Chapter Seven: On the Wings of Birds
This was an outrage. He could not believe this was happening to him. No, actually: he could believe it was happening to him. He swore with his anger as he watched the fools he had been lumbered with flit around like headless chickens. They had no idea as to what they looked for, what they were meant to be chasing and bringing down from the treetops. It was winter, for crying out loud, and they still could not see what so clearly stood out to him.
The Orcs, on the other hand, were far better – they could detect where the Elf was with their noses, and the scent of a newborn baby was like practically laying down a trail of fresh blood for hounds to follow. They scrambled at the bowls of trees, agitated by the smells coming to them from above that they were unable to reach.
His horse pounded the snowy ground with his hooves, guided by the push of Gwareth's knees on his ribs. Gwareth himself was searching the great branches above them, his eyes piercing the night like dagger points. His eyes had lost the Elf for a second, the shadows of the Mirkwood trees seemingly swallowing their Elven counterpart in a protective shroud. His frustration mounted another few tall steps as he scoured the canopy until he thought he would scream – but then the trees apparently relinquished their loving embrace of the Elf, and Gwareth found himself staring straight into the eyes of the Elf, who was momentarily pausing. There was desperation in those eyes, a taint of fear as tangible as blood on the tongue in the youthful face. He was panicked by his situation, that much was clear. Gwareth held no doubt that, if it were not for the baby, the Elf could have escaped long ago – or, at least, gone further than he currently had.
The stare did not last, however, as the Elf bolted suddenly in the opposite direction, still shielding the child. Gwareth allowed himself to be temporarily amazed that someone could run through a tree as though they ran a road, but let that moment slip by like a twig caught in the motion of a waterfall. His bow raised, but the trunks of multiple trees stood in the way as the Elf darted through them. Better to not shoot at all than to appear sloppy and hit nothing but wood. He spurred his horse on, bellowing a hunting cry to the pitiful creatures that were his men and pointing to the fleeing Elf with the head of his bow. Finally they saw what they pursued and gave cries of their own, taking off with just discovered vigour and enthusiasm.
Legolas clutched Arathorn to his breast all the tighter for what he just witnessed. His head reeled from the stare he had just shared with his hunter. Never before had he seen such malice and concentrated hate in the eyes - in the soul - of another being. It burned with its intensity, and he could still see the pure triumph that had radiated from the grinning face in his mind. You will both die, the eyes had promised him. A simple message, but one that Legolas found incredibly unnerving…
He did not think about where he was taking them. Blind panic was now completely blotting out any sense of coherent thought that he might be able to rouse in his head. They had nowhere to go. This was one of the few areas of the forest that he was not at all familiar with, and he had not a single clue as to where he was taking them…
The Elf's heart pounded at his ribcage as his feet flew from branch to branch, ever aware of the hunting party below him, the Orcs giving gleeful hunting cries as they scurried between the boughs. Arrows ascended into the night sky, none of them finding their mark – but they were getting closer. Legolas chanced a glance behind and below him, and his heart leapt into his mouth as he realised how close they were to him … particularly their commander, who held his bow artfully, waiting for the opportunity to strike… But the man stopped his horse, and both Orc and Man halted by his side. It was only when Legolas turned to see why they had stopped that he realised that he was about to run right off a cliff. His feet skidded on the frosty bark, and a hand shot out to grasp a neighbouring branch to save himself from a disastrous fall. There were no more trees to run through: all that lay before him was a steep cliff face, with a drop that was easily fifty feet into dense shrub and more trees. When he had recovered his balance, Legolas looked down with mingled fear and horror at his would-be assassin, to be greeted by chorus of mocking laughter.
'What troubles you, Elf? A little less confidant with nowhere else to run?'
'Upon my life,' Legolas retorted, fury trembling in his tone, 'you will have neither this child nor me.'
The man called Gwareth laughed heartily at this statement, reaching to his back to draw another arrow. 'And how, pray tell, are you going to stop me?'
He raised his bow, and Legolas looked straight down the shaft that was destined to bring his fall…
The arrowhead sliced through the air, straight for Legolas's chest…
NO!
He moved just in time – but not quite fast enough. The blade of the projectile clipped his shoulder, sending burning fire through the entire limb. The shock of the pain made his course as he jumped go asunder, and he landed, not on the strong, higher branch slightly above and across from where he already was, but heavily upon the dead and rotting one below his target, silver with age and death. With the sudden force of his impact, there came an ear-splitting snapping, and, though he tried to jump to safety, the branch was already plummeting down the cliff face, taking its breaker down with it.