The howl of the flying wolves makes all the refugees in the group Feanor was escorting wince and duck the moment they hear it. It's a split-second decision for him. This group is smaller than the previous one, mainly women and the elderly, but if they don't attract too much attention, they should be fine on their own.

"We cleared the path on the previous climb but do not tarry."

It seems the goblins are busier down below. That's why he can't stay. He runs down as if the whole goblin army was behind him not in front, trusting only in the superb agility of his kind not to break his neck on the slippery road. There are more people fleeing upwards. One group, second, third. He still doesn't see his son so he picks up the pace leaving all that he passes in awe not only by his speed but more by the fact that he's running towards the danger and not away.

Then he sees him. Curufin manages to avoid first wolf and its rider, sending the hideous creatures down with a slash of his sword but there's another pair one just behind the first.
Feanor too has a sword, borrowed from an old man who regaled him for most of the climb with stories of his adventurous youth. Only his one is broken. The weapon is not of elven make and Feanor realized a little too late that swords made by humans require a lighter hand. Still, it's a good sword and it would be a waste to discard it. He has some hope there would be a place where he could reforge it later.
Right now it's nearly useless. It would be better if he had a spear or a bow but he has none. Only a hammer he picked up earlier.

So that's what he hurls at the diving goblin. He's got good aim so the hammer hits the creature squarely in the chest sending it falling limp to the ground. Dead or unconscious, doesn't matter, no longer a danger.