Chapter 1 - Becoming a Man

The pounding in Jesper’s head became so loud that it awakened him from his drunken slumber.  He, along with all of his nearby friends and relatives, had that night celebrated his coming of age in typical fashion:  an evening of  heavy drinking, good-natured teasing, and delicious food.  The fact that it was the first time Jesper had imbibed a large quantity of ale explained the throbbing inside his skull.

 Jesper moaned, frustrated that morning had already arrived.  Today he was to pack his bags and begin the journey to Fornost in the north, where his father had arranged a job for him in a travel supply shop.  The shopkeeper who had agreed to take him on was childless, and was in need of young hands for cleaning and upkeep.  Jesper would be working for a few silvers a week, as well as a cot in the back of the shop.

 Jesper had no illusions as to the reasons his father had found the job for him.  For the last year or more, Jesper had been voicing his desire to become a warrior of the Dunedain, those mighty Rangers who quietly kept watch over the western lands.  Although he knew the Rangers were looked upon distrustfully by many, Jesper felt it was his right, his duty perhaps, to join their never-ending work to keep the minions of the Dark Lord at bay.  His father however, despite common ancestry with the Dunedain, was opposed to the idea of his son taking up arms.  A cruel death, he had told him, is all you can expect as a Ranger.  And a crueler life for your mother and me, who would likely never learn of your fate.  His mother had done her own part to discourage him, telling him the most frightening stories (no doubt untrue - everyone knew trolls were as false as the mewlips said to haunt the swamps near Bree!) at bedtime in an attempt to scare his adventurous ideas from his mind.  But Jesper had been so awestruck when he first passed a pair of Rangers on the Fornost Road, that even his mother’s frightening descriptions of goblins, trolls, and balrogs failed to dispel his image of the glory and nobility of becoming a Ranger.

Finally opening his eyes, Jesper saw that it wasn’t morning after all.  In fact, the sky outside his small window hadn’t even begun to brighten.  Considering how late he had gone to bed, it had likely only been an hour or two.  Gathering his thoughts,  he realized that the pounding he felt was somehow both inside his head and out at the same time.

Suddenly, from his parents’ room below, a terrified scream pierced the stillness of the night.  The raspy growl of some creature followed it, as well as the scrape of metal on leather.  Something crashed to the floor.

His father’s voice cried, “No!  Get back!  Please!  Don’t hur...”  His plea ended with a sickening sound, a solid thump somehow combined with the splatter of some liquid.  Another scream rang through the air, this time identifiably his mother’s. Jesper rolled from his cot and slid down the ladder from the attic to the kitchen. 

     “Ma!  Father!”  He stumbled toward their room in the darkness, the pounding in his head chased away by his fear. 

     “What’s going on?”  He reached the bedroom and froze in place, not comprehending the sight before him.

Standing in the middle of the room was a squat, muscular form covered in armor made from crude metal scales.  Strapped to one arm was a black shield, with bare metal showing through where paint had been chipped away.  In the center of the shield was a red eye.  In the beast’s other hand was a long rusted sword, serrated and evil-looking.  It’s face was horrible:  the deep brow, wide flat nose, and mouth full of long sharp teeth were unmistakable, even though Jesper had only seen them before in his mind’s eye.  In his mother’s stories.

      “Orc,” whispered Jesper.  “Orc.”

The creature slashed downward with it’s blade, and Jesper watched helplessly as a ribbon of scarlet spread from his mother’s shoulder to her hip.  With a barely audible moan, she dropped to the floor.  The orc turned to face Jesper, bringing its blade to bear once more. 

     “Humanz,” it growled, twisting the language of Men.  “We eat well thiz night.”

Terror overtaking his surprise, Jesper stumbled backward into the kitchen.  The orc leaped through the doorway, and Jesper realized with dismay that it had placed itself between him and the only door exiting his home.  He took another step back, and his back pressed against the wall.

A victorious gleam in its foul eyes, the orc slowly stalked toward Jesper, the curved sword held before it.  It held its shield out to the side to prevent Jesper from dashing to the side. 

      “Die now.  Tazte good.” 

A spray of spittle flew from its mouth, some of it hitting Jesper in the face.  Jesper prayed for a fast death, his fear so complete that he couldn’t even force himself to close his eyes.

With a thunderous boom, the door flew open.  Two more figures swiftly moved into the house, and the orc swiveled to face them.  The first one, clad in chain mail with plates of metal protecting its arms and legs, held a massive sword in its hands as it stepped forward.  The second, much smaller and clad in a dark robe, calmly closed the door behind it as it entered.

 Jesper watched as, with a snarl of rage, the orc leapt, and the clang of metal sounded as two swords met.  The orc swung again, but was shoved backward and fell to one knee.  The diminutive figure in robes chanted softly, and suddenly the doorway into the home blurred somehow.            

Seizing the advantage, the figure in chain mail lowered an overhand blow at the orc, and the heavy blade cut into the orc’s arm.  The creature regained its footing and countered with a slash to its opponent’s midsection, drawing sparks from the chain as it slid across.  The orc, seemingly faster with its blade, struck again, this time a jab into its foe’s thigh.  Red blood streamed from the wound, but the metal-clad warrior struck another blow to the orc, this time a hit to the orc’s shoulder that knocked several metal scales loose from the armor. 

The orc stabbed its blade once more, this time biting deep into a shoulder, causing the massive sword to fall to the floor.  Unable to regain its weapon, the wounded warrior backed unsteadily away from the orc.  The orc, in turn, sensed victory and  raised its sword high above its head, prepared to deliver a killing blow.

 Before that blow could land, however, the darkness in the room disappeared in an explosion of color and light.  The orc screamed in pain and halted its advance, turning instead to the robed figure.  Another burst of color shot lit the room, and the orc threw itself at the door.  Despite the fact that the door wasn’t particularly stout, the orc was unable even to budge the door.

     “You shouldn’t have entered the lands of the West,”  the robed figure stated with an almost musical voice.  “You shan’t leave them again.” 

The figure reached out a slender hand, and with a softly whispered word, touched the orc.  Flames seemed to flow from the extended hand into the orc, and the creature fell to the ground, gasping for breath.  Another slender hand darted from within the robes, and the orc’s remaining lift fled from its slit throat.

      “Damn you.  Why that spell?  You know I hate burnt orc.”  The wounded warrior limped forward to retrieve the fallen sword.

      “It’s not my fault you can’t hang on to your blade.  Be glad I didn’t let it gut you to teach you a lesson!  Since I didn’t, though, I’d better see to your wounds.  You’ll never shut up if I let you bleed to death.  You’d probably turn into some apparition that would show up whenever I entered a tavern, and bleed into my ale!”

The figure tossed back its hood as it knelt to look at the warrior’s wounded thigh.  A stern narrow face was revealed, with close-cropped dark hair and slender tapered ears that ended in a point.  Concentrating on the wound, it muttered a few phrases and blood stopped flowing from the wound.  The process was repeated on the warrior’s shoulder.

      “How about you, boy?  Are you harmed?”  The figure approached Jesper.  “Did the orc wound you as well?”

Jesper shook his head, still unable to muster the courage for speech.  He recognized this being as an elf, though he had never before seen one of these either. 

      “See to the others.  The lad’s fine.”  The warrior removed his visored helm, revealing a plain, but altogether human, face.  “I’ll take care of him.”  Setting his helm upon the stove, the man ran a gloved hand through his hair.

The elf walked smoothly into Jesper’s parents’ room and vanished inside.  Moments later it emerged again, shaking its head.  “Gone.  We were moments too late.”

      “We were in time for this one, at least,” came the man’s response.  “That orc was crafty though.  Most won’t cross streams like this one.  If not for that we would have caught it days ago.”

     “Well, it is not so crafty now.”  The elf knelt beside the orc and cut loose the pouches that hung from its belt.

     “True enough, Jerolas.  True enough.  Anything worth keeping?”

     “Some gold.  A couple of those poisonous draughts you are so fond of.”

The warrior righted a fallen chair and took a seat facing Jesper. 

     “Well, my friend,” he spoke, “it seems that you’ve had better days.”

Jesper took a step toward his parents’ room, but the seated warrior caught his arm in a firm grip.

      “You don’t want to look in there, lad.”

Regaining mastery of his tongue, Jesper spoke. 

      “I’ve already seen it.”  Nonetheless, he leaned against the wall once more.

The elf stood.  “I am sorry for your loss.  We regret that we could not catch up with this creature sooner, or you would have slept peacefully.  Now I doubt that will happen again for some time.” 

     “I am Finglorn,” the man stated simply.  “And my elven friend here is Jerolas.  I too, am sorry.  Do you have a place to go?”

Jesper nodded bravely, keeping his fear and sorrow contained.  “I...I was supposed to leave for Fornost after breakfast.  Pa...my father...got me a job there.”

      “That’s good.  Fornost is as safe a place as you can find of late.  These orc raids are getting far too common.”  Finglorn’s voice was a dry, deep rumble, sharp contrast to the higher, rolling speech of the elf.  “You have your things packed already, I assume?  We’ll help you on the way to Fornost in the morning.”

      “I can’t leave after this!” Jesper cried plaintively.  “My parents...the house...the farm!”

      “We will help with your parents,” spoke Jerolas.  “But it is not safe for you here alone.  Orcs usually prey on the weak and the solitary.  You are both.”

Finglorn spoke again.  “Forgive us if we seem somewhat cold.  Sometimes we forget that there are eyes in the world that haven’t witnesses the amount of death and madness that our own have.  When you reach Fornost you can send word for someone to take care of the farm.”  Compassion was in Finglorn’s voice, and concern was in his eyes.  “Why don’t you go gather your things.”

Jesper climbed numbly back to the attic.  Moving slowly and methodically, trying to keep his mind from replaying all that he had just witnessed, he finished packing the sack that he planned to carry to Fornost.  He ended up packing many items that he had originally planned to leave behind.  There was a possibility, he realized, that he wouldn’t be coming back. 

By the time Jesper climbed back down the ladder to the kitchen, Finglorn was standing by the door wiping dirt from his hands with one of his mother’s towels.  The body of the orc was nowhere to be seen, but a pool of blood was congealing where it had fallen.  Daylight crept through the window, lighting the devastated room.

      “We should eat before we leave,” Finglorn stated.  “I think we should break our fast outside today.”

Jesper nodded and followed Finglorn outside.   Jerolas was checking the saddles of two horses, one a sleek brown mare and the other a sturdy black gelding.  Behind the horses, under the apple tree that Jesper’s mother loved so much, two fresh turned mounds of earth rose parallel to each other.  Grave markers made from a chair broken in the night’s struggle stood at the head of each.

The family’s milk cow grazed peacefully in its small pasture, and their chickens scratched and pecked a path across the yard.

      “We’ve given the animals enough food and water to last them until someone can come care for them.  They should be fine,” Finglorn told Jesper.  “We left the orc corpse behind the house.  The smell should keep away any predators for a week or more.  There aren’t many creatures that can stomach orc flesh.”

     “We must go.  We can eat as we ride.”  Jerolas mounted his horse by springing lightly onto its back.  Jesper noticed the lack of any stirrups or reigns.

     “You can ride with me.”  Finglorn climbed into his mount’s saddle in a more conventional way, grabbing the saddle horn and pushing up with a stirrup.  He lowered a hand to pull Jesper up behind him.  The two horses and their riders picked their way along the long narrow lane that ran westward several miles before meeting the road to Fornost.  A few minutes later Finglorn commented, “I must say, lad, that you’re taking this quite well.”

Jesper said nothing, bouncing along behind Finglorn as he held the warrior’s sturdy belt.

     His thoughts turned to the life he was leaving behind, and the road that lay before him.  I know how much you hated the idea of me becoming a Ranger, Father.  And I know that behind your warnings, and Mother’s stories, was both love and fear.  Love for your only child, and fear that you would outlive me if I chose that path.  I can no longer outlive you.  On the very night I became a man, I lost my family and my home.  Maybe, though, if I can find a way to become a Ranger, I can prevent something like this from happening to some other family.  I hope you understand, but I can’t see myself sweeping floors and hawking ropes and oil for the rest of my life.  Not while families like ours die to goblins in the night.

A single tear rolled down Jesper’s cheek, then his face was set in stoic determination...