Another day had passed and still nothing had happened.
Delioron stood at the summit of Amon Hen, keeping an eye on the lake Nen Hithoel for any signs of a rowing boat or anything else out of the ordinary. Emyn Muil was barren and lifeless as far as the eye could see. Stunted conifers dotted the craggy hills here and there. On the western side of the lake the grass on Parth Galen was brown and lifeless. The chilling wind made Delioron shiver inside his heavy cloak. The mournful wails of the loons echoed across the lake, carried by the wind to the ears of the lonesome Gondorian.
Delioron felt, and not for the first time during the long winter, trapped in a state of uncertainty and daydreams. The dreams he saw at nights seeped into his waking hours in this desolate ruin; perhaps he was living in a nightmare. Sometimes he was tormented by nightmares where he was visited by the ghosts of all those he had killed and those whose deaths he had caused indirectly during his years in the service of the throne of Gondor. When he woke up in the morning, he would think he was still dreaming.
It was already late in the afternoon. He had not seen the dwarf called Kimrin since he first met him yesterday. In a couple of hours the sun would begin to set and block his view of Nen Hithoel.
Delioron decided it was time to give up for the day. He bent his head down against the cold, perpetually howling wind on Amon Hen. He figured that the dwarf must have made a camp somewhere around Parth Galen, but he had not seen smoke from a campfire all day.
It was time to go see what the dwarf was up to. He walked through the gateway of the ruins of Amon Hen and continued on the path until he came to the first set of dilapidated stairs on the hillside. He was feeling cold like he felt all the time now. It was as if the freezing chill of wintry Amon Hen had grown roots into his very soul.
He found traces of blood on a flat near the foot of the hill. He stood still for a long time, staring at the blood on the grass. He saw imprints of bloodied boots and drag marks leading down the last stretch of stairs. There was much blood. The blood trail continued on the path and circled around a large cliff. Delioron unsheathed his sword and descended the stairs, following the trail of blood.
He could smell the warm blood in the air as he approached the cliff. The smell reminded Delioron of the bloodbaths in Rhûn long ago, when Sauron’s armies had crushed the last remnants of the rebel forces in the mountains. The warm, repulsively cloying smell of blood. Spatters of still dripping blood dotted the side of the cliff. And at the base of the cliff sprawled a naked corpse of a dwarf.
It was the same dwarf who had come to see Delioron at Amon Hen yesterday, Kimrin from Zigil-jâbal. The frozen grimace on his face resembled a grotesque smile. His body had been cut open and eviscerated. His entrails had been ripped out and tossed on the grass around him. He had bled out.
Delioron stared at the face of the dwarf. His eyes were bulging, his mouth lolled open. The grass beneath and around the corpse had turned red with blood.
Delioron looked around to see any movement, but saw nothing. He was sweating but felt cold all the same. Was this part of the trap? Who or what was lurking in the woods around Amon Hen? Why had it killed the dwarf? Why had it not ambushed Delioron or showed itself to him yet?
Oddly enough, after months of inertness and isolation the gruesome discovery filled Delioron with energy. He felt no horror. It was not the first time he had seen corpses like this. Orcs would sometimes butcher their victims in this peculiar manner.
Delioron scanned his surroundings and spotted the remains of Kimrin’s clothes under a bush. He went over to search the pockets for any clues about the dwarf and the nature of his mission to Amon Hen. Nothing. The killer had already rummaged through Kimrin’s belongings and appropriated everything of value.
Suddenly Delioron felt like an idiot for allowing the inertia of the past winter months to numb himself into such a state of carelessness that he would step into any trap that had been set up for him. He had been blissfully oblivious of the fact that Kimrin had kept an eye on him for a week, and now it had become evident that the dwarf had not been the only one. There had been someone or something else in the area keeping an eye on him as well, and for how long? Delioron had no idea. Was he in danger too, or had he been left alone on purpose? What purpose? Was the killer an orc, as the boot marks and the way Kimrin had been slaughtered indicated? Was there a whole band of orcs lurking about somewhere in the woods surrounding Parth Galen and Amon Hen?
He looked at the body of the dwarf again. He should bury it, but he did not have a shovel with him. And besides, the sun would set soon and Delioron did not want to be out here in the open when darkness came, and he did not want to take the ghastly remains with him to Amon Hen either. He decided to return to his camp. He would come back for the dwarf tomorrow.
Delioron exited the scene quietly. He climbed the many sets of stairs until he came to the ruins on top of Amon Hen. He had already stepped inside the gateway when he saw something that made him stop in his tracks.
There was someone in the courtyard.
He felt exposed as he stood there on the gateway, framed by the light of the setting sun. The image of Kimrin’s eviscerated body rose into his mind. The stranger was studying Delioron’s horse, his back turned towards Delioron. Slowly the man turned to face him.
”Master Delirion?” he asked.
”Who are you?”
The visitor was a large and stocky man, built like an ox. He was wearing a chain mail and an open-faced steel bascinet. He had blond beard, flat face and beady blue eyes. In his right hand he held a one-handed sword. He did not respond.
”Who are you?” Delioron repeated his question.
”My name is Egelferth”, said the stocky man. ”I am the Guard-captain of Walstow, master Delirion, or whatever your real name is. Do you understand?”
Slowly, without a word, Delioron walked across the courtyard until he was standing right in front of the visitor. They stared at each other. The sword in Guard-captain Egelferth’s massive, gloved hand did not move an inch.
