Dolthafaer halted at the head of the stairs and cast his eyes over the shadowed courtyard below. To his staggering relief, Yrill was not to be seen. She must have reached the shelter of the pillars. He had not heard the sound of an arrow being released, but even so – this was an enemy that did not deserve to take down his huntress.
Satisfied that the distraction had worked, the Arrow Lord took in his surroundings. The second level of the ruin was a circular stone platform supported by massive stone pillars. It was dark, the shadows unmolested by the pale moonlight that shone down into the courtyard. The only sound was the echo of the Man’s laughter as it faded into silence.
Thendryt.
There was no doubt in Dolthafaer’s mind that the voice belonged to the so-called Elf Friend that had nearly bested him in the Hithaeglir. No other voice could spark such a fury in him so quickly. He would catch it even as a whisper in the din of a hundred others shouting all at once. Never again would he allow this Man to catch him off-guard.
Why was he here, so far from the Coldfells?
What had he done to the wounded Elf below?
What game was he trying to play?
Dolthafaer took one step forward – and then stopped, his gaze dropping to the bow in his hand and the arrow on the string. He remembered the touch of cold steel beneath his chin as the Man forced him to meet his eyes. He slipped the arrow into the quiver and strapped the bow to his back and drew his blades with a cold shing, loud in the still dark.
He stalked across the dark platform like a shadow himself.
The hunt was on.
He moved slowly and methodically, stopping to check every cracked pillar and toppled stone. As he searched, his mind raced. Was it time for him to break his silence? Now, finally, could he inform the Lady Elisbeth of the madness that ran as sure as blood through this kinsman of hers? Would there be any need for secrets after tonight?
“Thendryt.”
Silence.
Soon enough, he came upon Luthelian, who had taken the other side of the platform. Dolthafaer felt another small stab of relief when he saw her unharmed. She looked pale but focused, her bow ready in her hand. There was steel in this small Arrow.
“Enough of this,” he called into the darkness. He knew that the Man was close, but he was in no great hurry to flush him out. The only passage that led off of the platform was at the head of the stairs, and he had no chance of reaching it. They had all the time in the world to wait. “Come out and it will go more easily for you.”
“Be careful, captain,” came a voice near at hand – Yrill, back from the courtyard. “He sounds… different in tone.”
A stone hit the platform somewhere behind Luthelian. As one, the three Elves turned in that direction, but none of them moved. They exchanged soft murmurs, and then simply stood. They waited. They listened.
One more stone was thrown across the platform – a child’s ploy – and a dark figure broke out from behind a fallen pillar, pelting across the crumbling rock
Dolthafaer was after him like a hound bearing down on a rabbit.
Shoot, he should have cried, signalling Yrill and Luthelian to put an end to this chase. But something held him back, just as something had held him back in the storm.
“Thendryt! Stop!”
The tall Man had nearly made it to the stairs before he finally came to a halt.
Dolthafaer slowed his pace as he approached, and there was a flicker of movement as both Yrill and Luthelian moved before the stairs that led down into the courtyard. Thendryt finally turned to face him, fury plain in the eyes above the mask.
Dolthafaer said, low, “This is far from the Coldfells, Elf Friend.”
He had taken Yrill off of her watch. Though far from convinced of this Man’s innocence, he had come to believe that the danger he posed was less immediate than he had feared. But, apparently, he had been wrong. Dimly, he was aware that the wounded stranger had come to join them, stopped at the head of the stairs by a firm command from Luthelian.
Thendryt drew his sword.
Dolthafaer stepped closer.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “What have you done to this Elf?”
The Man simply replied, with a lower voice: “Get out.” He raised his sword.
“We cut down scouts, Thendryt. Spies. Men of the North. We came here to search for the rest of their company – and found you. Why am I not surprised?”
Thendryt held his silence, but slipped slowly into a guard position. Behind them, he could hear the stranger – furtively warning him to be careful, to keep up his guard, and then, finally, “Why does he let this Man speak!”
“They know each other.”
Dolthafaer narrowed his eyes.
“Stand down. Now.”
Thendryt’s gaze wandered to the other elves. He whispered, vacantly: “Something you don’t want to happen…”
Dolthafaer’s skin crawled at the familiar words, the old threat.
He took one final step forward.
“Stand. Down. Now.”
Thendryt finally began to move – but past him, towards the stairs, towards the wounded Elf, towards Luthelian, towards Yrill. Dolthafaer stepped in front of him, eyes hard, swords raised in front of him in a defensive cross.
“No.”
Thendryt finally met his eyes. Yrill was right – there was something strange about his demeanor and his words, something unhinged. The Man took a single step back, and then – finally – made his move, swinging his sword with both hands and bringing it down hard upon Dolthafaer’s blades. The moment steel met steel, the Arrow Lord sprang into action, pushing the Man’s sword to the side with his left blade and stabbing at his midrift with the right. Thendryt managed to grab the blade with his hand an instant before it hit him.
Dolthafaer remembered this.
Confusion in the snow, a quick and dirty fight.
He dropped his sword and drew back his arm and slammed his gauntleted fist into Thendryt’s face, the strength of the blow knocking the Man backwards several staggering steps. Dolthafaer broke into a sudden grin. He had been aching for the chance to punch this bastard since the blizzard. Fate was kind to him tonight.
Once he had finally recovered his balance, Thendryt slowly raised his eyes to him and exhaled loudly. Dolthafaer was vaguely surprised that the Man had kept his feet at all. He might be strong, but his strength could never match that of an Elf.
“Either get out of my way, Arrow, or punch harder.”
Dolthafaer snorted.
The fight was over.
“We are on the same side, Man!” Yrill cried from behind him. “Why must you continue this useless tirade?”
Thendryt shot her a hateful look. “Then get out, or get out of my way.”
Get out, again and again. Get out. Finally, a flicker of doubt broke through Dolthafaer’s resolve. He turned to look at the others standing before the stairs, at the stranger – now half-pinned by Luthelian to the platform, apparently to keep him from fleeing.
He turned to Thendryt, sizing him up. Something in his stance caught his attention. He moved stiffly, and there were dark splotches on his tunic. Something had gotten to him before Dolthafaer had.
“You are wounded, Thendryt,” he noted flatly. “We found you stalking and terrorizing this Elf in the dark. Give me one reason why I should not apprehend you.”
“Going to apprehend me for walking in the dark?”
Dolthafaer turned to the stranger.
“You,” he pointed to the Elf pinned by Luthelian, switching to their own tongue. “Was this Man one of those who hurt you?”
The stranger looked up at him, wide-eyed, before turning to Thendryt.
“He would have if he could have, I can see it in his eyes! Long did he search for me. But I ran away! I got away from them all!”
Dolthafaer closed his eyes and took a breath.
“Why were you following him, Thendryt?”
“Could have been anything for all I knew,” the Man growled. “I’m pretty disappointed it was an Elf.”
The stranger laughed and rubbed his wrists – torn and bloody, Dolthafaer noticed. He had been bound. He had been mistreated. But not, he was coming to realize, by the madman in Delossad.
“Did the Men have similar appearance to this Man?” Yrill was asking. “Or did they seem different in garb? In voice?”
The stranger nodded to each of these questions. “I got away!”
Dolthafaer had heard enough.
He narrowed his eyes at the Man, frustration at war with reason within him. He wanted nothing more than to raise his sword and lunge back into the fray and put an end to this -- an end to Thendryt, an end to the danger he posed and the mysteries surrounding him. No one would know. Yrill was loyal and a faithful friend, and Luthelian was desperate to remain in his good graces. The battered Elf was already crying for this Man's blood. They would never say a word of the corpse they left in Delossad.
But this damned Elf was clearly confused, distracted by pain or hunger or fear, and though he was clamoring for them to kill Thendryt, he could not identify him as one of those who had done him harm. The Man had simply frightened the already-frightened Elf in the darkness of Delossad; that was not enough reason to apprehend him, and certainly not to put him down.
Slowly, the Arrow lord lowered his sword, though he clutched the hilt in a white-knuckled grip. He let out a low growl through clenched teeth.
“This is twice now our blades have crossed, Thendryt. Pray to whatever Gods you Men believe in that there will not be a third time.”
