Part 10

Keeping his eyes on the young man’s sword, Legolas worked on his bonds. “Those whirling flames,” he said, to divert the youth’s attention. “What are they?”

“Some sorcery of your doing, elf.”

Legolas shook his head. “No. I—”

“Sire, look,” said the man’s companion. “I think it might be dying down...”

For a split-second, the young man took his eyes off Legolas.

The elf, his hands free at last, immediately rolled out from under the man’s sword, sprang to his feet, snatched up his white knives and ran, whistling to Arod as he skirted the whirlwind and headed towards the pass where he had last seen Eowyn.

Behind him, he heard the young man curse. Then, “After him, Bors!” he cried.

“Sire?”

Legolas smiled. Bors was clearly not the sharpest knife in the weapons chest.

“I will follow you when I can,” said his Lord

And, as Legolas plunged into the narrow gully, he sensed the hapless Bors following him.

...

By the time the man had caught up with him, Legolas had reached the plain, and found the horses waiting, impatiently. “You could not follow your mistress,” he said, stroking Brightstar’s muzzle, “but you would not leave the place where you last saw her.”

“There are tracks over here,” called Bors. He was leaning forward, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “A woman. She was... Fighting?”

“Yes, she is a fine swordswoman,” said Legolas. He approached the skittish mare, coaxing her with Elvish endearments.

“And there are scorch marks,” said Bors. “It looks like the dragon took her.”

“I know.” Legolas grasped the mare’s bridle. He could sense Eowyn, somewhere to the north, but the impression was faint, and the emotions he was feeling from her were confused—there was anger, as he had expected, but there was also amusement, and gratitude, which he had not...

Then, suddenly, there was a wonderful moment of clarity, when he felt her reach out to him, and their spirits touched. “She is not afraid,” he gasped.

“How do you know?” The man had come up beside him.

“Do you share your Lord’s mistrust of elves, Master Bors?”

“Sir Bors. A knight of Camelot.” The man raked his hand through his hair. “No... Not really.”

“So I can trust you?”

“I suppose so.”

“My name is Legolas.” He placed his hand upon his heart and bowed his head in a formal greeting. “Will you help me rescue my wife, Sir Bors?”

“Your wife...” The man frowned. “I am bound by my oath,” he said, “to rescue a damsel in distress.”

“That is a noble sentiment,” said Legolas.

“And I have orders never to let you out of my sight.”

“Then it is agreed. You will ride Brightstar—he is my wife’s horse—and I shall ride the mare, and we will leave Arod for your Lord. I have no doubt that he will follow us as soon as he is able.”

“He intends to kill you.”

“He may try,” said Legolas, mounting the mare. “But I do not think he will.”

Bors mounted Brightstar. “Where are we going?”

“North,” said Legolas. “That is as much as I know, at present.”

“Well, if I were the dragon,” said Bors, turning the horse’s head, “I would be up there.” He pointed to the hills of Emyn Arnen. “It gives him a good view of the plain, and of the river to the West—for he will need to hunt regularly, and that is the perfect vantage point—and the winds at that height will help him land safely with his prey. Yes, I would wager my inheritance that he has made his nest up there.”