The blizzard abated three days later.
Limiriel draped the heavy white fur around her shoulders, clasping the silver mallyrn leaf at her shoulder. Blue smoke drifted up from the dying fire as she knelt down to put a small blue pouch filled with gold coins next to the sleeping dwarf.
Entertaining her host with tales of ages past; of dwarven prisons and dragons and sons of Feanor… The goat let out a sleepy bleat. Limiriel blinked and stood, the cave around her closing in as her presence expanded, a cage suddenly too small to trammel its restless prisoner. Every moment lost ate away at her. Helplessness was not a feeling she was accustomed to. But she could not fight off the wrath of Hithaeglir with her spear, could not fend off its force with her shield. Her knuckles whitened around her javelin as she stepped out into the snow.
***
“May I see your spear?”
Limiriel hesitated, then shrugged and handed Estarfin her most prized possession.
The smith ran an expert hand down the blade, bright eyes narrowed. “Dwarven make?”
Surprised, she raised an eyebrow, nodding once. “Belegost. It was… a gift.”
The spear swirled before her, lightning fast. She blinked, unfazed, as it came to a rest on his callused palm.
“Designed for slashing and stabbing. Stable footwork.” He ran one finger down the edge, reading the Quenyan inscription with a frown. Wordlessly, he handed it back to her.
The soft exhale of relief was the only sign of emotion. Expressionlessly she immediately settled into a fighting stance. “Again.”
“No. It is enough for today.”
***
Soft flakes were still falling, settling on her shoulders. Faint footsteps were blown away as the wind picked up. Limiriel strode unwaveringly upwards. Snowdrifts were piled high against the mountain face, but she ploughed through when they could not be avoided. As nightfall fell, she moved on, making up for lost time.
Before dawn broke, somewhere above her, snow floated down. Limiriel froze for a second, then plastered herself against the mountain wall. Moments later, a goblin leapt from an unseen edge. It slid down the javelin, stuck fast in the snow up ahead. It croaked and wheezed as Limiriel stepped hard on the twitching body, crushing it into the snow. Sneering, she ripped the javelin out and wiped the blood of the shaft.
“Filth.”
A scout. There would be more ahead.
A hard kick sent the carcass rolling off the side of the mountain. Limiriel pulled her hood up, frowning. If they were already roaming so soon after the storm, they were on alert. Perhaps…
Clenched jaw, she marched onwards.
***
“Lord Tindir…”
“Yes, Limiriel?”
A tendon stood out on her jaw, but she shrugged and went on.
"Is this expedition sanctioned by the Hammer lords?”
“Of course.”
“Will you be telling Lord Estarfin of our absence?”
“He will be informed.”
Tindir turned away to confer with Laurelindo. She stood by her horse, grey eyes staring sightlessly into the coarse brown mane.
“I talked to him.” Dolthafaer said quietly.
She blinked and shrugged. “He will still be here when we return.”
***
Limiriel found them the following day. Odd-shaped mounds of snow standing sentry along the path. Pausing before one, spear in hand, she pushed the snow away.
Frozen tongues lolling, solid rivulets of solid blood trailing from orifices, a javelin struck through each one. A star etched onto the grotesque face.
She could not help the faint, admiring smile.
“An artist to the last.”
A howl broke the calm. Cursing, she flipped her shield over her head. Several howls replied – all of them closer and from above. Gritting her teeth, she put it on the edge of the cliff, knelt on it and pushed off. Air rushed past her for what felt like too long, then a hard landing into a huge drift. Propelled by momentum, the shield kept moving downwards. Limiriel clutched the sides, eyes narrowed against the freezing air. Through the tears, she managed to pull the shield to a halt, sending herself flying into a tree in the process. Howls echoed, further away now, but moving in her direction. Shaking her head in an attempt to dispel the daze, Limiriel reached for her scattered weapons. A steady stream of muttered swearing followed her as she snatched up her dented shield and took off into the gully.
But the howls grew closer and closer; the wind was blowing against her. It could be two, it could be twenty… She scrambled up a boulder, and jumped onto a low-hanging crag. Better to be the hunter than the hunted. Within minutes, a warg rider careened out of a corpse of trees followed by two other wargs. The slobbering beasts snarled to a halt as the goblin pulled ruthlessly on his reigns.Crouched and hiding, Limiriel closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there was an insatiable glint in them.
With a yell, she leapt.
