Parnard lay in a half-dream, his thoughts back in Imladris, beside the warmth of the fires. Earlier that day, the elves reached a ruined dwelling, roofless, its timbers brittle, charred. Yet another farmstead, burned down to the foundations. Even in this vast wilderness, hundreds of miles from any elvish settlement, those savages had found them, and had cut them down a few feet from their doorstep. Gnawed bones lay scattered around. When the scent of slaughter is wafted on the breezes, bands of hungry Wargs hasten from every side to the feast.
No matter how the wood-elves tried, they could not keep down their numbers, for they moved swiftly, in large packs, and they had wicked Orc masters to guide them. But these elves were different. They would not hide in trees and put their hope in pits and snares. These elves were tireless, clad in black and silver armor; their weapons were cold-forged steel, and glittered cruel in the light. They were bold, impetuous, hot-tempered, careless of safety – and devoutly obedient to the Lord Veryacano. Parnard shivered. Here the cold chilled his very heart. Tindir carried the bag with him around the camp, it clanking a little with his footsteps. Inside was Lord Anglachelm’s dented shield and sword scabbard, found buried underneath a huge snowdrift. How could they have abandoned the mountainside where it was discovered? They should all be digging through the snow this very moment! Veryacano believed that Anglachelm brought the mountainside down upon his captors to escape, and the others seemed to accept this theory without question.
Parnard, never having witnessed an avalanche, imagined a heavy stone falling on a corn-cake and smashing it to pieces. Perhaps Lord Anglachelm was swept off the mountain, and plummeted far below into the Giant valley, pinned down in helpless agony as the blood in his veins turned to ice, and now his broken corpse lay cold and stiff in that lonely place - Oh! I would have searched and searched until the spring came, or waited until the snow melted. But he was not the leader of the party, and did not dare voice his objections to Lord Veryacano. One fixed glare at Parnard from those bright, terrible eyes was enough to petrify him with fear, and he felt himself compelled to follow, almost as if he were spell-bound by some enchantment. He could not believe that their lord survived. Hounds, thought Parnard. That is what we need: hounds to sniff out the body. Then they would give it a proper burial. He thought of suggesting it to the group. Parnard shuddered and decided against it. What power compelled him to follow, what had turned him into an unwilling, unresisting victim to this hopeless search? He wanted to talk to Estarfin, and ask him for his thoughts, but the poisonous Nirhen was always hovering over him, and he did not want to do anything that would cause Estarfin to lose favor with Lord Veryacano. He may not find words for Veryacano, but he could talk freely enough to Estarfin. Or could he? Parnard hesitated. He must seem like a very simple creature to such an ancient, noble elf, yet he treated him kindly, and had gifted him with a sword – and he had not even thanked him for it! - there had been no time for such niceties back in the Valley. If he could just explain how this quest looked to him, then Estarfin would convince the others, and they would all be back in Imladris before winter.
