Parnard

Continued from:  Into the Marsh: Part One | The Laurelin Archives

We led rather than rode the horses down to the old broken bridge. The water was slow and low enough to ford at that point, though perhaps not in times of heavy rain. 

“Did my brother cross the river?” Culufinnel asked, as we became aware of a group of six men watching us closely from the shadows of the ruins. 

Estarfin readied his shield and spear and headed straight at Naraal, determined the Corsair would die this time. He had eluded the Noldo in Nan Wathren. It would not happen again. The man was responsible for Danel’s capture, apparently enthralled by her, and dared to touch her. She had struck him in return, but such an affront to her, to any lady of his people, could only result in this. The Dwarf could wait a little while for his turn to die.

Yaelithe in Linhir was possibly her only hope. But it was a distance away, and Khahaynd was injured in body and even more so in spirit. She was not sure she would make it. She had fled the Elves, not because of their weapons, but because of their love. Strange, unknown, unwanted emotions had been evoked in her. She had no time for them.

The Appearance of Danel who, in reality was the shapeshifting Khahaynd of Umbar, sat down in a small hollow that was partially shielded from the easterly wind. She patted the mossy ground beside her with a small but strong hand “Estarfin, come, keep me warm; Culufinnon can make the fire for us when he returns,” she said, carelessly botching the name of the insignificant Captain of Celondim as she tried to soften her commanding tone.

There was a familiar sensation, as if he was standing in a storm with forked lightning overhead. Not painful, just strange. He sniffed the air and smelt wet dog. It was him who stunk. Before him stood Khahaynd, only she looked exactly like the She-Elf, her features and outfit identical in every detail. The sorceress smiled seductively and batted her eyelashes. 

Zir yawned silently. 

He was Cat. He did not make noise unless he intended to. He was silent, observant, and patient.

Herne was an old town in a very Mannish style: a few wooden outbuildings next to run-down houses with stacked stone walls and adjoining fields, all surrounded by an abundance of oaks and larches. We approached it at a steady pace. It was late morning, Anor was bright, but the air was chill. It was a good excuse to be wrapped in our cloaks, though our bearing and stature and the noble blood of our horses possibly caused some to regard us twice.