Small forests covered the valleys of Nan Amlug, but the hilltops laid windswept and bare. Linglorel wondered if it was the Dwarves who had cut down so many trees from here. She sometimes feared that they would cut down all the trees in Middle-earth! But she and her companions came here on a merchant bussines, and it turned out that danger here is greater than just a merchants who wanted to deceive them... Linglorel raised her head, her blue eyes scanning the trampled foliage. The monsters path would be easy to follow. The feet that had made it were careless and clumsy. Wood Elf had not walked far before she realized that this particular evil walked in more than one pair of boots. Creature path soon converged with that of another. And soon after, the pair of footprints was swallowed in a broad swath of bruised and trampled foliage. The scouts were right. A large group of Orcs did travel these lands.
The elven huntress dropped to one knee to study the trail. Many had passed by, too many. Frightened now, she put an ear to the ground. The sound that came to her was like that of distant thunder. The Elf leaped to her feet and climbed nimbly into the branches of an ancient beech, as she did in her homeland in Mirkwood. From this tree she moved to another, and then another, tracking the enemies from above. Her eyes were keen, and she moved nearly as fast among the trees as she could while on the ground. Soon she had them in her sight. There were thirty of them, perhaps more, vile Orcs, Wargs... and Dwarves. Dourhands. Thordralin had told her about them once. A fallen dwarven clan, where poverty and dishonour bred within them a great greed and lust for power. They turned their backs on the Free Peoples of Middle-earth and rebelled against the rightful rule of Durin's Folk. All of them were armed far past the demands of a hunt, and they plodded on with grim determination on a direct path toward Othrikar. Linglorel's heart clenched. She guessed how much pain she would cause with this news in the hearts of Frimsi, Thordralin and Hannar. Nothing hurts like betrayal.
The lands inhabited by the Elves were protected by their powers, but here the Dwarves had to fend for themselves. Linglorel's own magic was no great thing, and it focused mostly upon simple matters: a special bond with the forest's creatures and trees, a knowledge of herbs and healing, a love of music and dance. None of these things would serve now, except, perhaps, her skill for the hunt. The elf maiden was tempted to send a small storm of arrows down upon the group. She had a quiver full of fine aspen arrows, surely she could bring down some of them before they managed to pull her from her tree.
But then what? And what would become of the Dwarves and her companions when this group of vile creatures came upon them unannounced? With difficulty Linglorel stayed her hand. Setting her jaw in determination, she sped lightly through the treetops to do as duty bid. They still have time to prepare for the defense. The city walls were thick and high. Dwarves were brave warriors. They had to win. Yet there was in her heart a certain pride that it was she who would sound the alarm.
And so it was that Linglorel's spirit was bright with hope and excitement, despite the danger that trod grimly toward Nan Amlug.
