Jesper huddled by his campfire, trying fruitlessly to expel the cold that had seeped into his bones.  This far into the wilderness, he usually would not risk a fire at all, but the rain and sleet that was falling that night made it impossible to stay warm otherwise.  He had built his small blaze under an overhang of rock, but the ledge overhead was not large enough to completely shelter both him and the fire.  Occasional gusts of wind misted him with water, which prevented the fire from thoroughly drying his clothing.

                Squatting with his back to the fire in an effort to dry his sodden cloak, he used his belt knife to carefully shave off his coarse growth of beard, using his fingers as a guide.  When he had started his training as a Ranger, he had barely shown any hair above his lip, let alone the thick, dark stubble he was scraping from his cheek.

                That was not all that had changed in the preceding years.  His hair, so deep a shade of brown that it appeared black instead, reached his shoulders, long in comparison to the short but manageable cut he wore on the farm as a child.  Whereas he had been thin and wiry as a youth, now his lean and agile frame was covered with muscle, developed and toned from years of travel and work with his sword.  His dark eyes, which at the beginning of his training had been haunted yet determined, now possessed confidence and wisdom.  To an outsider, judging his dark clothing before seeing his face, his eyes might be deemed sinister.

                He had left Bree seven days previously in an attempt to track down rumors of some unknown creature stalking the lands to the east of that small but cozy town.  He had tracked the tales from village to hamlet, homestead to inn, judging his progress by the tellers’ credibility and depth of knowledge.  Finally he found someone who had talked with an actual witness - a survivor of an attack on a small family farm a half-day’s walk to the north of the ancient East Road.  The following day he had begun to find more physical evidence:  homes obviously abandoned in haste, others boarded up to make them more defensible.  Twice he found homes that had clearly been the scene of violence, judging by the belongings strewn over the floor and, more notably, the splattered blood on the walls and floors.  He knew he was close.

                He listened to the evening sounds as he shaved:  the wind whistling sadly through gaps in the outcrop of stone above him, the seemingly despondent twitter of birds aroused by the sway of the trees in which they roosted, the snap of a dry twig from the darkness beyond the light of his fire.

                Finished shaving, he wiped his knife clean before taking a whet stone from a pocket sown in his cloak.  The soft whisper of stone on metal joined the night’s sorrowful melody as he sharpened his knife.  As he worked, he studied the darkness around him.  There was little to be seen, however.  Even with his trained senses, he could scarcely make out the tops of the trees swaying rhythmically to the whistle of the wind.  No woodland creatures were active in this dismal weather; predator and prey both preferring to seek food when their senses weren’t dulled by the combination of wind, rain, and cold.  Closer to hand, at the edge of the light spread by the fire, a small scrub bush rustled quietly, barely visible in the dim light.  On the other side of the fire, his unsheathed sword leaned against the rock wall.

                Still squatting, Jesper leaned against the rough surface of the outcrop and pulled the hood of his cloak down to keep the rain from his face.  His breathing became deeper and more relaxed, and he let the night envelop him.

                A few minutes later, with an explosion of sound and motion, Jesper sprang to his left, away from the fire. Even as he rolled to his feet with his knife in his hand, the glint of dark metal flashed in the firelight where he had been sitting, followed by the sharp clang of metal on stone.  Jesper, reversing his momentum, sprung forward, his small blade aimed at a patch of darkness blocking the light of the fire.  A grunt and a sharp hiss followed his action, and he rolled again, this time putting the fire between himself and his assailant.

                He looked over his foe: an orc, as he had suspected.  It was small for its race, almost lean.  Its nose was more prominent than a typical orc’s, and its eyes seemed to contain even more hatred and evil than most he had seen in the past.  Rather than armor of scales or plates, this orc was garbed in leather which had been rubbed with blood and ash to darken it.  It wielded a long and twisted dagger of roughly tempered dark metal, although the edges seemed sharp enough.

                A scout then, thought Jesper, The orcs’ version of a Ranger.

                “That little needle won’t hurt me, human.”  The last word was voiced around a sneer of contempt from the orc.  The orc spoke the language of Men well.  No doubt it had enjoyed learning it from the victims it tortured.

                Jesper noted that only a small trickle of blood ran from the wound he had given the orc.  Orcs had notoriously thick skin, and its padded leather had blunted much of Jesper’s blow.  He dug the toe of his boot under one of the logs at the edge of the fire.  He reached behind him with one hand, feeling along the rocky wall of the alcove.

                The orc crept around the fire, seeing that Jesper was trapped between the fire and the wall of rock.  “Let me show you what a real weapon can do.”  With a snarl of victory and a triumphant gleam in its eye, it leapt at Jesper, leading with its dagger.

                Jesper calmly kicked his foot upward, sending the burning brand directly at the orc’s head.  A shower of glowing embers enveloped the entire upper half of its body.  The orc clutched its face with both hands, dropping its blade to the ground.  Jesper smoothly stepped to the side, bringing to bear the sword that had been propped against the wall behind him.  Spinning to the side, Jesper swung fluidly, halting his motion only after completing a full circle.  A head and the better portion of two arms fell to the ground, and the rest of the orc’s body toppled into the fire.

                Jesper retrieved one of the arms from the ground and wiped his sword clean on an unbloodied portion of leather sleeve.  Then, with the rancid smell of burning orc flesh scenting the air, he gathered up the remainder of his gear and vanished into the darkness.

****

                Four days later, Jesper sat in the common room of the Prancing Pony Inn in Bree, listening for more rumors.  With him sat another Ranger, Quindin by name, and they sat in a dark corner of the room sipping ale.

                Quindin’s appearance contrasted with Jesper’s.  Although their garb was similar in style, Quindin’s was the color of sand, mottled in places by the stains of travel.  Physically, Quindin had a fairer complexion and his hair was a light brown.  He was built like a warrior, with strong wide shoulders and legs like fence posts.  Visible behind his shoulder was the hilt of a massive two-handed sword.  Quindin was one of the few Rangers to wield so heavy a weapon; most preferred lighter and quicker blades.  Quindin’s demeanor also was far removed from Jesper’s.  He was quick to smile, and his hazel eyes had a friendly quality that inspired trust.  Quindin was one of the few Rangers that the citizenry of Bree did not look upon with suspicion.  Indeed, when no other Rangers were present, he could often be found engaging in a game of dice or sharing a pitcher of ale with the locals.  Few other Rangers could bridge the gap of mistrust.

                “That’s the fourth time since summer that a single scout has been caught.”  Jesper spoke softly to his companion.

                “No, the fifth, now.  One was killed a few days ago south of here.  Ferlun feathered it as it tried to climb through the window of a farmhouse.”  Even Quindin’s voice seemed cheerful and innocent, though Jesper knew he had seen his share of suffering.  “Apparently it landed in the bed with the farmer and his wife.  Imagine waking up like that!”  Quindin chuckled, a glint of humor in his eye.

                Jesper considered the new information.  “Something’s going on.  It’s too early in the fall for them to be coming west in these numbers.  And that’s just the ones we’ve caught.  The one I found had been staying away from the road, only preying on isolated farms and travelers.  It was being careful to avoid detection.  I doubt I would have managed to catch it without setting a trap.”

                “How did you get this one, then?”  Quindin inquired.

                “First I had to chase rumors halfway to Weathertop to find its tracks.  If one farmer hadn’t escaped it, I would probably have never even heard about it.  When I finally found its tracks, I followed them as best I could.  It was being cautious to cover its trail, though.  When the weather turned bad I knew I would never find the track again, so I made the biggest fire I could in the rain.  I spread out some dry branches and pretended to sleep.  I just encouraged it to come to me is all.”

                “Nice one.  I wish I could pull off fancy little tricks like that.”  Quindin, due in part to his size, lacked some of the stealth  of most of his peers.  This was recognized, and frequently Quindin was asked to use his congenial manner to gather information from the people he encountered, rather than filling the Rangers’ traditional role of stalking the wilderness as a deterrent to Sauron’s forces.

                “These aren’t the typical castoffs, either.  The one I killed this week was as silent as a hobbit.  Its leather was fairly new.  And it didn’t kill randomly.  It passed up some easy targets in favor of more isolated victims.  It certainly didn’t seem like one that would be kicked out of a tribe for being useless.”  Jesper drank from his mug, then steepled his fingers in thought.

                “Why are they coming west then?”  Quindin asked, his eyes wandering the room.  Even in the comfort of the inn, he remained alert and aware of his surroundings.  A Ranger, some said, slept with his eyes open.

                “I’m not certain.  But consider what we know.  Fall has barely begun, and already orcs are prowling far west of their caves.  We’ve killed orcs just east of the Shire, halfway down the Greenway, and around Bree.  There was even a confirmed sighting near Fornost, but that one escaped.  There are more rumors and reports than there are Rangers to check them.  What troubles me more, though, is that most of them aren’t doing anything.  They seem to come, slink around for a while, and then leave again without causing any mischief.”

                “That’s not very orcish, that’s for certain.”  Quindin brought his eyes back from the room to meet Jesper’s gaze.  “A raid?”

                Jesper nodded.  “Why else would they pass up some of the opportunities they’ve had?  My guess is they were specifically ordered not to be seen and not to kill anyone.  I’d never have known of this one if it hadn’t attacked those farmhouses.”

                “It would take a strong chieftain to convince an orc not to kill.  And a good reason.”

                “I know.  And as far as I know, the only good reasons to an orc would be more killing later or lots of gold.”

                Quindin grunted in agreement.  “So, assuming they are planning a raid, when will they come, and in what numbers?”

                “That’s what we’ll have to find out.”  Jesper paused thoughtfully, then continued, “Ride to Fornost and tell what we know.  Patrols will have to be stepped up.  Someone will have to go east and see what they can find.”

                “I assume that’s why I’m going to Fornost and not you?”  Although large and muscular, Quindin owned a sharp mind as well.

                “If they are building a raiding force, we need to know it as soon as possible.  No offense, my friend, but I’ll be better able to scout them than you.”

                Quindin simply nodded.  Although Jesper had begun learning the ways of the Rangers at a late age, he had already been a proficient hunter and woodsman when he joined.  His father, who had been a legendary Ranger himself before leaving to start a home and family, had taught him much about herblore and woodcraft.  Using a sword was the only Ranger skill he didn’t already possess some level of skill in.  His intensive training had erased that deficit, however.

                “I’ll leave in the morning.  You’d better leave as soon as possible.  With luck and hard riding, you can make it to the Nasty Mewlips before midnight.”  Jesper referred to an inn along the road between Bree and Fornost.  He had occasionally gone there with his parents for holidays, when they were alive.  It was much closer than Fornost itself, and served as a trading post as well as an inn.  It was the only inn along the road.

                “What should I tell them of your plans?”  Quindin asked, tipping the bottom of his mug to the air as he downed the rest of his ale.

                “I’m going to ride hard.  I’ll stick to the road for a while, but I’ll have to leave my mount near Nen-i-sul.  They won’t gather in numbers west of our normal patrols, but they’ll surely have scouts out in that area.  I’ll work my way east until I find something.”  Jesper tilted back his own ale and then wiped his mouth with his hand.  “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

                “Good luck.”  Quindin rose and walked out the door to the inn, on his way to the stables.

****

                Jesper crawled slowly through the tall brown grass, inches at a time.  For the last several hours he had been creeping through the underbrush, working his way toward what he judged must be the site of the orcs’ camp.  There was an abnormally high number, by orcish standards, of sentries hidden high in trees, amid thick scrub bushes, and among boulders atop hills.  It would have been nearly impossible for him to avoid detection were it not for the fact that it was the middle of the day, when orcish vision was at its worst.  Several of the sentries had covered their eyes to protect them from the painful sunlight, making it unlikely that they would notice Jesper’s approach.  Nonetheless, Jesper avoided even these handicapped orcs carefully, eliminating every chance of detection that he could.

                Jesper had donned clothing that blended well with his surroundings:  browns and dark greens that matched the autumn vegetation.  He moved methodically, at times taking several minutes to travel the distance that a few normal strides would have covered.   His patience paid off, however, as he crested a final ridge without any signs of being detected.

                Below him, at the bottom of the other slope of the ridge, a small stream trickled along a pebbled bed, working its slow way to a fold in the land, where its course twisted and disappeared from view.  The calming sound of water splashing over stone carried upwards to Jesper’s observation point, but the natural beauty of the place had no effect on Jesper at the moment.

                Dozens of crudely-made shelters lined both sides of the stream, formed of hewn branches, animal hides, and piled stone.  The ground was littered with refuse ranging from empty sacks that may once have held food to carcasses of animals both large and small.  Here and there stood rough wooden racks which propped up spears and swords, but these were outnumbered by places where weapons were simply piled in jumbled heaps.

                The camp appeared deserted until movement drew Jesper’s eyes to what appeared to be a burrow in the stream’s bank, some thirty paces from the water itself.  A large mail-clad orc crawled from the hole and squatted a few steps away, shielding its eyes with one hairy arm.  Moments later, it ducked back into the hole, leaving a pile of excrement steaming in the chill air.

                Jesper set himself to estimating the number of orcs residing in the camp, a difficult task considering the varied size and structure of the shelters.  While some were likely only able to fit two or three orcs at best, others could possible be hiding as many as a dozen from his view.  He could wait until dusk to get a better count as they emerged with the darkness, but his chances of being seen would be substantially greater.

                An exact count wasn’t necessary, regardless.  This camp held nearly two hundred orcs, a raiding party of a size unheard of in recent years.  This was the fourth such camp he had discovered, each building stores of weapons and supplies.  Clearly, the high number of sentries was due to the fact that they did not wish discovery.

                Jesper scowled as he began the tedious task of creeping back beyond the camp’s ring of guards.  Nearly a thousand orcs had gathered east of the Nen-i-sul, and in all likelihood there would be even more before they moved.  He had to return to Fornost as quickly as possible, despite the risks of open travel on the roads.

                In the spring, when snowmelt from the north combined with brief sudden downpours, the gentle brook would be transformed into a raging torrent many times its current depth and width.  All signs of the orc encampment would then be erased from the streambed.  By that time, however, the orcs would have long since moved on.  Orcs did not enjoy living outdoors, and they had gathered here for a reason.

                The purpose for the many orcs being tracked in the west was now clear, as was the reason they were attempting to remain undetected.  Unless forces could be prepared against their onslaught, the orcs would sweep the land in as little as a few weeks’ time, and the land would be scoured as bare as the streambed below after a spring flood.

                The orcs were going west.