A Routine Patrol

There were Men of the North in the Trollshaws. 

Dolthafaer had not been expecting trouble on this routine patrol.  It had simply been an excuse to leave the Valley for a day or two and stretch his legs over familiar paths.  He had asked Yrill and Luthelian to join him almost as an afterthought; he wished to see how his most troublesome recruit was improving, and he knew better by now than to leave Yrill behind when there was even the smallest chance of adventure.

Their patrol had been uneventful until they had encountered a Man in strange garb searching for something near the ruin of Echad Candelleth.  He had attacked on sight and fallen with three arrows to the throat before he had taken a single step.

A strange encounter. 

An encounter that was soon repeated. 

“Angmar,” muttered Dolthafaer, turning a clasp over in his hands, taken from the second dead scout.  It bore the symbol of the iron crown.  One could be dismissed as a rogue, far-wandering scout – two, however, meant that there might be more near at hand. 

“That ruin,” said Yrill. “The one on the far bank… do you know of it?”

“The prison?”

“I am wondering where Men from the North would hide so close to Imladris.  Not in the woods, I suspect. But in a ruin, or caves…”

Delossad. 

The ruin was vast and dark – almost unnaturally dark, save for the stream of moonlight that shone through a break in the surrounding cliffs onto the courtyard below.  The courtyard itself was a tangled mess of grass and weeds and half-closed flowers that looked silver in the pale light.  Standing like silent sentries around the wild garden were massive stone pillars, and a rugged staircase leading up to the level above and the main keep. 

Dolthafaer had been here once before, not long ago, but it had felt different in the light of day and in the company of the mighty lords of his house.  Now his skin crawled with growing unease the further he crept into the ancient prison.

There was no camp here.  No guards, no tracks, no smell of a campfire, no sound of muffled voices.  Dolthafaer was a moment away from turning to Yrill and Luthelian and putting an end to the search when he passed one of the massive pillars and suddenly caught sight of a figure standing at the far end of the courtyard.  The stranger must have seen him at the same moment, for he called out: 

“Who cometh here to this forsaken place?”

Sindarin. 

Ally.

Dolthafaer hesitated, bow in hand, and felt the others hesitate with him.  Something in this stranger’s words and bearing did little to ease his discomfort in this dark place. 

“If you be friends as I take you to be, why do you not come forth?”

He cast an uncertain look about him, and his sharp eyes revealed nothing but unmoving darkness.  Perhaps there truly was nothing dangerous to be found here.  Slowly, carefully, he stepped out from beyond the pillar. 

Yrill whispered sharply, “Care, captain!”

He did take care as he crept up to the Elf, staying as near to the edge of the courtyard as he could as he approached him.  As he drew nearer, the appearance of the stranger drew his full attention – he was thin and bruised and openly distressed, a hungry and hunted look about him.  Someone had hurt him.  Something was wrong. 

“We are wanderers and warriors, chasing pray,” he said by way of answer, still taking in the sight of him.  “What brings you here?”

“There is a Man hereabout,” the Elf whispered, and suddenly he had taken him by the arm, nearly causing him to loose his arrow. “Listen…!”

Dolthafaer listened.

“I saw him above,” the stranger continued in a whisper.  “He is gone now.”

Two scouts lying dead on the ground, clasps bearing the iron crown at their throat.  Bruises on this Elf’s pale skin.  Not a company, perhaps, but something. Someone. Danger. All of Dolthafaer’s uneasiness rushed back to him at once and he turned his keen eyes to the oppressive shadows. 

“Is he armed?”

“Yes, with a long sword and a bow!”

Dolthafaer bit back a curse.  He took the scrawny elf by the arm and quickly yanked him out of the garden and into the protection of the surrounding pillars.  Even before they had disappeared into the shadow a harsh voice sounded from above.

“Get out.”

The command – spoken in Westron – filled the silence of the courtyard, bouncing off the cracked pillars and ancient stone walls, as menacing and as cold as the darkness that surrounded them.  Dolthafaer’s skin crawled as the words washed over him and he recognized the voice behind them. 

Choose well, Lord of the Arrows.

Not an Angmarim.

Yrill had drawn her bow at the sound of the voice and pointed an arrow in its direction.  Luthelian, to Dolthafaer’s horror, had scaled a tree while his back was turned and was now in plain view from the second level.  He beckoned frantically for the two of them to return to him.

There was a moment of confusion when they struggled to assess the threat. 

Has he hurt you?
Have you seen him?
Is there only one way up?
That voice… it sounds…
He has a bow, and the higher ground.
I have seen him shoot.

“Get. Out.”

There was the sound of a bow being drawn in the dark.

“We need a distraction,” whispered Yrill, crouching close to Dolthafaer behind a pillar, her eyes fierce and determined.  “Let me run across the courtyard…”

“…and then Luthelian and I take the stairs,” the Arrow lord continued, nodding. “She takes right, I take left…”

“…and he will miss me… but you can take him then, captain?”

“No,” interrupted Luthelian.  “I will run.  I am quick, smaller. You both are the better shots.”

Dolthafaer could not help but smile. 

“No one can run as fast as Yrill.”

“None have bested me,” Yrill confirmed with a grin.  “If they did, I would wed with them.”

So it was settled.

“When she runs, Luthelian – up the stairs. Run to the right. I will take the left.”

“Do we shoot?”

Dolthafaer considered this a moment. 

“To wound and hinder, not to kill.”

They left the wounded elf to huddle by the pillar, as safe a place as could be found for him under these circumstances.  It was clear that he would soon need the attention of healers, but there was a more pressing danger at hand.  After a moment of tense silence, the huntress finally broke out from under cover and darted across the courtyard.  Dolthafaer and Luthelian took off at once in the opposite direction, pelting for the stairs. 

There was no sound of a bowstring being released. 

No arrow flying through the air. 

Only laughter.