[Novnarwen]

As the battle was joined by the valiant Gondorians, Frôzhal started regretting that he had let Erfâzh in charge. He sighed, hearing Erfâzh ordering the platoon to attack. A number of men rushed past Frôzhal, drawing their swords. The Swerting looked with squinted eyes upon the tower as the sun rose. He froze, getting a glimpse of Gimilzôr; not a very pleasant sight. He lowered his head in order not to be spotted.

Sweat from his forehead started running down his face. He trembled as he saw to of the Haradrim fall, right in front of him. They had both been shot by arrows. Frôzhal made a grimace, disgusted by the colour of the blood. He had never really liked blood. It was the proof of life and he didn't like life either, at this point, however. He was terribly scared of dying, but didn't dare admit it to anyone. Erfâzh had probably figured it by now, Frôzhal thought, seeing his opportunity to run down the slope at the western side of the tower and let the others fight. He looked desperately around, looking after familiar faces. None. He tried to hide his vicious smile, but it appeared nevertheless. He came up on the side of some 'half-fighting' and 'half-standing-waiting-in-queue' Haradrims before sneaking away. It was easier than expected, much easier, but not less satisfying.

He got out of sight in a hurry, still hearing steel against steel and horrified screams as men fell. Frôzhal, safe from all dangers, sat down on a stone and found his knife. He sharpened the knife by running it up and down on the stone. When finished, he held it up and smiled at the reflection of his face. Not too handsome at the moment, as his beard had started showing. He whistled silently before shaving. Quite a pleasant morning, Frôzhal thought for a moment. Even though he could clearly hear the battle taking place not very far away, he enjoyed the time he spent alone. He didn't live a life with luxury anymore. Those times were over. He sighed, trying to think about something else.

Frôzhal felt quite relieved by having Erfâzh as a replacement, but couldn't help feeling slightly insecure about it all. His biggest concern was that he had chosen the wrong man for the job. Frôzhal feared that by choosing him, he had something coming in return. This would not necessarily be good. Erfâzh was not a bad warrior, and when Frôzhal thought about it, the chance of Erfâzh surviving this attack was pretty darn good. He frowned. If he survived, he could tell on Frôzhal. He bit his lip. He just realised that this tactics weren't all that great after all. He should never have chosen Erfâzh. He was too well trained. What had seemed like a satisfying escape and a satisfying morning had turned into Frôzhal's greatest nightmare. But there was nothing he could do about it? Or was there? Frôzhal was in deep thought. He would have to come up with something clever for a change. He uttered a silent prayer, begging for help; council and a sign. He waited..... and waited.... and waited... Nothing happened.

Fear caught him. He had waited for several minutes and nothing had happened! He felt rage swell up in him; blowing him up, soon about to crack. He jumped up into the air, screaming, swearing and waving with his knife. "I'll kill you!" he screamed. "I'll kill you if you tell on me! I will kill....!" Frôzahl stopped. He wouldn't want to draw attention towards his hiding spot. All the same, his outburst had enlightened him; he knew what he would have to do.