Oathbourne
by Lothithil, A DarkElf Adventure
Chapter Twelve, Tracker
Wayland's sword is strapped across my back, riding in a special sleeve
within the quiver that hugs me around my shoulders and ribs. I revel in
the freedom of movement this allows, and that the new arms I have
received do not weigh me down. It will take some adjustment to come to
use my sword as well as my old one, but such things can be rehearsed in
practice so much, and tested truly only in battle. I almost itch for
the chance to wet the blade, suppressing a small twinge of guilt for
the desire to slay a living thing. Am I bloodthirsty? Perhaps. I know
that fighting lay in my future. I pray only my next kill is worthy of
the honour.
The mastersmith complained bitterly when I refused to wear the mail he
had fashioned for me. I found the leather tunic and breeches most
adequate for my needs, and beautiful, also. Darkly coloured and
artfully stitched, they fitted tightly and felt like a second skin. The
boots were snug around my calves and ankles, and there was no whisper
from them as I ran. I firmly refused the mail, even as finely woven and
silent as it was wrought, dark-coloured like my sword so that it threw
no warning gleam to a watchful enemy, still it was weighty. O, how he
complained!
"You would discard the mail? Have you no value for your life? I have
wrought it to serve your stealth and guile, and it goes with the
sword... you cannot bear one without the other!"
"I cannot bear both and remain light and stealthful, Master Wayland. In
warfare I would proudly wear your arms, and none would withstand me.
Yet in the wild your mail would but slow me and hinder my movements.
There are rivers to swim and limbs to walk that would break beneath my
weight were I thusly clad."
In the end, I had to accept the mail, as well as a riding skirt and
weskit that fit over the clothing I had chosen. I sent them with
Eärendil with a plea to Jacinth to store the things until my
return. I knew she would not mind. I wore the weskit as I walked to the
quay, knowing that Wayland would be watching. Once within the trees I
would remove the garment and skirt, rolling them into small bundles
that would store easily in my small pack. Wonderful clothes, indeed!
But now, I was heading back to my aspect and I am eager to get started.
Silently I bid a farewell to my dear ones, boarding a light fishing
vessel that is heading toward the mainland. For once, I spend more time
looking behind than ahead. Fingol seems to be anchoring my heart. While
the voyage lasts, my thoughts fly to him. When will we meet again, and
who shall we be at that time? All of the world seems a series of
obstacles between me and my desire.
~~~~~
He is not difficult to track, my wandering elf-bard. I find his old
campsites by the smell, passing two sometimes three each day. I find
also that this player is no easy prey for woodwight or bandit, for
signs of battle I find and ever has he emerged the victor.
I keep up my pace, but the trail grows scarce as he adjusts to living
in the wild. On the morning a fortnight and a few days after I set out
from Arvernien, I find a flamescar still warm in its coals,
incompetently doused with water and no attempt made to hide. Ever
before had my quarry used perfect caution to protect the woods, so this
leaves me with feelings of unease. He may realize now that he is
followed or, perhaps, he is stalked by some other threat; I had passed
many sentries crossing the borders of Taur-Im-Duinath.
In retrospect, greater caution I should have myself employed, but I
preceived no threat from the one that I hunted, deeming him an Elf of
skill but little craft. This to my own near undoing, for quite suddenly
I found myself lying upon the leaf-strewn forest floor, clutching my
ears that were tortured by a sharp, painful sound.
The wind crushed from my body and my sword is pined out of reach, I
could see him standing over with his sword drawn, its tip poised at the
hollow of my throat. I am gasping, too stunned even to inventory for
broken bones.
"Thou art no orc," he said after a moment, holding his weapon steady
though he felt some doubt in his mind. "Neither appear ye as an Elf,
though here my heart pauses. Speak, dark minion, and if you sing
sweetly, I may let you run on. Are ye one of those who stalks me or
merely an unlucky wight?"
"Lord," says I, fighting for breath. In the very top branches I had
been running, and my fall had been great. How he had brought me down, I
had no inkling. I laboured for breath. "Lord, in truth it is I that has
hunted thee, but not as prey nor for bounty. Give me peace and soften
your steel; I have no air with which to sing appealingly."
Daeron shifts the harp he holds in his other arm, increasing the
pressure of the sharp blade against my skin. "I know you, dark elf. Are
you following me? They sent you to try to turn my path aside. The king
could not stay me, nor the gentle word of Elwing, and no counsel of
yours can disuade me. Or did they send you to kill me?"
Through the ground on which I lay, I can feel them approach. A score,
at least, of iron-shod feet. In his eyes I see awareness of the threat,
and he looks at me accusingly.
"Lord, turn your sword aside or use it. We are beset." His weapon
hesitates at my throat for an instant, then sweeps upward to take two
heads from the orcs rushing him from the trees. I roll away from a rain
of blows and get to my feet, drinking air in great draughts.
I have six brutes to myself, circling me as Daeron carves though his
attackers. What doubts he had of me I am sure will be laid to rest, but
first, are these worthy of Wayland's steel? Perhaps not, but they will
prove another test.
I reach up past my ear and grip the hilt of my sword. It is like taking the hand of a friend.