I have been delayed again: the people of Combe very nearly begged for
me to help them in the face of the rising threat of the Blackwolds and I
could not walk away from them, since I was brought up as a boy here.
I
succeeded in defeating the Blackwolds' leader, but I must admit I am
rather shaken by the experience. I thought they were nothing more than a
rag-tag bunch of ruffians. And maybe they were, but if so then they
have aligned themselves with something far more powerful. I encountered
some of the Blackwolds' new allies in the depths of their headquarters
in the North Chetwood, and what I saw and felt there I cannot really
explain. Perhaps there is something to the ravings of those Rangers
after all.
One other thing I should probably record
here: as I struck down Jagger Jack, the Blackwolds' wolf-master, he said
to me, "You will never win this war, Gondorian." I laughed at him as he
passed -- surely it was nothing but the ravings of a dying man.
A
hard rain has begun falling. I returned to the Comb and Wattle to
recover from my ordeal. Despite my training and the brigands' total lack
of discipline, I was wounded in the leg by one of their filthy wolf
half-breeds. The wound is not bad, but it will slow me down in returning
to father with my reports from Archet and Combe, and I am already long
away. But, with the weather turning foul and my leg in no condition to
carry me back to town, I should rest a bit and not push myself too hard.
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