[Elora]

Uien

At the sound of a boot scraping on stone, a tall man whirled. The harsh sound of steel being drawn accompanied his action. When he saw that it was his scout, he slammed his sword home and impatiently waved him forward.

"What do you have," he asked of the other man in voice that rasped in the night. Around him, the other men had stilled, their snatches of conversation falling silent at the return of the scout.

"They are half a mile south west of Deadman's Dike. A group of nine, mostly Elven women and Hobbits. Three were of the race of Men. Only a small number were armed. They have made camp for the night and are easily seen for their fire."

The scouts report came swift, and his news was good. Flashes of white teeth in the moonlight night gleamed amongst the dozen men that listened eagerly. The man to whom the scout reported fingered the hilt of his sword in contemplation.

"Half mile south-west," he repeated softly.

"We could take them tonight," another said. The grim chuckling of the men about him confirmed that he was not the only one with an appetite for some sport. The scout crouched and began to sketch out the location of the party of mostly defenceless Elves, Hobbits and Men. As he did so, the others fell to speculating on how much of a fight would be had.

"Elves are fierce, filthy fighters I've heard it told."
"The Hobbits give good chase too. There were two on Pelennor Fields, they said."
"Wonder if they're tarks, those others."

Their leader scrutinised the map drawn in the earth between stones deep in Fornost's ruins. An easy mark, probably some sort of adventuring tour. They could be easily dealt with, and any risk that they saw too much or brought more serious problems back would be removed. Besides, the men are bored. There's been nothing since that fool from Rohan.

"We'll move in two groups," he announced and once again his men fell silent. They strained to take in the orders for this nighttime diversion.

With the precision of a man long accustomed to ordering men in the field, he set out who would go on foot and who would be mounted, their route and the tactics for the attack.

"Prisoners," one man asked when it was done. Their commader paused a fraction of a moment and then flashed a broad smile that gleamed.

"None," he replied succinctly. Those around leapt to the tasks before them. Before an hour had elapsed since the scouts return, they were off. The half moon created a wealth of shifting shadows which they exploited with cunning as they made their way from the heart of Fornost's ruins towards the party. To them lay the mastery of this land, for they had been preying upon it's bounty for some time now. They knew every rise, every dip, every curve of the land and they hugged them with the stealth of men accustomed to attacks in the wild.

For a while, they wove through the tangle of broken walls and stones that had become Deadman's Dike. Unerring, they found their way through the dead ends and twisting turns to emerge into position. Then, with the silence of a fell wolf pack on the hunt, men splayed out around the beacon that was the fire of the camp the scout had been tracking at distance.

Swords had been drawn well before they fell into position, blades dark with blood spilt in the past, some notched with heavy blows of those few who could fight back. They sank into waiting, watching their quarry move about the camp. Horses were tethered to one side. They'd be welcome prizes. Hobbits lounged by the fire. Noone watched yet, for the camp had not put in for the night. Some sat in small groups, twos and threes, talking quietly in the night.

Easy sport, a welcome diversion to soothe bored men that were dangerous at their most disciplined. When the distinctive cry of a carrion bird that frequented the wilds was heard, the men on foot sprang into action. Screaming foul curses in a dark tongue that arose amongst men long ago, they fell upon the camp. The harsh loud cawing of a crow rose as a bird shot skywards in a black flutter of wings.

They ran into the reach of the fire light as the group drew in on each other, milling about in panicked chaos. The sudden appearance as if from the very night itself, of men dressed coarsely, naked and lethal swords and daggers clutched, fell words of death falling from their snarling lips, was as though a nightmare was brought to life.

Inexorably they advanced from all sides, intent on their sport and death in their cold eyes. At the sound of wild and dischordant shouts, Uien straightened in alarm. She turned in the direction of the noise, eyes wide in her face. Attack, she thought as her heart began to pound.

"Falowik," she moaned in anguish. Uien whirled, light feet running back through the stones she had wandered through. The thought of Falowik under attack leant her a speed that rivalled the wind, her mind intent on one thing alone. She would not be separated from her beloved as she had been from her family.

Her boots came to a sudden halt when a shadow stepped out from behind the tall lintel stone she had listened to first.

"Well now, what have we here? Do my eyes deceive me," it asked in a voice made ugly by promised violence. The shadow stepped forward, free of the stone and Uien saw that it was a man, a sword in his hand.

"My very own Elf, all to myself, " he said. Horror dawned in Uien's mind. She made no reply. She knew the notes of threat in his voice. She had heard them before. Without a cry, Uien turned and sprinted back into the rocks. The heavy fall of his boots sounded behind her.

"No," Uien whispered, falling into her first language. "Not this again." She twisted and turned, seeking always to elude. His pursuit was dogged though, and he took to crooning to her as he hunted her through Fornost.

"That's it, my pretty, run. I'll find you." Uien whipped in a sudden turn to her right, catching her arm, sleeve and hair upon the rough surface of the stone she darted around. In a flash of terror, it was as thought an orc's cold claws scraped past. She could hear his breathing.

"No, not again. Ai, Laurëatan!"

Deeper and deeper into Fornost Uien ran, desperately trying to out run her armed pursuer and the promise of new torment at his hands. Deeper and deeper into memories so dark that they reached to trip her, snare her, she also ran. Headlong into a hell that she had left behind beneath Caradhras. The stones became caverns, the Man became a large, brutish orc, and death seemed inevitable. Around her, though Uien did not heed them now, the stones sighed as new evil unfolded before them and evoked the grief of evils past.