The first orc that reached them was running so fast that he impaled himself on Rimbaud’s sword. A second one stormed past whilst the Innkeeper pulled his weapon from the fallen body. He whirled to defend his companion only to see the attacker crumple to the ground, black blood gushing from his neck and dripping from Estelyn’s dagger.
Still more orcs came, and one after the other met the fierce edge of their blades. They kept the bodies of the fallen foes between them and their attackers, an obstacle which slowed the orcs’ progress. One particularly large orc climbed over his comrades’ corpses with a huge, curved weapon raised to fall upon Rimbaud, who had turned to cut down another that had stumbled beside him. Yet before his blade met its mark, he collapsed. The hilt of the Princess’ dagger protruded from his abdomen. Rimbaud swerved to one side to avoid being buried under the massive body.
Just when Estelyn thought she could lift her arm no more, the onslaught ceased. She could hear the echoes of heavy-shodden feet coming nearer, though not yet upon them. Her breath came in panting gasps, her arms trembled from the exertion, and her hood had fallen back from her wildly dishevelled curls. She looked toward her companion and saw that his hand was bleeding.
“You are hurt!” she cried out.
“Nay, ‘tis only a scratch,” he replied. “Better to let it bleed, lest there might have been poison upon the weapon.”
“If you indeed have a plan, make haste!” she exclaimed. “Who knows how many foes are yet coming!”
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'Mercy!' cried Gandalf. 'If the giving of information is to be the cure of your inquisitiveness, I shall spend all the rest of my days in answering you. What more do you want to know?' 'The whole history of Middle-earth.. .'
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