A/N: Hello! I'm alive! Did you miss me? Did you get that reference? I'm going to force feed you some spiel now, rather than at the end, because I have some important things to say. Skip if you're not interested, by all means.

So, first things first, I'm sorry. Please accept my grovelling apology. I'm not even going to check how long it's been, coz I'd just feel guilty. It's just been a combination of severe writer's block, exams, inexcusable apathy and far too many (unfinished and unpublished) stories on the go for my own good, but now I'm back, as is Lathron, and I'm gonna try and get this ball rolling again.

I actually started this chapter right after the last, but obviously it's taken months to finish, so if it feels a little disjointed in places, that's why. I have tried to proofread. It is a bit longer than some of my others, so I guess that's a bonus maybe?

Anyway, enough of me, back to Lathron. Just in case you'd forgotten (I had), he was heading after a missing ambassador with a new, sassy, horse (not called Jean Kirschtein). The Goblins are in league with the Dwarves, and war is brewing...

Lathron galloped a good way north from the vineyard before he realised that he could barely keep his eyes open. He knew Men often assumed Elves didn't sleep, but while it was true that they often slept in snatches, or dozed while seemingly awake, they could and would sleep when necessary, and right now, he was exhausted. Caranfîn, too, was flagging, the excitement of the night's events having worn off.

Luckily, Lathron was used to sleeping rough. He found a thick stand of spruces to shelter him from the wind and laid his cloak out under them. He had no rope to tie Caranfîn up, but even after one night he trusted the horse not to bolt; she had shown herself to be brave and trustworthy, and had already rescued him once. He hung her tack on a tree so that she would be comfortable in the night, but by then his own need for sleep was almost overwhelming.

As he lay down and closed his eyes, thoughts flitted through his drowsy mind. Avorthal had been taken by the Dourhands - by Fírndall. Where? Lathron hadn't followed the road on his journey south, and didn't know this part of the Ered Luin at all. Then he remembered something from the conversation earlier: Avorthal had been the ambassador to Gondamon, a Dwarven settlement. Cardavor had seemed to oppose the union - maybe the Dwarves of Gondamon felt the same way. If so, it wouldn't have been difficult for Fírndall and his Dourhand followers to tip them over the edge of dislike into outright hostility.

Not for the first time, Lathron wondered if Fírndall was acting alone. He'd seemed outraged at Ivar's actions involving Skorgrím (if such a creature could still be called Skorgrím), but Lathron wasn't convinced that the Dwarf could organise a scheme such as this - especially with Goblins, who were notoriously fickle - on his own in so short a time. Skorgrím, or what appeared to be Skorgrím, would certainly be useful in inspiring loyalty in fellow Dourhands, and fear in everyone else, although it was clear that Ivar would hold the real power in such an arrangement, and Lathron wasn't convinced Fírndall would consent to that, either. Perhaps there was a third party in this plan? Lathron remembered his dream at the camp in Thorin's Gate: three figures, dark and terrible. He thought he could guess two of them now, but who was the third?

He drifted into sleep with the thoughts still spinning in his mind, and woke after far too short a time aching and unrefreshed. The sun had barely risen, and what little light there was in the grey sky was dimmed further by a mist that had drifted down from the highlands during the night. Lathron yawned and shivered as he stood in the cold, damp air, grateful of his warm clothes and thick cloak. He pulled his hood up against the cold and the damp.

Caranfîn was less well off, though; dew beaded her coat and had turned her russet mane sodden. Lathron saddled her and mounted her quickly, knowing that the best way for both of them to warm up would be to get moving. He set off at a walk, urging Caranfîn up to a trot when he judged her warm enough. By then, the sun's pale disc was faintly visible through the drifting mist.

The road had been sparsely paved closer to the Elven settlements - smooth, rounded cobbles set into cropped turf, more to mark the way than provide any stable surface to walk on. Now, however, the cobbles had been replaced by flat, even flagstones, cunningly fitted so that no grass or moss could grow between them. At regular intervals along the roadside, small stone obelisks had been placed - to act as markers for when the snow lay thick, Lathron presumed. The architecture had every hallmark of Dwarven craftsmanship, and Lathron guessed he must be approaching Dwarf-controlled lands.

He loosened his knife in his sheath. No harm in being cautious.

Ahead, a fork in the road materialised slowly out of the mist, a milestone at its head. Lathron dismounted to read it. The right fork, apparently, led to somewhere called Keledhûl, while the left was signed for a number of places, among them Gondamon. He sighed; all the names were Dwarvish. Avorthal could be anywhere, even Thorin's Hall. He decided that Gondamon was his best lead for the moment though.

He set off down the left hand fork. It climbed slowly, curving slightly to the north, but he had not gone far when he came across a track on his left, winding back south into the trees. He peered down it, and was surprised to see what appeared to be lighted windows through the mist, and smell the scent of woodsmoke. Was it his imagination, or was there the faint scent of cooking meat on the air too? Could this be an inn, out in the woods? He was still close to the Elven lands after all. His stomach rumbled; he'd set off without breakfast, as had Caranfîn, come to think of it, and the thought of roast meat and a warm fire on such a grim morning was highly tempting.

Caranfîn made up his mind for him; she nickered excitedly and headed up the track. It twisted and turned through pine trees and between mossy banks up to a long, low cabin nestled in the woods. Lathron dismounted in the yard, and led Caranfîn over to a small shed where another horse was already tied. The two animals nickered and sniffed at each other in greeting and Lathron left them to it, and the oats that had been laid out in a trough. Whoever owned the cabin, they certainly seemed friendly.

A number of furs had been hung over the doorframe - fox, rabbit and pine marten - and Lathron guessed the building must be a hunting lodge. His sort of folk, then. He heard the sound of chatter from inside, and caught the definite scent of roasting meat. His belly tightened, and he walked in.

More than a dozen gruff, bearded faces simultaneously looked around and scowled at him, and all the chatter went quiet.

Lathron cursed himself silently. Of course! Who else had he thought would build a hunting lodge in this part of the Ered Luin? There was nothing else to do now, though - he stepped in, and let the door swing shut behind him. The Dwarves' eyes never left him as he sidled over to a chair at a table in the corner and sat down.

The lodge was full of trophies. They hung all over the walls, and stood in the corners: deer, bears, wolves, wolverines and hawks. A large firepit ran down the centre, over which two Dwarves were slowly turning a huge haunch of venison. The rest of the Dwarves were seated at tables around the room... and still staring at him.

The silence was so thick Lathron thought he might have been able to draw his knife and cut it. "Morning," he greeted the room in general, in an attempt to ease the tension.

There were a few grunts, but otherwise the Dwarves stayed silent. A few at least turned back to their tables and whatever they were doing.

"What do ye want?" A particularly grizzled Dwarf sitting near the fire called to him. Lathron noticed his arms were crisscrossed with scars. Then he saw that the Dwarf had a lynx seated on the floor next to him, and he was scratching its scruff. The cat stared at Lathron suspiciously through narrowed green eyes.

"I was hoping I might be able to find some breakfast," Lathron admitted; there was no point beating about the bush. "Am I in luck?"

"Might be," the Dwarf growled. The lynx flicked its ear. "Depends what yer business in these parts is."

Lathron tried to think of an adequate response. He couldn't very well say, 'I'm heading to your leader to accuse him of kidnapping, conspiring with Goblins and provoking war,' and yet he couldn't say nothing. Finally, he settled on part of the truth. "I'm a hunter. I was searching for game in these woods and I came across your cabin. I'm very sorry if I've caused offence."

The Dwarf exchanged inscrutable glances with those nearest to him. Finally, he grunted noncommittally. "Alright, ye' can have some food."

"My thanks." Lathron bowed his head gratefully. The gesture seemed to satisfy the rest of the Dwarves, and one by one they turned back to their business, and the conversation began to swell again. The lynx closed its eyes, apparently satisfied too. Lathron heaved a sigh of relief and sat back in his chair.

"Well handled, sir, although if you don't mind me saying, the mask and hood don't help."

Lathron started; he'd been focussed so much on the Dwarves that he hadn't noticed the person at the next table. He wasn't a Dwarf, or even an Elf, but a Man, and he was looking at Lathron with an amused smile on his face.

"The mask is... better than the alternative," Lathron remarked, eyeing the man up and down. He was tall, thin and ragged, with dull, travel-worn clothes, a longsword and knife attached to his belt and a bow and quiver leaning against the wall beside him. Lathron supposed he must be a ranger of some sort.

The ranger, whoever he was, laughed, seeming to see Lathron's comment as a joke. Lathron didn't bother to correct him.

"I have to say I don't recognise you," the ranger continued. "Are you a new recruit? And what brings you so far from Esteldín in that case?"

Lathron was perplexed. "New recruit? Esteldín? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"Oh," the man clapped a hand to his forehead. "How silly of me. I'm sorry, I assumed you were one of us. The clothes, you see. Well, if you're not a ranger, then who are you? You may be hunting, but not for game, whatever you told old Thrasi."

"Would that be the madman with the lynx?"

"It would be, yes." The ranger smirked.

"I am on a hunt, of sorts," admitted Lathron, deciding he'd find out a bit more about this Man before he revealed his true purpose. "More I cannot say."

"Have it your way then," the ranger chuckled. "I can respect a need for secrecy. At least tell me your name, though. Mine's Langlas, and I'm a ranger of the north, as you know by now."

"I am Lathron," Lathron told him in turn, pulling his hood down for the first time now he was inside. As he did so, Langlas' eyes widened, and the ranger leaned forward in his chair.

"You're an Elf?" he exclaimed in surprise, then began to laugh. "Oh dear! Please forgive me!"

"What for?" Lathron asked, bemused.

"I mistook you for a Man! You'd think that, being one, I'd be able to tell better than that!"

"Oh," Lathron smiled behind his mask and nodded. "Don't worry; it's happened often enough before. People seem to assume all Elves are graceful and fair-haired."

"They do at that, yes. Forgive me, it's not often the likes of me get to meet the likes of you, and I've been posted in the Ered Luin for nearly five years."

"Posted? What do you do out here? There're no Human settlements this far west, are there?"

"No, there aren't," Langlas agreed, "but as a ranger, it's my duty to protect the lands of the Free Peoples, and five years ago, folk back home had started to get worried about the goings on over here. I was just out of training, and eager for adventure, so I took on the job. If you'll pardon my saying so, though," he leaned in conspiratorially, "so far it's mostly been a lot of bickering Dwarves, and occasionally some bickering Elves."

Lathron smirked. "I can well imagine. I'll be the first to admit we don't get on, but you've been lax recently, if you think it's all been bickering Dwarves. I was up at Thorin's Hall during the winter; things are happening, Langlas. Dark things."

"Aye, that's what I've been hearing. I also heard someone kicked out those backstabbing Dourhand scum from the Hall once and for all. It's been long enough, if you ask me. Was that you?"

"Some others and I." Lathron eyed the Dwarves around them cautiously. "Are you sure it's safe to talk like that here?"

"Of course," Langlas waved a hand. "This lot are Longbeards: Durin's folk, born and bred. They hate Dourhands more than anyone else. You've nothing to fear from them."

'I'll be the judge of that', Lathron thought; he was still getting some strange looks from the others in the lodge. Out loud, he said, "I'll keep it in mind."

A Dwarf walked over then, carrying two plates with steaming slices of venison, tomatoes and eggs, and two mugs of ale. "Here y'are Langlas," he said with gruff cheerfulness, setting a plate and mug down before the ranger. "Oh, and, er, yer friend," he added uncertainly, placing the second meal before Lathron.

"Cheers as always, Dorrin," Langlas thanked him, setting to work on the venison at once.

"Aye, thank you." Lathron added, thinking he might at least try and be friendly. He had no intention of eating in here. His appetite had all but gone and there were… other complications.

The Dwarf nodded and headed back to the fire.

"So," said Langlas after several large bites and a quaff of ale, "where are you headed?"

"Gondamon." Lathron saw no harm in telling him his destination. "Can you tell me how far it is?"

"About a mile or so," Langlas waved his hand roughly northwest. "Can't miss it. It'll be on your right, on top of a hill.

"And what do you know of any Elves in the area? There should be a party of emissaries staying in the city."

Langlas scratched his chin. "Now that you mention it, I do recall seeing some Elves in the city last time I was there. And yes, one was the emissary from Celondim: Avorthal."

"Yes, but are they still there?"

"As to that, I've no idea, although I have seen no such party take the road south. They might have headed north, but I cannot see why." Langlas stopped and looked at him thoughtfully. "Someone's gone missing, haven't they?"

Lathron saw no point in denying it now. "Yes."

"It's Avorthal, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you suspect the Dwarves?"

"I don't suspect, I know for a fact."

Langlas shook his head, half in amusement, half in exasperation. "Oh dear. Elves and dwarves living as neighbours in Ered Luin is worse than keeping a lynx kitten and a wolf pup in the same house - and I should know, because Thrasi tried that last winter."

"Watch it," Lathron growled, "I was beginning to like you." If he was honest, though, he knew the ranger had a point

"Ok, ok," Langlas raised his hands in mock surrender, "the Dwarves are responsible. Even so, I'm certain that the folk in Gondamon have nothing to do with it. They're good folk. Their leader, Mathi, has always been welcoming to me whenever I've needed to visit. In fact, I'd advise that you speak to him about Avorthal. He's the one to ask about any goings on in these parts.

"You're a Man, and a ranger. I'm an Elf, and not in a mood to trust anyone. There are forces at work here beyond the malice of Dwarves."

"Again, you speak of dark forces. What happened at Thorin's Hall? What makes you so sure it's the Dwarves? I know I'm a Man, and don't belong in these lands like you Elves and Dwarves, but I swore an oath to my order to uphold peace, and oppose the forces of evil wherever they may be found. That's all I want to do."

"Alright..." Lathron considered for a moment. He decided to start at the beginning. "You know of Skorgrím Dourhand?"

"An old Dwarf King. Died over two hundred years ago. Nasty piece of work. We're well rid of him."

"We were. Do you know of the Gaunt Lords?"

"Who are they? Wait... what do you mean 'were'?"

"Just that. We were well rid of Skorgrím. He has returned, or at least, his body has, resurrected as a Wight in service to the Gaunt Lord Ivar the Bloodhand."

"Necromancy? Here?" Langlas looked horrified. "Who is this Ivar?"

"A sorcerer from Angmar. He was believed to have died long ago, when the Witch King fell."

"And they're still in the Ered Luin?"

"As far as I know. There's also a Dourhand captain, Fírndall." Just saying the name made the skin of Lathron's face crawl. "I don't know whether or not he's in league with Ivar and Skorgrím, but whether he has allies, or is working alone, you can be sure he's doing something. The Goblins are amassing among the foothills. I went to one of their camps, and spoke with their leader. He told me under threat of death that Fírndall and the Dwarves had taken Avorthal."

"But not where?"

"He wasn't forthcoming on that detail."

"A Goblin brave enough to withstand death threats? I'm impressed."

"Not exactly. He bored me." Lathron fingered a sword pommel idly.

"Oh." Was that wariness in Langlas' eyes? The possibility pleased Lathron more than it perhaps should have. "I see your concern," the ranger continued. "Wights. Angmar. He shook his head slowly. "I thought the Ered Luin was free from such things. A few mad Dwarves and Goblins I can handle, but sorcery..."

"I'm not asking you to fight."

"Of course not, but if things are the way you say, that's not up to you or me." Langlas sat thoughtfully for a minute. Lathron took the opportunity to look around the room. The Dwarves had all completely lost interest in him, and were laughing and chattering as if they were at an inn, not a hunting lodge in the middle of the Ered Luin.

"I'll tell you what," Langlas said abruptly, "I'll keep an eye and ear out for news of Avorthal, and maybe I'll hear something about what else the Dourhands or Goblins are up to. If I were to put my money on anything, though, it would be that they're based in Rath Teraig."

Lathron remembered Brethilwen using the name the day before. "That's a valley where the Goblins camp, isn't it?"

"Aye, although they've been lying low for a good while. We thought they might have left. It's just south of Gondamon, so if the Goblins are planning anything, that's the place an army will hit first, and if they do, let me know, and I'll come to help."

"I thank you for the advice, and the company." Lathron stood. "I think I'd better be going."

"Aren't you going to finish that?" Langlas gestured to his untouched breakfast.

"Not here." Lathron didn't feel like launching into an explanation. He didn't need the ranger's sympathy. "I prefer to eat on the road."

"Ah, Elves. I'll never understand you." The ranger rose and offered a hand. Lathron shook it. "I wish you luck in your search," Langlas smiled. "Stop by if you're passing through; you'll likely find me here, and it may be I'll have some news for you."

"Thanks again. Na lû e-govaned vîn."

Langlas nodded. Apparently he wasn't as unlearned in the ways of Elves as he made out. "And to you."

Lathron took the plate with him as he left, and leant against the wall outside. He looked around and, satisfied that no-one was about, finally lowered his scarf and set to work eating his breakfast. He was ravenous by this point, but the thought of showing his face in front of all those Dwarves... He'd leave the plate outside. Let them wonder.

The venison was good; tender and juicy. He thought it might have been cooked in ale. The eggs were well done too. Perhaps he had some things to thank Dwarves for.

Yes, plenty, he thought, scratching his jaw.

There was a rattle beside him, and he jumped. To his surprise, the lynx had just pushed its way through a flap in the door, and was squatting next to him, staring up with intense green eyes. It made him uncomfortably self-conscious, and instinctively, he reached for his scarf. It's just a cat, he told himself angrily.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

The creature flicked an ear. Its gaze never wavered.

"The food's mine," he told it sternly.

The lynx arched its back and yawned widely, showing sharp fangs.

"Oh, alright," Lathron growled, liking the animal less and less. He tossed it the last scrap of venison.

The lynx eyed the meat suspiciously, then glared evilly at him.

Lathron was seriously considering gutting the animal by this point. "What?" he hissed.

The lynx yowled, its eyes fixed on his plate. Suddenly Lathron understood. "Oh. A guard cat, are we?" He tossed it the empty plate. It caught it in its jaws, gave a flick of its short tail, and slunk back inside.

Lathron shook his head after it. Whatever next?

Caranfîn proved to be a much more agreeable animal companion when he walked up and led her out of the stable. She nickered affectionately and pawed the ground eager to be off. They set off at a trot, heading west once they reached the main road.

The sun's warmth had cleared the morning mist, and the damp evergreen trees glistened in the mid-morning light. There was a bite in the air, though - unseasonable, Lathron thought, shivering a little. Beyond the trees, the higher central peaks of the mountains were wreathed in lowering cloud.

The road grew steeper, narrower and more winding the further they went, finally levelling out between two high banks. They appeared to be travelling through a sort of pass.

On the other side, the vista opened out onto a wide plateau, sparsely dotted with trees, except for dense woodland to the north. The dominant feature was a hill in the centre, crowned by a fortified city. Compact, square and high-walled, it was clearly Dwarven in origin; Lathron supposed this had to be Gondamon.

As they left the pass, he heard a swish of wings and turned to look. An eagle had just alighted on a branch a few hundred metres away, and he smiled at the sight.

After a second look, his smile vanished. The bird was no eagle at all, but a hawk as big as one: a hendroval. He wondered if it had masters nearby. It was very likely.

He tried to reach surreptitiously for his bow, but the bird soared off into the trees as soon as he raised his hand. He'd half expected it to, but nevertheless, he felt a twinge of unease. Who knew how long he'd been being watched?

The rest of the ride to Gondamon went without incident. As he made his way up the switchback slope to the southern gate, he couldn't help but be a little impressed at the towering, sheer walls above him. The city had been built with defence in mind, and defence alone.

A pair of guards stood either side of the gateway, holding poleaxes, which they hefted to attention as he approached. "Name and business," one shouted brusquely.

"Lathron; hunter," Lathron answered, staring at the one who'd spoken with just enough intensity to unsettle, but not enough to be rude. It was a look he'd taken trouble to perfect over the years.

It didn't fail him now. The Dwarf looked away. "Alright, go on in."

"Thank you," Lathron said, trying not to sound smug. It was difficult.

He found himself in a square courtyard bordered by shops and stables. On his right, flights of steps led up to a series of platforms that held the houses and other buildings in the city. He presumed there would be even more below ground.

The courtyard was bustling, but everyone was about their business, and no one spared a glance for him as he led Caranfîn over to a stable and tied her up. She didn't appear too happy with her stall-mate, though; a huge adult auroch locked in an iron cage next to her. She snorted at it anxiously.

"Come on, it's only for a short time," Lathron reassured her. The horse shot him a look of what, if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn was disdain.

"I'll come and rescue you soon," Lathron promised, and wandered out into the courtyard. His gaze drifted to the walls - they were an impressive sight - sheer and tall, carved out of seamless stone. Guards were positioned everywhere along them. Guards and one other figure...

He sighed in relief. An Elf!

He hurried up the steps and made his way onto the wall. Up here, there was no crowd to get lost in, and the guards eyed him suspiciously as he passed, although they didn't stop him. The Elf was standing at the north-western corner, gazing out over the plateau.

"Mae govannen," Lathron greeted her, bowing as he approached. She turned in surprise, and smiled courteously.

"Mae govannen," she returned the greeting. "What brings you to such a place as this? Forgive me; I do not think I know you."

"You wouldn't," Lathron assured her. "I am Lathron. I am but newly arrived in this part of the Ered Luin, although I am a friend of Dorongúr Whitethorn's. He has sent me north in search of someone: the ambassador Avorthal."

"I am Gailthin," the Elf introduced herself. She was petite, with shoulder-length black hair and a worried expression. "Looking for Avorthal, you say? I was sent here with him. He left not two days ago with troubling news. Has he not arrived in Celondim?"

"I am afraid not. It appears he was captured by Goblins."

Gailthin looked horrified. "Captured? Goblins? This is terrible! Worse than I thought!"

"It gets worse. The Goblins handed Avorthal over to Dwarves. It appears they are in league."

"Then are we even safe here?" Gailthin eyed the guards around them with apprehension. "We'd found that the Goblins were massing - that was the news Avorthal left with. I must admit, we were not secretive with it. We had not thought the Dwarves might ally with such. Perhaps someone overheard us talking in the city, and organised an ambush."

"It's possible. What else do you know?"

"Well, from what we've seen, the numbers the Goblins have reached in Rath Teraig in the last few weeks are frightening. It's like they're amassing from all across the Ered Luin. I could well believe that the Dwarves are behind it, because Goblins could never organise themselves like this alone. There's a camp of strange Dwarves that we spotted to the north of here - that was the rest of the message Avorthal was to deliver. They're grim looking and geared for war."

"Finding Avorthal is Dorongúr's priority at the moment," Lathron explained. "Have you any idea what the Dwarves might have done with him?"

"Done with who?"

They spun around. A particularly broad, short Dwarf with a forked black beard was marching up, flanked by two of the guards. They'd evidently aroused some suspicion.

"Lord Mathi, greetings," Gailthin bowed to the Dwarf.

Mathi was having none of it. "Who are you?" he barked, "and what business have you, coming into my city and accusing me of 'doing things' with people?"

"Lathron of Lindon." Lathron drew himself up. He wasn't about to let himself be intimidated by this Dwarf. "I have been sent by Cardavor and Dorungúr Whitethorn in search of Cardavor's son, Avorthal. You wouldn't happen to know where he's gone, would you?"

"And what if I did?" A dangerous note was creeping into Mathi's voice. His guards hefted their axes and scowled.

"I would have to advise you to give him up, or else prepare for war. Cardavor is not pleased at his son's disappearance, I can tell you. You don't want Celondim and Duillond as your enemies."

"Are you threatening me?" Mathi growled. "This is an outrage! Unthinkable!" How dare you come into my city unbidden, and accuse me of kidnapping and warmongering? You think I don't have enough trouble as it is? You think I would want to kidnap your bloody ambassador? I have Dourhands camping in my lands, and Goblins raiding my farms, and you think I want war?!"

Lathron stepped back involuntarily; the Dwarf's righteous fury was unrelenting. "My apologies, Lord Mathi. I did not mean to threaten..."

"Did you not?" Mathi sniffed, in a tone that stated his disbelief plainly. "And I did not mean to grow angry. Perhaps we ought not to jump to conclusions, eh Elf?" He offered a thick hand, and Lathron shook it, not failing to notice that the Dwarf's grip was slightly firmer than was necessary.

Lathron introduced himself again, and explained the situation somewhat warily to the Dwarf. Mathi's scowl only grew heavier the more he heard, although Lathron sensed it was now not directed at him.

To his surprise and relief, however, Mathi smiled grimly when he had finished. "You see what a bit of politeness does for you Elf? Had you come to me at once, I could have told you that a group of Dourhands passed to the south not two days ago. My scouts followed them until they headed down into your lands. Then they returned, with an Elf, and headed east to Keledhûl. So, it would seem that your ambassador is to be shipped off from the docks."

"Then there is no time to lose!" Lathron exclaimed, making to rush off. "The Dwarves could have left already!"

Mathi laughed. "Relax, Elf. I have scouts out. If a ship had entered or left the harbour, they would have sent a raven. By all means, go tonight, but there's no need to rush off now."

Lathron stayed where he was, smarting inwardly at being ordered around by the Dwarf, but he realised Mathi had a point. He hadn't even got a plan, and it was daytime. "Very well, I shall stay here for now, but I leave at sunset."

"Of course," Mathi nodded. "You're… ah… welcome to stay here until then." He fixed Lathron with a steely gaze. "Just try not to cause any trouble."

'There's no need,' Lathron thought as Mathi turned and stalked away. 'Trouble seems to find me.'

Na lû e-govaned vîn:Until next we meet.