Horse and rider trudged step by aching step through the white and wind. Warrior and warhorse side by side, each straining their senses through the seeming endless storm. Feet uncertainly testing the way, crushing through the hard crust of ice that lay beneath this blizzard's drifts, variously resting upon firm ground or plunging suddenly hip deep in the last storm's snow. Several times she had fallen over in the powder, each time thankful for the furs and the goggles, snow mask and the greatcoat that the dwarves had given her. The weight of her mail hauberk beneath it and the layers of wool and linen beneath that put her endurance to the test. Her conditioning in the Hithaeglir, miserable as it had been was now turning into a blessing. At least here her lungs were not starved of oxygen. She remained vigorous, sustained as well by the legendary endurance of the elves. Her determined march gave heart to her poor horse, ill-made for such country. At least as the sunlight's glare began to wane, she could let her goggles down without fear of being blinded.
Still, endurance elven or otherwise has its limits. Arahen's every muscle ached and she yearned for sleep, lulled still further by the plaintive groan of the storm and the almost unvariegated purity of the white vista.
She stopped and listened a moment, holding her breath. The voices were still there, she fumed. She had deliberately kept traveling through the storm to throw them off, yet still they pursued. Somehow. And the storm had turned out to be as relentless in its drive to crush her as the Guaredan who tracked her.
Suddenly her arm brushed against something solid. And then she realized how dulled her senses had become when her face was struck by a pine bough, the needles pricking through the slit in the face mask to scratch the flesh beside her eye. She blinked and realized the storms angry song had taken on a different character as a stand of trees, coated nearly as white as the swirling snow screened some of the wind out. Another step and another....the snow was now only shin-deep. She sensed the horse's elation mirror her own. Before long they were well within the embrace of the forest and the howl had subsided to a murmur punctuated by the creak of the sheltering trees. A mist of snow flakes percolated through the boughs, reflecting the sun's persistent light turning the forest into a cathedral of crystal. Arahen and her nameless horse stood stock still for a long while, both collecting their breath and their wits. The elven knight knew the pack of wolf-men would not be far behind and would grow closer the more she tarried.
The three trackers were expert at pursuing game through the brutal weather of the north, though this storm put their skills to the utmost test. They often could scarcely see one another for the driving blasts of snow and pelting ice. Their quarry left scarcely more trail than they themselves would. More than once, they had thought the game lost when they caught the scent of fresh horse dung or heard the sound of feet crashing through ice crust. As the day wore on and the storm raged unabated, and strength of mortal limb had been pushed to the utmost, they too came upon the edge of the forest. The Guaredan glanced at one another. They hadn't guessed they had pushed so far south. Spiked maces were brought out as they slipped through the outer screen of trees.
The sound of the horse stepping through forest floor debris hidden beneath the thick blanket of snow was unmistakable. The big men split up, one following straight behind in the tracks of the horse and the woman, the other two making their way off to either side of the trail. Nearing a frozen stream the lead tracker stopped suddenly. The horse's tracks continued, but those of the woman had suddenly vanished. Jerking his head around, the Guaredan had just enough time to be aware of the whistling of the broadsword before his world suddenly began to spin wildly and go black.
The second sensed something wrong, hearing a soft whoosh just behind and stopped, dropping to a crouch behind a fallen pine. He looked back and saw nothing. Which disturbed him even more. The lead tracker ought to be right...a soft twang sounded and a crossbow dart sprouted from the right center of his back. He managed a soft cough as his lungs instantly filled with blood, the heavy body sagging behind the bole of the tree.
The last tracker heard two sounds that foreboded disaster and clutched his axe, casting eyes about for a target. He stood amidst a thicket of thinner trees where some long past storm had once opened a clearing in the wood and realized he was a perfect target for an archer. Panic seized hold of him then as he spotted a far-off spot of crimson and realized the stone nearby it was the head of his lead tracker, the body still wreathed in the steam from the torrent of blood spilling from the torso's neck. He thought at first of a hasty retreat, but knew the penalty for failure. Among his own people he would be mocked and that was dire enough punishment for a Guaredan warrior. But the Angmarim were not so tolerant. He had seen men flayed to death with the scorpion or thrown into the warg pits. Death in battle was one thing but this sorceress they had been sent to hunt was murdering them silently and one by one.
He stood upright and shouted in his own language for the demon to show herself. And was answered. From nowhere, a figure rose up, clad in white furs and wielding a long blade that glittered in the dim light of the wood like the icicles suspended from the treelimbs. The figure cast aside her hood, revealing an impossibly fair visage. The spell of her grey eyes was broken when she motioned with her hand. “Come. Let us embrace.”
With a reflexive howl the Guaredan brought up his axe and sprang at the elf, swinging in a wide arc. Arahen crouched, bringing Mournblade up to snag the descending axe-head. Twisting, she disarmed the Guaredan, near simultaneously lashing out with booted foot as the overbalanced man's body passed, smashing the side of his knee with a loud crack. The tracker landed in the light snow of the forest floor with a groan. Arahen smiled grimly, bringing her boot down on his belly. A rush of air and a hoarse cough. The Guaredan wheezed, trying desperately to take in a breath. As his right arm reached for a dagger from his boot, his antagonist laughed merrily, reaching down and grabbing his wrist with her left hand. The power in her was unnatural. Immense. A cracking of bone and his hand went numb. She stepped back and swung the blade with a flourish. Just above his head. Laughing.
He sat upright and used his good arm to bring himself to stand on wobbling legs. It was then that he noticed the wolves. Ignoring the elf, the pack that had sheltered in the copse of trees, a dozen grim wolves, lean from the northern winter crept eagerly forward, slaver dripping from open jaws. Before the wolves tore him to pieces, the Guaredan tracker saw the tall woman look back at him one last time, her gloved left hand stroking a canine muzzle.
“When I see you, I think of the treachery of your fathers for countless generations. Your kind have never learnt, nor ever shall. Go now into the void with your master,” she said as she turned away at last. And then the wolves came on.
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Authorial note: Elves can skim along, running on top of snow a-la Legolas, I know. But I'm positing that Arahen is burdened as he was not.
