[Kransha]

The day after the night raid passed slowly and groggily, despite turmoil in the camp. Confusion abounded, but a very lazy sort of confusion in which no one wished to be energetically bewildered, merely tired and unknowing. Word of the Elves’ departure quickly spread, but none seemed to object. Though knowledge of the orc break-in was a douse of realism to the train, it was not disheartening. After days of sleepless traveled, all that most cared about was that they had not been harmed by the orcs, and that the orcs were gone.

Hírvegil organized a small detachment of tracking Dúnedain from the unit Belegorn had arranged and sent them to do what he’d told Faerim they would – follow the Elves. They were to keep far away and strictly avoid contact with the Elves, unless they encountered the orc host. Based on the signals he hoped Faerim would give, their actions would be determined at a later date, and would, hopefully, not involve the other Dúnedain further. The worst possibility would be the loss of all Elves and the trackers, the best being the safe rescue and arrival of the Elves at the camp again – it was impossibly to foresee which was more likely to occur. The Dúnedain rangers were resigned to this stealthy task and, under the command of a minor commissioned officer, left the camp on the still-burning tail of the Elves and their idiosyncratic companion.

Now they’re seemed to be a layering of knowledge in the camp. Some had no idea what had happened, some knew only that the Elves had been kidnapped, some knew Hírvegil had sent out rangers, and some knew almost everything about what had transpired through spreading gossip. Hírvegil prayed that most knew less about his plans than he did, though some seemed to know more. To his chagrin, Hírvegil discovered that the counselor Mitharan had found out most of the happenings of the day when he came for the second time into Hírvegil’s tent. The rustle of leathery tent flap awoke the Captain from an unsteady slumber, one he sorely needed, and caused him to sit bolt upright in alarm. His shoulders, arched like the hairs on a cat’s back, sagged and relaxed when he saw the visage of the lord, but he was filled with consternation.

“The Elves are gone?” questioned Mitharan plainly. Hírvegil sighed again and spoke, his voice indistinct in the moments after waking. “Yes,” he coughed, “their impatience could not be helped.” Mitharan’s hasty air settled, and he slowed the pace of his words and breath, stabilizing. He paced nobly about the tent as Hírvegil rose from his bed, wishing he could remain in it for once. Mitharan’s question came in a stabbing manner that annoyed Hírvegil, but its bluntness could not be helped. “You did send some soldiery with them, did you not?” he intoned, less as a question and more as an accusation. Mitharan was not a caustic, sardonic creature like his unrelated kinsman Mellonar, but he was obviously displeased.

“Not with them;” groaned Hírvegil, brushing a couple of loose hair strands out of his eyes, “behind them.” Mitharan either did not comprehend this, or he was beating around the bush. “Dúnedain may not have the swiftness of the Eldar,” he said, “but that is no reason-” Sternly, Hírvegil interrupted, pleading with invisible forces to end this uncomfortable conversation. “Lord Mitharan, they departed too hastily to assign a unit to them. There was nothing I could do.”

Mitharan looked indifferent. “You could have been more decisive, Captain.”

“I’m sure I could have, but, alas, I was not. What’s done is done.”

The counselor never became louder or more aggressive, but his words became more stinging in time. “What’s done is the alliance between His Majesty and the Firstborn by your negligence. Captain Hírvegil, I respect your abilities, but this matter cannot be dismissed as it has been. If you knew the Elves were going to depart unaided, you should’ve detained them. Now we risk losing all the Elves when some could’ve been saved.” He spoke directly to Hírvegil, a strange trait for a politician. Most counselors Hírvegil knew would speak their petty woes to the universe rather than to one, insignificant man, dramatically stroking their own egos. Mitharan was, at least, slightly different from all of them. Hírvegil tried to pacify the lord. “At this stage,” he said, “I do not believe anything can be done.”

“I was taught, Captain,” Mitharan continued, unheeding of Hírvegil’s words for the moment, “that something can always be done, even if it is not the something that will induce a desirable result. I suggest you try to remedy this matter in what way you can. If nothing comes to you, I will not persist, but the King will know of it, if not by my word then by the lack of Elves in this camp. I bid you good day, Captain Hírvegil.” With a very meager bow to the Captain, Mitharan whisked himself like a regal gust of wind out of Captain Hírvegil’s roomy tent.

As Mitharan departed, Hírvegil fell back on his bedroll for the fifth or sixth time that same day, heaving a heavy sigh from his weary throat. He rasped and let himself cough once, then returned to breathing steadily. Mitharan was right in more ways than one, and his passive objection struck Hírvegil hard as he realized his mistake, one of many he’d made. He contemplated a new course of action, but none presented itself. The only recourse available was to try to figure out what the Elves were planning so that he could send word to his trackers to outmaneuver them. With a somber look on his cold face, he ushered in the guard who’d stood at the entrance to his tent almost all day and spook quickly to him. “That boy;” he said, “Faerim, does he have family in the camp?”

The guard hesitated, and then nodded readily. “Yes, sir. He is the son of Carthor.” Hírvegil’s brow rose at this. He had heard tell of Carthor, the lone survivor of the Arnorian Vanguard who’d been rescued from the ruin of Fornost while all his companions, dead, fleeing, or injured, had eventually expired. “You mean Carthor of the Vanguard?” he inquired curiously to affirm his suspicions, “The survivor?” Again the guard nodded, but after no hesitation. “Yes, that is he.”

Hírvegil let this information sink in in silence, and then spoke up, mouthing his thoughts vocally. “Now that is an interesting development.” He mused, mostly to himself, “Have Faerim or the Elves been seen treating with any others of the Dúnedain?” Again the guard nodded, more steadily though, and with less haste or hesitation. “Just one, sir,” he paused slightly, “a woman.” Again Hírvegil’s curiosity was piqued. He did not think of the Elves as folk who would deliberately interact with any Dúnedain, but perhaps this woman was an acquaintance of Faerim’s. He would soon find out, he supposed, and let the matter rest in him.

“Do you know her?” asked the Captain of the Rearguard, and the guard gave positive response. “Yes, I believe she could be located.” Hírvegil let slip another moment of contemplation, and then spoke up in an orderly fashion. “Very well, have the woman and Carthor brought to my tent. If there are other family members of the boy who went with the Elves, bid them come as well.” He waved his hand dismissively and the guard allowed himself a curt bow and a polite, “Yes, sir.” before he departed the tent.