Esmeron, now separated from his companions in arms and taken captive, could do little but resign himself to his situation. He stared blankly at the Dunlending who had given him an arrow to the shoulder, fettered him to a tree and stolen his coin besides. Eventually, he realized that he could hear the murmuring of several voices nearby. He saw none save the bearded bowman, who had now turned away from him and appeared to be waiting, though for what Esmeron could not say. A gruff, commanding voice then sounded somewhere behind the Bree-lander, who heard soft footsteps approaching and watched as a wiry figure in a fur cloak walked over to the bearded Man. The figure appeared to be a measure taller than his kinsman and the two exchanged words only a moment before the bowman gave a curt nod and took his leave. The other Dunlending remained and moved toward Esmeron.
The Man had a craggy face whiskered with black hair and he bore a prominent scar across his left cheek. There were several unusual black markings that appeared to be painted on his neck but they were obscured by his large cloak. His expression was long and searching as he came close and studied the Bree-lander. When the Man moved, he did so calmly and carefully as if each motion was given the utmost thought and deliberation.
"You should thank Bradoc. He is an able healer," spoke the tall Man in the Westron tongue, pausing as he glanced at the Bree-lander's shoulder, "and a better hunter. He has poulticed your wound and perhaps saved your life." His accent was most unusual, though it was clear that he was quite familiar with the Common Speech. Esmeron looked bemused and the Dunlending took notice of this. "You did not think I spoke your tongue? Are you not a Northerner?" he asked in such a way that would brook no reply. "Looking at you, it is obvious. Yours is not the only speech I have learned in my years."
"Your bowman has generously paid himself with my own silver. Surely that is gratitude enough, and for a wound made by his own hand," said Esmeron, his voice hoarse and dry. He writhed in his bonds and gave a guttural grunt as the pain recurred.
The Dunlending simply shrugged and smiled, saying, "Had you not chased Bradoc, I do not think he would have fired upon you. Have you no value for your own life? We do not often spare our enemies." His piercing gaze was now firmly fixed on Esmeron, who saw his own judgment in the Hill-man's eyes.
"Ever am I glad to see another dawn, but am I counted among your foes? I pursued the one you call Bradoc only to find out the purpose of his dark vigil, and that was the whole of it."
The wiry Man was silent for a long moment, his unyielding eyes still upon the Bree-lander. "You and your party, why do you travel these lands? This is no place for Men of the North."
Esmeron cleared his parched throat. "We sought passage through Moria and had stopped only to rest for the night. We were to set out the next morning."
The Man raised a thick, bushy brow. "The Dwarf-halls of old? I am told that it is now the home of Orcs and other evil creatures. You must be a band of great fools if you think to enter such a place and leave with your lives."
"I am an even greater fool besides, it seems."
The Hill-man took on a rather troubled expression. "That you may be, but I do not think you an enemy of our kind. We have captured you, true, but we had first taken you for another who is said to take refuge in these wilds. Three days and nights we have looked for him but to no avail," said the Dunlending, as if searching for a clue in his own words.
"What would you have of me, then?"
"Only that you run not back to your band of fools so soon. Aye, I believe you speak truly but we will not be followed, you understand," the Dunlending said rigidly. "We will send you on your way in good time, besides, your coin is toll enough for your passing. You must now regain your strength." He raised his hand, signaled Bradoc over to him and motioned for the hunter to loosen Esmeron's binds. "However, I would first know your name, Northerner."
The Bree-lander, though profoundly sore from head to toe, could scarcely have been more relieved to be free of the rope. Even so, he grew somewhat worried at the thought of just where this diversion would take him. "I am called Esmeron," he said weakly. "You have my thanks."
"Well, Esmeron, I am Catharn of the Boar Clan. Be ready to venture forth, for soon we go to Dunland."
