Hunter and Hunted

Dolthafaer stared down at the valley, the snow reflecting the sun’s dying light.  A lone howl drifted up to the crumbling stone ruin where the Arrow had stopped to rest.  He grimaced, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, and turned to face the rest of his company.

“We have rested enough.  Time to move on.”

The scouts rose to their feet without a word of complaint.  He had driven them hard since they had left Imladris, but they had made good time.  The weather had been cold but clear, the wind at their backs, the near full moon lighting their path.  They had slept little and traveled swiftly.  Estarfin and Danel had been three days ahead of them.  Perhaps they had closed that gap.

“Limiriel was fighting a warg rider – a hunter.  For hours, I have heard them howling across the vale.  They are looking for something.  If it is Estarfin and Danel, that means they have not found them.  There might still be hope to find them ourselves.”

And he latched onto that hope, letting it warm him against the chill howls that pierced the early twilight.  They would find them.  They would snatch them from beneath the noses of these goblins and drag them home kicking and screaming if they must.

“We follow the hunters until we find their prey.”

As the sun sank below the peaks, the company of the Arrow moved like shadows across the snow, darting from rock to rock and from tree to tree.  The stillness of the night was broken only by the piercing howls, sounding more and more frequently as the darkness grew, as well as the occasional snap of a bowstring and answering thud when a lone warg or scout crossed their path.

They had been on their hunt for an hour before the scout on point, Yrill, caught the captain’s attention, pointing to a slim grey form breaking from the cover of the trees and moving with purpose across the snow.

“That warg is closing in on something.”

An arrow found its home in the warg’s neck, and it crashed to the ground with a dying gurgle, back legs thrashing in the snow for a moment before it fell still.  Dolthafaer and the huntress were moving past it even before its death, bows in their hands, arrows knocked to their strings, searching for—

Danel was lying like a broken doll in the snow, covered in blood, a naked blade still in her hand.  Two dead wargs were curled on the ground beside her like two sleeping hounds. There was no time to revel or even acknowledge this victory.  Dolthafaer turned to face the others, who had by now caught up to him and Yrill.

“Spread out, all of you.  Make sure none approach.  Buy us some time.”

Danel breathed, but barely.  There were scratches across her face and gashes in her shoulder, part of the cloth and leather armor torn away.  She would not be roused.

“If they were together, there is a chance Estarfin might be here as well.  Look for him.”

He had only just begun to formulate a plan when one of the others approached him.

“Dolthafaer,” interrupted Limiriel, looking grim.  “There is a… complication.”

Dolthafaer turned to the Hammer with a frown.  “What is it?”

“We are on the doorstep of a goblin hoard.  I do not think that it is wise to sit and tend to the wounded so close to the hive.”

He stared at her, thin-lipped, and nodded. 

“They will be searching for them.  We will—”

“Over here!”

Sargiel found something at the foot of a nearby rock, half-buried beneath the snow.  Estarfin.  By the looks of him, the mighty elf lord had fallen from the highest point of the pass and been half-eaten by a pack of wargs.  There was not one part of him that was not bruised, scratched, or broken.  Even his armor was battered and rent.  Dolthafaer was shocked when someone put a mirror to his lips and pronounced him living.

There was a flutter of activity as some took a few precious moments to check the wounded elves.  Dolthafaer was quick to corner Limiriel, his head spinning as he weighed the options and paths before them now.

“Tell me of this hoard, Limiriel. Moving? Camped?”

“Camped.  But there are scouts moving out.”

Dolthafaer snarled under his breath.

“We need to move them.”

Gwaedir took Danel in his arms.  Estarfin was stripped of what remained of his heavy plate and moved onto something that closely resembled a litter.  Moments felt like hours as he watched the others work, stepping in to help when he could. The howls were getting louder. The night was growing colder.  There was no more time.

“That path up the mountainside is the end of the High Pass.  If my maps are correct, it will bring us back to the beginning. The goblins are searching the valley, the pass itself might be clear.”

He took a moment to survey the faces in front of him, choosing carefully.

“Yrill, lead us up the path. Luthelian, you take up the rear.  Gwaedir and Limiriel, you bear the wounded.  Bring them back to the ruin and tend them there the best you may.”

He turned to the last two faces, eyes bright with determination. 

“Caethel and Sargiel, I want you to come with me.  We will distract this camp as the others bring the wounded to safety.”