew his sword. "They are close," Rabbit Bane said, her voice a skwee of hawk speech as she glided overhead, her sharp eyes taking in the wind-blasted mountain top and clumps of twisted trees. Strider had been right, Feather thought. The orcs were coming west from Mordor as sure as Sauron's heart was black. The rangers were too scattered, as always, to stop them all. Still, very few orcs reported back to their master in the dark tower. He smiled at the exaggerated tale they must have told to justify their losses. Maybe he had grown to a dozen knights in shining armor, or a thousand archers raining death on the unsuspecting orcs. In reality, only a dozen rangers, spread too thin as always, patrolling alone along the eastern bank of the Gwathir were the "armies" holding the orcs at bay. But he knew the day was coming when even the grim hunters of the West, silently guarding the peace and shunned

  Strider stood, one foot asleep, still wrapped in his stained Ranger cloak. He yawned and peered into the misty dawn as a fox trotted by Frodo's new Crickhollow house. He nibbled on some lembas as his foot tingled to life. The air smelled of rain. He'd need to get across the Baranduin before it swelled. Maybe the Bucklanders would sleep late today and miss his green shadow skirting the edges of their well-tended fields. "Keep an eye on Frodo, when you can," Gandalf had said last month over a pint at The Prancing Pony. "I feel the shadow stirring." Strider worked the stiffness out of his shoulders, thinking about a soft mattress in Rivendell and his lady's shining eyes. The fox looked his way, his nose held high. Yes, he was long overdue for a bath. Nothing like a splash in the cold Baranduin to cleanse the body and spirit. Inspired by the Lord of the Rings saga by JRR Tolkien. Art and text: Mickey Kulp, 2022 /// Copyright

  As Halbarad was crossing the Baranduin, he stopped and turned back. Aragorn had already vanished on the other side, like a shadow at midnight. Halbarad smiled, recalling a conversation with one of the small folk from the past week. "I am seeking one named Strider, a man like myself," Halbarad had said to the post mistress at Bywater. She cast a shrewd eye on the tall, weather-stained traveler. No doubt she saw greasy hair and a beard that needed trimming a month ago. "Ain't no striding men around here, but some say that all kinds of strangers pass through The Prancing Pony over in Bree." "Thank you m'lady," Halbarad said with a nod. The post mistress smiled, a blush staining her plump cheeks. "Well, ain't you a gentleman. In case I see this striding man, who might I say you are called?" "They call me Shadow," he said, noting her surprise and a return to guarded skepticism. The halflings loved to gossip, and Halbarad only h