He’d marked his northwards trek along the tree line, over stony ridges, down steep valleys swollen with freshets of snowmelt winding noisily through the firs.
A few hawks patrolled high above for a time, but wheeled east seeking better prospects. The boreal forest was silent. No large game found sustenance amidst the rocks and pine needles on the forest floor. Lichens, pine nuts and occasional tufts of mountain grass barely supported some dwarf squirrels.
Aranuir was well stocked. A deer kill several days back had yielded a hefty load of smoked meat. Dried apples and potatoes rounded out the fare.
It had been several uneventful days since he’d crossed the pass. A few more ridges and he’d see the Langwell emerge from the haze of distance. That would be tomorrow.
For now, the sun had fallen behind the Misty Mountains. It was getting chilly in their lengthening shadows. The mountain peaks would soon send a cold mistral to greet the dusk. He needed a campsite for tonight.
He looked across a narrow valley to the next ridge. There was a level spot where two side buttresses came in along the ridge. Room for a small pack tent. He’d fill his water skins in the valley.
Naron lifted his head, testing the air, staring at the campsite half a league away. He turned to Aranuir, a look of caution and concern in his eyes. His right hoof pawed at the ground. Aranuir knew the signals. A wolf had been in the area this day. It might still be.