Signs in the Snow

Dolthafaer regarded his company with a critical eye, taking in their thick cloaks and heavy boots and somber colors, and nodded his proud approval.  He passed each of them a small flask of firewhiskey, warning them to use it sparingly in the bitter cold.  He reminded them of their mission, informed them of the dangers they might face, and a moment before he would have started them down the path, Veryacano approached them.  The Hammer lord briefly inspected the gathering before leaving them with a final order:

“Tell him Lord Anglachelm has re-summoned him to the Valley.  If he does not want to – which might very well be the case – you are authorized to arrest him.”

Dolthafaer fell silent for a moment, imagining the chaos of attempting to apprehend the mighty Hammer warrior and drag him back to Imladris by force.  He agreed – had no choice but to agree – but dread settled like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach.

“I hope it will not come to that.”

---

Their faces glowed in the flickering light of the small fire, their last until they searched the North High Pass.  They had found no sign of Estarfin, Danel, or even Limiriel, who should have been making her way back to Imladris by now.  Fresh-fallen snow had long since buried any tracks or signs they might have left. 

Luthelian was attempting to goad Caethel into throwing a snowball at Gwaedir, but before Dolthafaer could step in, the timid maiden let it fall from her hands as if it scalded.  He shook his head, one corner of his mouth quirking into a smile.

“Captain?”

Yrill, a little ways off, was calling for him.  Dolthafaer left the warmth of the fire to investigate, rubbing his hands together to drive off the cold. 

“What is it, Yrill?”

She was pointing to something on the ground.

“Some days ago, I warrant.  Look.  No great battle there… but something was slain and frozen.”

It appeared to be a chilled mass of blood and bone, half-buried in the snow.  Frowning, Dolthafaer kicked at it once, dislodging some of the snow, and knelt down for a closer look.

“Goblin,” he noted, unnecessarily. 

A distant howl carried through the still night – close enough to raise the hairs at the back of his neck, far enough away to make the fire no danger.  He rose abruptly to his feet.

“Perhaps wolves?”

---

A sharp whistle sounded clearly across the vale.  In an instant, Dolthafaer was moving in that direction, bow in hand, listening for the sounds of a skirmish and hearing none.  It was Gwaedir.  As he drew near, the scout pulled something from a clump of brambles at his feet. 

“Captain?”

“Let me see it.”

“It’s seen better days…”

It was a cloak – black fur, torn, matted with snow and ice.  Even frozen, the scent of blood was enough to make his nostrils flare.  Elven blood?  Orc blood?  Likely both.  Dolthafaer stared at it for a moment, remembering a time he had held this cloak before, pressed into his hands by the Ambassador with instructions to return it to its owner.

“Estarfin’s cloak.”

---

Yrill brought him to the mare.  She was swaying and trembling, as white as the snow that clumped in her mane and tail, and her tack was of sturdy elven-make.  Danel was said to have been mounted in her pursuit.  No more, apparently.  At least the scabbard was empty.
    
They fed the poor beast an apple, Caethel patched up her hoof, and then they sent her on her way.  They had a search ahead of them, and there was no time to do more for her.  They could only hope to find her on the road home.

---

They found the first head at the end of a stone slab bridge.  It was a goblin, grossly misshapen, perhaps a week or more dead, a four-pointed star carved into it.  They were on the right path.  Estarfin had been here, and Danel as well – but perhaps three days past, if not more, frozen corpses alone a testament to their passing.  Wargs were still roaming the pass as well as goblins.  They had shaken the hive, but not destroyed it. 

They would not be found. 

They had only just moved past the bridge – and more heads, marking the way – when they heard a mighty roar from ahead on the path.  Exchanging glances, as one the Arrows drew their bows and knocked their arrows and approached swiftly and silently.  They rounded a bend in time to see a warrior rip her spear from the corpse of a warg, bright red blood dripping from its tip into the trampled snow.

Dolthafaer was so relieved to find someone alive in this cold hell that he stepped forward without a thought.

“Limiriel!”