Excerpt from Ranger 'Stalker' Hinruin. Sixth of December, Third Age 2983.

Brigands. Scum of Middle-Earth. They are Men who are not Evil by nature, by circumstance of birth or have been forced into it by a higher power. They take the path of Evil by choice and that makes them all the more dreadful. They are cowards at heart. They do not wield their blades with much skill, will run when faced with great opposition, yet one should not underestimate them. Shunned as they are by the more civilised folk of Eriador, they were no longer welcome in the homes of Men, Dwarf, Elf or Hobbit. Orc nor Goblin will tolerate them. Troll and Warg will eat them. Even the wildmen from Dunland and Edenwaith despise them. With good reason if you ask me.

The Men I tracked down belonged to one such group. There were eighteen of them. They gather in sizeable numbers, as is their custom, but never too great, for greed runs rampant amongst them and they are quick to distrust one another. Larger groups will always fall apart. In that way they are preferable to the more numerous Orcs and Goblins. The young Amran and I had been staking out this particular group for weeks before we struck. The call had gone out in Bree that a small merchant caravan had been ambushed. A lone guard had managed to escape and warn the Breelanders, but by the time the Greenway Riders arrived on the scene it was far too late. The merchant, his assistants and the three guards were dead and robbed of their belongings. The Riders filed a report and increased the numbers of this patrol, but the road is long and they are few. We are fewer still, but this is our task and we do not shun it.

We found their trail within half a day. Within five we caught up with them, stalking them unseen from amidst the trees. They thought themselves safe, with their makeshift armour cobbled together of what they could steal. I recognised parts of the armour that were freshly stolen from the guards. One of them was toying with a golden locket that still had the picture of the previous owner's wife in it. Amran nearly shot him at the sight, but I managed to calm him down. They are eighteen, we are two.

We followed them for two more days. Amran grew more restless with each passing hours, not understanding why I refused to strike. I kept the boy busy, made him think of ways that the two of us could take on nine times our number. He countered by saying that they were weak, unskilled, and cowardly at heart. I explained to him that skilled as we Dúnedain Rangers are, we can only block one blade at a time. That if we shot them, they would run and hide and we would likely not get them all. In the end the boy understood the importance of trapping them all at once, and that we could ill afford risking heading back for more of our brethren lest we lose them and another innocent life would be lost in that time.

In the end our solution proved simple. They entered a cave that was their hideout and most of them went in, leaving four men outside to guard it. I knew that cave. It only had the one exit and that was blocked. Amran wanted to shoot them from cover, but I refused. Our arrows were few and the road was long. So we charged, our blades shining brightly under the moonlight. The first of the brigands never saw me coming, my blade whistling through the air as I cut through his neck. The young Amran was slightly slower and the second brigand had time to let out a surprised yelp before he too was felled. The last two raised the alarm, as I had planned, but with their brittle swords and feeble skill they were no match for us, even for a simple Ranger such as I, or a youth in training such as Amran. We left the bodies where they were and ran into the woods, quickly drawing our bows. The rest of the brigands came out, panicked at the sight of their dead comrades and searched the thicket for the cause. They were unsure what to expect. We were more myth than reality. Orcs and Goblins were a much more likely threat, especially during the night, one even we are wary of. Many things lurk in the dark, after all.

We loosened our arrows and two more fell. Panic bit deeper into them and they tried to blend into the woods. They did not make a stand, did not fall back into the cave, no. They panicked and ran, trying to hide. They were good at it, but we Dúnedain are masters of that art. Between their emergence in the cave and their run to the forest, six more fell, leaving us with just eight more foes. The rest retreated into the cave and I knew they went to fetch their own bows. I signalled Amran and we charged after them, taking them by surprised as we joined them in a melee. It was short and bloody, as even as they were no blademasters, they had us outnumbered and Amran and I struggled against their superior number, but it ended when one of the elderly brigands recognised me for what I was and threw his weapon down, begging for mercy. The four other survivors followed his lead.

Amran looked as if he wanted to kill them. I understood his feelings, his father had been murdered by men like these. Then I saw him stumble. He had been wounded. It was not a life threatening wound, merely a deep gash across the leg, but he would no longer stalk the forest until it healed. I bade him to sit down and made the brigands bring up their feeble supplies. We had our own but they were limited and what they had would serve them no longer. We had left no wounded. The elderly brigand who had been the first to surrender treated my younger comrade with surprising skill and curiosity gained the better of me as I asked him where he had acquired it.

His tale was one all too familiar to me. One of the countless little villages that dotted the woods of Eriador, near the Misty Mountains. It had been raided by a group of Goblins. Left destitute and without a family, he had done whatever he could to survive. The tales of the others came forth, encouraged by their leader's confession. In my heart I wept for them. Safeguarding the lands was our task, our edict, but they are many and we are few. Brigands are Men who walk the path of Evil by choice. So we are told. So we are trained. We quickly learn that the choice other than banditry is often death, but we have no choice but to discard that, even as our hearts weep for them. Evil must be cut down, no matter how and where it took root, even if it sprang forth from our own failings. Amran is shock by their words, I can tell, even as he tries to hide it. His anger wars with his natural compassion. He will make a good Ranger. Someone better than me shall explain to him why we must hunt the brigands. I am not eloquent enough for such a task and I do not believe the young man would lend my words the same veracity as he would those of a veteran Ranger.

After some time, we depart for the road once again. The brigands ask me what will happen to them. They follow me, armed with only short knives they are not a threat for me or even for my wounded comrade, who is supported by the elderly brigand. I tell them the truth. They will be handed over to the guards of the Greenway, where they will likely be sentenced for heavy labour, or hanging. It is for the best, I tell myself. Word of their fate will spread and will discourage others from following in their footsteps. I can see them sag, but they try not to run. Fear of me keeps them in line. It is fear well earned; had they tried to run I would have struck them down. Instead they accept their fate.

Once we reach the road I am surprised to see a large patrol of Greenway Riders storm towards us. It appears a new Orc raiding party had entered the lands. Led by a tall, cunning Orc they had laid waste to several holdings yet, and they always bade a swift retreat before anyone could catch up with them. Their sergeant told me that his men were moving to support the troops already in the area, in an attempt to catch the raiders if they set foot on the road, but I could tell by the man's voice that he held no hope for it. The Orcs did not tread the path. Behind me I heard the shuffling of the Brigands. It seemed that their tale would be renewed once again.

I made a decision then. It is unorthodox, perhaps, and maybe the Ranger Council will condemn me for this, but I could not choose otherwise. I send Amran back with the Riders. He protested but I would have none of it. I offered my captives the choice, silently, so the Riders would not hear me, and they all agreed to come with me. I had the Riders give weapons and clothes, rations and equipment to my new team as I introduced them as mercenaries. They had skill in woodcraft, far more so than all but a handful Riders. The raiding party could be no more than two dozen strong, and I knew of another Ranger, Herthaf, to reside in that area, as well as some clanfolk from Rhudaur that were loyal to our cause. We had a fighting chance. A chance to prevent more tragedy to unfold, to keep Evil from planting down another root that we would later have to cut down. A chance for the brigands at redemption.

Taking my small party with me, we bade the Riders farewell and made haste across the road, towards the west and our quarry.