Seia sat atop Antin, walking at a steady pace along those cold northern roads. He hated this place. It looked of death, and stunk of worse. He thought he might hate everywhere, now. Everything, everyone. He hadn't spoken to another Man for weeks, months since he'd met one that was friendly. His shield arm was tight from the last, two Hillfolk that were generous with their swings. They hadn't lasted long, not when Seia put his sword through one's throat and a spear in the other's back as he fled.
The scarf wrapped around his neck came from the second. It was so strange a thing to find, so far from home, that it had made him laugh. The first genuine laugh since leaving Bree. The scarf was silk, and not the shoddy silk people peddled in the greenlands; no, it was the finest Harad silk and, though frayed from the poor attention of its most recent owner, a careful wash with clean water had made it shine like new.
He kept something tucked inside, the most important thing he had. He brought it out now, guiding Antin with his knees. His lance was in his other hand, stretching from his stirrup and up thirteen feet into the sky. Running his thumb over the lock of hair, he ran that last day through his mind, over and over.
What else could I have done? Why did Priya always protect such fools? I should have done worse to the boy.
So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he didn't notice the man on the roadside until he was almost upon him. Antin whickered at the man, and Seia stroked the horse's neck while peering suspiciously at what looked to be a farmer. Hardly more than a boy, he looked up at Seia, his eyes wide.
“Is that real gold, mister?” He gestured up at Seia's armour, the pauldrons glittering in the sunlight with their beaten gold gilt. He didn't seem to recognise the silk, worth much more to these greenlanders than the thin layer of gold covering parts of his armour.
“It is.” Seia slid his lance into its lock in the saddle, though only to lay his hand on the hilt of his sword. There was no space to gain enough speed for his lance to be useful, and besides, the boy was already closer than the lance was long. The boy is too close for my lance. Stupid.
He bared a foot of the serpentine blade, but the boy didn't seem to notice. Even more stupid.
“Cor, you must be a noble lord of Gondor, to afford such as them,” the boy said, nodding. It seemed he had already made up his mind about Seia. “Thought they was all fancy-pants folk, sitting up in their tower, making laws that reg'lar folk have to follow or be arrested, but you seem like a reg'lar warrior. Don't think that spear'd be any good for hunting boar with, eh?” He laughed and flicked the lance, and Seia very nearly kicked his teeth in.
“It is for killing men, not boar.” That wiped the smile right of the farmer boy's face.
“Killed men, have you?”
“Yes.”
They walked together in silence for a time, the boy afraid to talk and Seia simply unwilling. Sometimes the boy seemed about to say something, but then thought better of it. He watched the forest as often as he watched Seia, and in return the Haradrim watched the woods, too. If this child thought to have his friends leap out of the trees, he wouldn't make it more than three steps.
Finally, he spoke.
“We're just farmers out this way, but do you want to eat with us tonight? No need for strangers on the road, eh?”
Seia looked down at the boy, weighing himself against the greenlander.
“I have not eaten all day. Very well.”
As they sat around the table, eating a virtual feast compared to what the Haradrim had been surviving on, Seia tried not to listen. He answered whatever questions they asked of him, though they mostly asked of Gondor. The boy seemed fasccinated by his weapons, the odd snake-like sword, the assortment of short spears, and particularly all the knives.
When dinner was over, the boy's mother turned to her husband.
“Best go get the payment ready. I'm sure Tom can help.” Seia eyed them carefully, a piece of beef halfway to his mouth, until she turned to him.
“Brigands've been coming around lately. They take payment in return for not torching our farm, but it gets steeper every week. We'll have to move along or be killed, soon.”
“Tell me about these brigands. Where do they live? I wish to avoid them if I can.”
“There's about fifteen of 'em. They come out of the forest, think we don't know where they go, but Tom followed them one night. Good lad, our Tom, doesn't deserve to live afraid like he does. He told us they went down to the old ruins, and he could see their fires. The ruins're in a bowl in the side of a valley, south-west of here.”
“They're here.” The boy came back from a window as the father dragged a cart around to the front of the house. Seia listened from just inside the door, watching through a peekhole in the wood.
“It's all here, as much as you said last week.” The farmer slouched, resigned to giving up what looked to Seia like half a harvest.
“The boss wants more.” One of the brigands did the speaking, grinning, while the other remained in the back. “Thinks you've been skimping on the payments. He wants double.”
“We've not got double. This is all we can afford to give, if we give more we'll starve before the month is out.”
“Maybe we can come to some arrangement. These sacks here,” he said, patting the cart. “And your wife for a week. She's pretty, and we'll take good care of her.” He laughed.
The farmer punched him in the gut. The brigand broke his nose. The farmwife screamed. Seia opened the door.
“Who in the--” The brigand stumbled away from the steel-clad man, holding up a rusty sword that looked ready to break. As the Haradrim stepped forward, he drew his sword, turning the motion into an upwards swing. The man's sword fell to the ground, as did he, clutching at the deep slash along his face and screaming.
The second brigand hesitated, stopping to look at Seia's emotionless face before he attacked. The heavy downwards blow was easy to dodge, and Seia spun around the man, swinging his own sword at the back of the man's knee. The man didn't scream, to his credit, but he did fall. As he did, Seia stabbed him through the back, the sword jutting like a crimson snake from the man's chest.
He barely stopped to put the first man out of his pain before making his way to the sheepfold, where Antin had been hobbled. Saddling the horse and preparing his weapons took a matter of minutes, and he started off. Not in the direction of the road, but south-west toward the valley.
