Dark red blood oozed around the hilt sticking out of his side. Too late, Parnard saw the sun glinting off the steel-bladed dagger hidden inside the tomb-robber’s boot. The point punctured through his chainmail and was driven deep between his ribs, so deep that he thought it better to leave it be, as more blood would flow out, or the vital organs suffer more injury from its removal. His breath came in short gasps, and he could scarcely ride a mile without the most intense pain, but he had many more miles ahead. “Duillond, Swan-Hoof,” Parnard murmured thickly for the hundredth time, and pressed his sweat-covered face against her neck. Her small, iron-shod hooves rang like silver bells against the stones. It was a most wonderful music.
During the following days of forced quiet while his wound was tended, he brooded over his lot. There was no reply to his letter. Perhaps Lord Anglachelm had not received his message. His Lordship probably did not even notice his absence from Imladris. All of my efforts are in vain, Parnard thought, and his heart sank like a stone. But he rallied himself quickly, being stubborn of spirit and unwearied of the world. Though he was of lesser birth, without any title, lands or wealth, and may not be worthy of high rank within the order, he could at least prove himself fearless and bold. He would find some way.
