The sky was predictably darkening by the time the four Elves turned across the rugged land to the walls of the Dourhand port. Yrill dismounted from her horse and made her way through the rocks and undergrowth to assess the gate. She turned in surprise: Estarfin was lurking close beside her. Her own skills had not alerted her to his presence, and she realised she had underestimated him. Oh, she knew he was a skilled warrior, but was he so stealthy, wearing such armour and festooned with heavy weaponry?
“We can take the guards,” he whispered. “But in doing so we shall likely raise the alarm. We must see if there is a more hidden means of entry.”
She nodded. “More guards on the gate than I would have expected Lord. I wonder what secret they keep?”
He shrugged, and still keeping low and making use of the landscape, ascended the hillside again.
“Well? Any sign of them?” said Culufinnel. He was watching the gathering clouds looming in the eastern sky. By now, the sailor-folk down in Celondim were likely stowing away their gear and securing the rigging on their ships.
“We must find a better way of introducing ourselves than through that gate. It will take too long to secure. But the walls here do not look scalable, even with hithlain. No sign of Danel or Parnard, but I caught sight of three men addressing the Khazad,” Estarfin said, pushing his raven dark hair from his face.
The Huntress wasn’t as certain. Hithlain could solve many climbing problems in her experience, but perhaps Estarfin had another idea on how to get inside the port? she thought. He did indeed, and she did not like it.
The dark Noldo walked back some distance, spoke a few words in Quenya to his mare, then walked towards the edge of the gap between the cliff and the port wall.
“That is a long jump,” she warned. “Even I am not sure of it, and I am more sure-footed than many.” Ceuro and Culufinnel dismounted. They looked at Estarfin, then at the gap.
“Easier done on the horses,” Ceuro suggested.
“What about the other side? It looks as if we shall have to climb down. We will not be able to lower our horses. There may be many stairways, there may be wargs…We jump. The horses stay here.” With that decided, Estarfin stepped back several paces, took a tight grasp of his spear, and charged.
“You wear rather heavy armour,” Yrill murmured, and closed her eyes, not bearing to watch. The old Noldo was very strong, but he was not fast. Would he have the necessary momentum to make the ledge?
And there was relief as a muted ‘Yes!’ came from Ceuro. On opening her eyes she could see Estarfin was already scouting the wall. He wrapped the end of the coiled hithlain about a corroded iron spire, then moved to the ledge’s shadowy edge to descend further.
Culufinnel was next. Slighter in build than Estarfin and wearing lighter armour, he launched himself through the air, landing with a cat-like grace before turning and beckoning for the other two to follow.
Yrill jumped next. Ever light of armour, the distance was a little easier for her: she cleared the gap with a foot to spare. She looked at the place where Estarfin and Culufinnel had descended. They were well hidden, as long as they did not stand, and from their hiding spot, had a clear view of the quayside. It was better that she waited rather than joining them immediately, for the more heavily armoured Ceuro jumped next, too low, and he hit the wall, only just managing to grasp the edge of the ledge by his fingertips so that Yrill could pull him up. They crept to the other elves, where the hithlain rope hung from the spire. Yrill went first.
Below them, on the dock itself and the surrounding lower levels, walked forty or more Dourhands, and over fifteen Men. Some of the Dwarves were patrolling, some loading the ship with boxes. Not enough boxes to make it appear like a trade voyage though. There were no horses in sight.
The elves made no noise or sign they were there. A gust of wind blew the first drops of rain in their face. “There it is!” said Culufinnel, pointing at a dark shape in the river. Men scurried back and forth on the dock. As the elves watched them, wondering what they doing, all of a sudden the men were aboard, the drawbridge was pulled back; the sail was unfurled, and the mooring ropes untied. A tall man with dusky skin, wearing a long tunic over a coat of mail, raised his hand in seeming farewell to the Dourhand Dwarves.
“No!” Ceuro uttered, as the ship pushed away, but already the Captain was over the side of the roof they had been lying on, sword drawn. Estarfin was in close pursuit. He rushed forward, straight into the first group of surprised Dourhands. No cry, no call…just furious slaughter from the scythe-like action of Estarfin’s spear as Culufinnel fought his way to the ship. The two Noldor stayed by Estarfin’s side, Ceuro’s blades cutting down many, while others were struck by Yrill’s arrows. The Dourhands, although strong and disciplined warriors, did not seem to know what had hit them: most were undone by the wickedly long and cruel Elven spear that dipped and spun amongst that horde.
On the far side of the quay, an helmed officer shouted orders to form a defensive stance, to keep them from reaching the ship. Yrill dodged past them and ran as fast as she could down the quay, almost catching up, but her breath was becoming ragged in her desperation.
She saw what looked like an Umbari corsair, waving a saucy ‘goodbye’ to her with his handkerchief, then hurriedly turning away for cover when he saw her lift her bow. Some Men on the ship laughed, thinking the growing distance between the ship and dock would save them. She shot them dead.
‘Three fewer,’ she thought, then seeing the ship was too far to reach, turned and plunged back into the mayhem. Estarfin was not asking any questions. Every dwarf that he encountered, he slew. She noticed Culufinnel twice dragging a Dourhard aside and seemed to be speaking with them, but to no avail. Both had struggled hard against him, and it was necessary to kill them, lest he take injury. He was most capable, she noted, then she heard him say, “Is that ship a decoy and you are taking them overland?” He knocked the Dourhand’s head against a nearby wall to encourage an answer.
She did not understand. This seemed to be some well-planned event, and certainly no grab and run abduction. Why were the Dourhands so willing to shed their blood to give the ship time to sail? It seemed that none of their number were aboard. Then Estarfin appeared directly in front of her. He looked as if he had bathed in blood.
“Lord Estarfin, enough. They are all dead or dying,” she said in Sindarin, just in case he was confused, and mistook her for a foe.
He took a deep breath, passed a hand over his eyes, and said, “Where are they taking them?” Then he headed to the nearest door, and kicked it in, starting a pattern that lasted for over ten minutes. Kick the doors in, kill any Dourhand inside, kick anything else nearby, and move on to the next door.
Ceuro caught up with her. “He is in some blood fury,” she whispered. “He will not get an answer like this.”
“He finally knows he has wasted our time. Now the pursuit is on,” Ceuro replied, drops of rain and blood speckling his face. “I am glad he is not my enemy.”
“Stop this reckless slaughter at once! We still need answers,” Culufinnel shouted as he ran past them, hard on Estarfin’s heels.
‘Good luck with that,’ thought Yrill. She looked back towards the river, through the swiftly advancing gray wall of driving rain, to see the distant shape of the ship bearing her friends disappear into darkness.
