Hearing or sensing something in a way only animals could, the horse flicked his ears and gave a short –snort- as he turned his head to look at his rider.
It’s going to rain.
‘I know,’ Gilvendir replied as he gave Suldal a pat on his neck.
In truth he had noticed the ever-darkening skies and, though the sun was indeed setting, it was clouds that were causing the encroaching dusk to quicken. Taking a quick glance at the ground to make sure they were on the right track, he then turned his attention back to the clouds, recollecting his thoughts.
* * * * * * *
He had escorted a guest of the Lady. Galadhad of Lindon. As was requested of him and as he had obliged. They arrived at the Manor and pleasantries were exchanged. It was then that the idea was put forth to await the remaining members of the order at The Warhorse Inn.
And so they all made the short walk from the Manor to the Inn. There was no doubt the proprietor was a man of Rohan. Wulfthred was his name, and right enough he was a horse lord. And it was he too that welcomed the party in front of the Inn.
As others left their horses with the stable-hand to go inside, Gilvendir had opted to tend to Suldal himself.
~ + ~
Don’t feel comfortable inside? The horse looked to his master quizzically.
‘You know me,’ the ranger replied as he brushed his steed’s coat, casting a glance towards the main building of the Inn.
There was a window nearby the stables. Being as inconspicuous as possible, he moved up against the wall and took a quick peek just at the corner of the window.
‘Everyone seems to be enjoying themse-,’ he cut himself short as he noticed the Lady and a few others leave the inn. As his gaze continued to follow the small group, it became clear that they were heading back to the manor.
Despite his curiosity, Gilvendir shook the thought from his mind as he finished off brushing Suldal and asked his horse, ‘Feel like going for a walk?’
Where’s my apple?
~ + ~
He was just about to loose a nocked arrow at a wild hare when the faint scent of something burning reached him. Sniffing the air again, Gilvendir confirmed his suspicions and his eyes immediately scanned the surrounding woods for any signs of a fire. He could see none. And Suldal, who was a few metres back did not sound any warning either, which was further proof that the fire wasn’t nearby in the woods.
Food would have to wait as he replaced his arrow into his quiver and looked up to the highest branches of the trees, squinting slightly at the sunlight sifting through. As the ranger took a few short moments to judge the direction of the wind, a disconcerting feeling began to seep its way beneath his skin and into his gut.
He let out a short, high-pitched whistle-call to Suldal and the horse came to his master’s side. With the ease and grace of an expert horseman, rivalled only by the elves and perhaps a small number of horselords, Gilvendir mounted his steed. ‘The village. Now.’
Sensing the urgency in his master’s voice, Suldal broke into a gallop, as safe as he possibly could between the trees of the woods. For his part, the ranger took a low stance, letting his steed guide the way as he concentrated on dodging and rogue branches as they sped through.
As they passed out of the woods the smell of the fire was thick and unfiltered - stronger than what Gilvendir had smelled within the depths of the woods. And there, tattooed against the sky, a tower of black smoke rising from the direction of Arrowhaven.
~ + ~
The Warhorse Inn was but a pile of black smouldering ash and stone. He had seen people running from the inn earlier as he observed from a distance but now, as he stood nearby, the slightest hint of charred flesh told him that not all had escaped the clutches of the blaze. And he said a small prayer.
There were guards of the constabulary, keeping curious folks away from the rubble, but they did not notice the cloaked figure when it slipped past them. They ought to be trained better.
Making his way carefully around the blackened building, the ranger cast his keen eyes at the scene before him. As the signs of the fire lead him towards the cellar, he began to see other tell-tale signs of something that troubled him more.
There were the obvious tracks one would see at an inn, of those people who would walk to-and-fro the cellar and such. But there was one, one set of tracks that were completely out of place. And the fact that whoever they belonged to had tried to cover their tracks.
The tracks led away from the Inn, but not towards the village. The ranger crouched low as he ran his hands through the small patch where he noticed the tracks. Bringing his hand up to his nose, he took a small whiff. More of an ingrained action, as he knew the smell of smoke would mask any scents that his human nose could catch.
There’s no time, he mused to himself. Again taking care not to be seen by the guards, he slipped past them and, when he was out of sight, ran to his horse whom he had left on the borders of the village, out of sight. He needed to move, and fast.
* * * * * * *
Suldal shook his head lightly as he felt the first few drops of rain, bringing Gilvendir’s attention back to the present. A small frown folding itself into the man’s brow.
Weather did not normally bother the Ranger, in-fact he would welcome it on most days. This day, however, was not like most days. He was on the hunt, tracking down his prey. Whoever the tracks belonged to, had some connection with the burning of The Warhorse Inn.
‘Let’s pick up the pace, I don’t want to lose these tracks to the rain,’ said the rider, as he spurred his horse into a canter, taking them straight to the barren rolling landscape of the Lone Lands.
