It rained a little, of course. How could it not rain on them? But they kept up a good pace over the farm and grasslands of Annundir, into the gently rolling hills of the West. It was a trail Yrill had only followed a few times before, being far more a haunt of Men than of Elves. She knew the way, but not much of the surrounding land. It looked like a place much frequented by creatures of the wilds, bear and lynx most likely, but she was unsure if there were any orc or goblin camps hidden in secluded dells. Most of such camps lay to the east, that was a certainty. But one could never be sure.
The walled Dwarf Hold itself lay at the top of a steady incline, giving its inhabitants a good view for miles around. The guards would have been observing their approach for some time.
“Let me speak first,” said Yrill, wondering how the Captain would deal with Dwarven folk, and suspecting how Estarfin would.
She halted several yards from the gate and guards, dismounted and walked slowly forward, hands held away from her sides so it was clear to see she held no weapon. “These are Longbeards, not Dourhands as we encountered at Kheledûl,” she whispered back. “They are allies.”
In response the Captain made a general ‘hail’ to the assembled guards. Eight of them, and two more came running to join their comrades as Yrill spoke.
“I am Yrill Urugdagnir, out of Ered Luin of late. Hail, sons of Durin. We seek your counsel.”
The guards muttered among themselves, but did not raise weapons.
“Two of our friends have been captured.”
“There are no Elves here, and none here would take them,” said a Dwarf with a particularly full and thick beard. He stood a few steps forward. “You accuse us of such a thing?”
The Captain trotted his horse into the middle of the circle of Dwarves, who stepped back in surprise. “I am Captain Culufinnel of Celondim,” he told them. “We seek a group of Men who have taken them.”
At that moment another Dwarf with thinning hair on his head, pushed to the front. He was not in armour as were the others, but looked more like a workman. His brown linen clothes and grey beard were covered in grey dust. “Stand back a moment’ he announced, then to the Elves said, “I am Ottar, Captain and Chief Stonemason here. If you come in peace then you are welcome to our hospitality, what little we can offer. If not, then you must know we shall be introducing our axes to you.” He put a hand upon the war axe attached to his belt.
Estarfin stared at him, unimpressed.
“We come in peace, Captain Ottar, and only disturb you because we search for our friends.” Yrill still kept her hands away from her weapons. Then she noticed there was a man standing by the horses and ponies, and turned to look momentarily behind her, to see a darkly frowning Estarfin.
Ottar followed her gaze. “That’s only Sam Pickwell,” he said, “a pony trader who visits us twice a year, alone or with his lad.”
“Hear me!” Culufinnel called out. “We seek a group of Men, at least a dozen. There is nothing remarkable about them except that two are duskier of skin than the men they lead, and they keep two of our folk, a lady with long red hair, and a ‘lord’ with dark hair, who is likely stuffed in a bag or sack, or possibly tied up in a blanket. And,” he added as an afterthought, “They also have two halflings.”
As the Dwarves muttered to each other, wondering at this news, Estarfin said something accusatory to the man standing by the ponies, but in Quenya. (‘What say you, cur?’) Then he switched to the common tongue and said, “Perhaps you are one of them?”
The Man stammered out in confusion and fear ‘No, no!” and shook his head, saying, “I have not done anything!”
Elves always think they know better, thought Captain Ottar. Well, seeing is believing! The dwarf captain beckoned the elves forward. “Come and see for yourselves! There are no men hiding elves here,” he told them.
Yrill walked forward, Culufinnel rode ahead, though a scowling Estarfin remained where he was, beside Yrill’s horse. Instead of entering the Hold, Yrill merely inclined her head. “The word of a Dwarf Captain is enough. I do not need to search. But your guards have quite a view from above.” She indicated the battlements above with a nod.”Have none espied that group of men?”
Captain Ottar looked sternly at his guards. “Well, have any of you seen anything and not thought fit to report it?”
There was a moment in which a few individuals shuffled their feet. Then a shaking Sam Pickwell spoke up. His eyes never left Estarfin and he was as tense as a tightly wound spring, and seemed ready to run away at any moment. “I saw them,” he said with a trembling voice. “When I was nearing Othrikar, I saw them some distance behind. I saw around twenty Men, riding up a storm. No individuals, just a worn-out-looking group in a hurry, and then when they stopped here a short time after me, I thought they might be after me ponies.”
“Stopped here, did they?” Captain Ottar shouted. He stuck the fingers of his axe-free hand through his belt and hefted the axe up. “Why wasn't I notified! Who is going to explain this oversight?”
The dwarves murmured together briefly, then two guards stood forward. One had thick red hair and beard, the other brown hair plaited in neat braids with a beard just as long as those of his fellow soldiers.
“They rode close by, Captain Ottar,” began Red, for although he honoured his true name, such names were not given freely and that was what the others called him, on account of his bushy red beard. “All the guards at the front saw them. Those above had arrows trained on them. Mister Pickwell here said they were a rough looking bunch, and we shouldn't give them entry.”
The Man nodded vigorously.
“But we weren't going to let them in, and they didn’t want to come in,” Red-beard continued. “They only wanted supplies. One asked for a blacksmith. He wanted a length of iron chain with a padlock, and said he needed it for a lockbox with a broken lid. So we refilled their waterskins from the well, found a bit of iron chain, and even gave them a basket of loaves and turnips, so they would leave all the faster, and we fulfilled our hospitality.”
“But then they started arguing, and a few rode off,” the brown-bearded guard cut in. “About twenty men, aye, and with them an elf with long red hair, red as copper.”
Estarfin urged Norlomë forward. “You thought not to aid her?” he all but growled.
“There…there w-w-as no sign she was in t-trouble,” the guard stuttered out, and looked to his companions for reassurance.
Captain Culufinnel held up a hand, his eyes flashing with a cold steely light. “Wait! Let him speak.”
Norlomë halted a spear’s length away.
The Dwarf continued, “She looked - how do I say? annoyed, but unhurt. She was talking to herself - that was right odd I thought at the time, but that was the other Elf to whom she was talking, I'm guessing, who was stuffed in a sack on the back of one of their horses. Come to think of it, I thought there was something moving in it, but then I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. And then I saw a curly-haired Halfling, seated in front of one of the men, and I wondered how he got himself mixed up in this adventure, ‘cause we don't see too many of those folk hereabouts. But none asked for help, save a little food and water, and none wanted to talk, which suited us just fine. They were arguing about water, but we filled all their waterskins, so I don't know why they quarreled.”
The Dwarf Captain now held up his hand for silence. “Enough. You bring shame on us. You should have reported this to me immediately.”
The guards hung their heads. “We knew you were busy -” one started to say.
“You report everything to me! Don't you forget it again, or I'll knock your skulls together as a reminder!”
He turned to address all three Elves, looking red-faced and chagrined, and said, “My apologies for my guards’ oversight, and for this unfortunate delay. Do you wish for water and supplies? They are yours for the taking.”
Yrill nodded and said that the waterskins could be refilled and the horses granted drink from the trough.
Captain Ottar looked at Estarfin and sighed. “Another day perhaps, dark warrior, when we really do have cause to disagree. For now I must ask you to kindly accept my apologies.”
“What direction did they head?” Estarfin asked.
“North-east, through Nan Amlug,” the guard replied immediately, though with some trepidation. “There are several turns to the north - but all paths eventually lead to Angmar.” He bowed to the Elves.
Then Ottar made a crisp salute to Captain Culufinnel. “May you and your party find them swiftly. And when you do, may Mahal guide your hands.”
To the surprise of his companions, Estarfin placed a hand on his chest in a gesture he believed meant ‘honest thanks’ from his previous dealings with 'Naugrim'.
Captain Ottar almost smiled at the gesture. “They have taken folk you know, these men?” he asked.
“Indeed they have,” Captain Culufinnel replied, surprised at the dwarf’s shrewd guess. “They have the warrior's betrothed, and my brother.”
“Ah,” the dwarves murmured. That would explain the Elves’ mood. There was some muttering as to what they would do should someone try and take their kinfolk or wives.
“Farewell. Safe travels, and all success to your mission,” said Captain Ottar as he raised his hand in salute. In a short time they were ready, and the horses refreshed, the elves galloped away following the road northward.
