Perhaps, the Arrow lord reflected, as a hard gust of wind hit his back with enough force to make the sure-footed elf stumble, I should have lingered in the keep.
But even the bitter cold and driving snow and biting wind of this sudden storm pleased Dolthafaer more than the thought of returning to Hrimbarg, where the full companies of Vanimar and the Warband both were no doubt crammed together in the stone confinements of the dwarven trading outpost. He had slipped away quietly once Limiriel had begun passing around tankards of ale, the keg purchased from their host. He had not wanted to see the effect a drunken Hammer or two would have had on that cramped atmosphere.
Barangolf – or had it been Tinurendis? – had mentioned Hrimbarg in the tale of their separation from the rest of their party. He had a mind to investigate the area nearby, searching for hidden caves, perhaps, that they might have tried to take shelter from in the storm.
But the snow was deep and falling fast, the wind was relentless, and even to his sharp eyes, visibility was poor. The base of the mountain offered him only jagged cliffs and icy slopes, and only one small cave that reeked of wolf. For a while, those same cliffs had sheltered him from the worst of the storm, but the wind had changed. He had doubled back some time ago, turning his path back to the keep.
Sharp grey eyes picked out an indent in the snow near his feet. He frowned, dropping to one knee, and studied it closely. A print? Too large. His mind turned to the giant of ice and snow that he had helped to take down at Vindurhal, but as he traced his fingers along it, the notion flew away. Too shallow. Nothing.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Even with the howl of the wind, Dolthafaer recognized the sound of approaching footsteps. His head snapped up and turned in the direction, quickly catching sight of a dark figure moving through the falling snow. Too large to be a goblin. Too loud to be an elf. He crouched where he was, bow already in hand, arrow already knocked to the string, tense and alert and watching.
The figure walked past Dolthafaer – and then it stopped, turning towards him with weapon in hand at a speed that spurned the Arrow into action, leaping to his feet and drawing his bow and aiming for the heart.
“Move a hair and you move your last!”
The Man – it had to be a Man – remained still, for a moment, and Dolthafaer watched as he slowly lowered himself to the snow. This was a strange land full of goblins and wild beasts, slowly falling into chaos. Scouts were missing, presumed dead, as well as an entire party from the Greenwood. A lone Man wandering in a storm was no obvious enemy – but were he an ally, he would have been quick to answer.
Dolthafaer hesitated.
The Man hurled himself sideways, the loose snow catching the wind and flying into the air, and the arrow hit nothing as he disappeared into the confusion of the storm.
“Who are you!”
They circled one another, blind in the snow, and his mind raced.
Ally? Enemy?
A sudden noise and Dolthafaer’s second arrow flew, this time hitting home, but then the Man was charging him and there was no more time to think on what he had done.
Enemy.
He dropped his bow and drew his dagger and the Man slammed into him, carrying him down into the snow beneath his heavy weight. A hard blow to the head knocked him to the side and they stumbled to their feet. The struggle was brutal and fast and choked by the storm. Dolthafaer was quick but the Man was strong, falling upon every hesitation with impressive savagery.
His dagger whipped across the Man’s face, slashing only at a hood, but the glimpse of a mask beneath distracted him from his rhythm.
Ally?
A killing blow switched to an attempt to disarm, to subdue, but then the Man had him by the throat, by the arm, the sword sacrificed to the snow.
Enemy.
The elf gasped – tried to gasp – as he was driven to the snow once more, ice-packed rocks beneath. He fought the Man. He fought for breath. He fought to understand. He fought for his life when the mad creature suddenly ripped the arrow from his own chest and raised it over his head with both hands to drive it into his skull. For an instant, time seemed to halt. Dolthafaer felt warm blood drip to his face from the tip of his own arrow.
“Stop!”
With the strength of desperation, he twisted away, barely even registering the pain as the blow hit his shoulder instead. He lashed out against the man, grabbing at his hood and mask – Ally, Enemy, Ally – while one hand frantically searched for a lost dagger.
“By the Valar, stop!”
A cloak fell over his face, pulled free from the Man’s clasp.
The Man struck once, hard, and the world went dim.
And then, suddenly, the Man had slipped away. Dolthafaer sat up stiffly, slowly, and gasped for breath. His face was wet with blood, and his wounds throbbed with every heartbeat. But the fight was over. The mood had changed. He clutched the cloak in his hand, now stained with blood.
Enemy.
The Man stood before him. Only the tip of a sword urged Dolthafaer to raise his eyes to him, and he fixed him with a hard burning look. The snow stuck to the blood on his face. He still struggled to breathe. The Man raised his left hand to his chest, looked at the blood on his fingers, and then looked back at the elf.
Dolthafaer glanced at the cloak and broke into a dangerous smile.
“Fool,” he said, softly, switching finally to Westron.
The Man withdrew his sword and sheathed it.
“You shot first.”
Dolthafaer rose slowly and stiffly to his feet, tense with pain and simmering anger.
“I warned you,” he growled. “Elf-friend indeed.”
“So that’s what you said,” the Man replied, and Dolthafaer could read as little from his tone as he could from his masked face.
“Had I shot to kill, this would have gone very differently, Thendryt of the Warband.”
He put his hand to his shoulder, his face expressionless as he briefly examined the wound. Thendryt used the moment of distraction to rip the Warband cloak from him.
“And had I not been content with striking you.”
“Khalis will hear of this, Thendryt. Elisbeth. They will know how their Elf-friend responds to the sound of our tongue on the wind.”
“If you were able to intimidate me, Elf, none of us would be bleeding.”
Dolthafaer cast the Man an even look.
“You might not fear pain, nor death. But what of exile, I wonder?”
He had heard well Khalis’s words to this Man in the early days of their camp, speaking of oaths and loyalty. Parnard spoke of a debt that was owed to Elisbeth. He took a single step closer.
“Lose yourself in the Hithaeglir,” he told him, voice low. “It might go better for you.”
Thendryt suddenly locked a glare on him – the first spark of emotion since the heat of the fight – and also took one step closer, two. Dolthafaer could smell the blood on him. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger.
The Man suddenly chuckled, the sound barely audible in the roaring wind.
“Run along now, little Elf. Tell the others how you lost to the Man and don’t want to see him anymore. Run to your superiors and explain to them how the Man spared you and you want him exiled from the company.”
He paused. This was the most Dolthafaer had ever heard the man speak. From the start, he had been a spectre in their company. Watching. Waiting.
“You’re even a high-ranked elf, aren’t you? Head of the Arrow. Now I remember.”
Dolthafaer smiled grimly and thrust his dagger into its sheath.
“Head of the Arrow of Bar-En-Vanimar. Bested by the Man everyone hates. Go and cry in the lap of your Lord, if you so wish. But I doubt it. And I doubt you'd be rid of me that easily. Elf.”
He spoke the last word with a slow sort of venom. The elf’s gaze never left his face, his eyes hard and his expression harder.
“You think my pride so fragile?” he asked, softly. “I have been bested by better than you. I have bested better than you. It will take more than the taunting of a Child of Man to keep me from warning your dear Elisabeth that her dog has broken free from its leash.”
A memory of laughter in the Hall of Fire.
I am only saying, Estarfin, that I do not fear a dog on a leash.
“How would you explain the arrow-wound in my chest?”
Dolthafaer frowned.
“What?”
“Here I was, just outside the walls. And all of a sudden, an arrow hits me in my chest. I knew you Elves never liked me, but trying to murder me? That’s harsh. Even for you. I doubt my Tûr would see kindly to that.”
Dolthafaer wanted to rip his throat from him. He growled, low, “You think they will take your word over mine? Are you so beyond reproach in the eyes of your Tûr, Thendryt?”
“Are you willing to find out, Dolthafaer? We are here to save your precious Wood-Elves, after all. Every delay might mean their end. Is that a burden you're willing to carry?”
“You are a damned snake, Thendryt,” snarled the elf, eyes blazing.
“Thank you. Think carefully about threatening me next time.”
"You wonder why some of my kind are loathe to trust yours? It is this. To trust in one such as you is to trust a viper not to bite. Elisbeth is a careless fool to keep you so close."
“I can be quite charming whenever Elves aren't firing arrows into me.”
“We will leave the Hithaeglir someday, Thendryt,” Dolthafaer noted with a cold, hard smile. “Our mission will end. The Warband and I will part ways. And then they will learn of this. You will be watched; tread carefully.”
“You mean the tall female?”
Thendryt tilted his head, and Dolthafaer stared at him, startled at his knowledge.
“She has a name.”
“I’m sure she had.”
Had.
“And keen eyes.”
“And I’m sure the next one will as well. I do hope the next one has more luck.”
Dolthafaer could not see his face, but he was sure that he was smiling. He fought down a flicker of panic.
“Choose well, Lord of the Arrows.”
Thendryt turned on his heel and stalked off into the night, leaving Dolthafaer alone in the snow. He could barely breathe.
Enemy.
