|
The thought flashed into Ferethor's mind at the soft but perfectly distinguishable sound of bowstring, Bows? Bloody Morgoth! But he needn't have feared, for as he stepped forward Roryn and Atharen both drew their own and slew the daring outlaw.
"Still a good shot." Atharen chuckled in a strained manner. "I was about to say the same of you, Atharen." Roryn flashed a quick smile back before his smile faded as several mounted and full battle-clad warriors of Harad were in their view.
"Greetings, fellow huntsmen of Harad! You wander far from your own land, we see. Why would you trouble us?" Ferethor spoke in the foul and uncouth language with ease, for he was versed in the speech of Harad. He struggled to keep his face expressionless and void of fury. but his eyes smoulderd with battle-lust.
"Fellow huntsmen, say you?" The man who seemed like a leader stepped forward, sneering derisively. "But we acknowledge no comraderie nor lordship with folk of Gondor. We live by our own laws and do as we wish."
Ferethor swallowed as he realized that persuasion was not going to work with these fierce outlaws. Some of the raiders have already notched the black-feathered arrows to their longbow, he noted. Atharen made a slight move and Ferethor knew that he had drawn his dagger. A little more time...
The leader, one who was clad in rough garments of leather and adorned with heathenish golden chains slowly raised his lance. "And my word is the law, Die, and curse in vain!"
Ferethor at once severed his lance-handle with an unexpected swift stroke of his own steel, crying, "For Gondor!" In the same, fluid movement, the blade buried itself in his chest and took his life. Instantly cries and uproar reverbrated the forest and echoed back in desolate sounds.
Ferethor wrenched his blade out and reeled to face others, trying to slash out of the scene of battle. Pinning a striken outlaw with his own spear to a tree and shattering his sable shield with foul designs engraved as if it was glass, Ferethor ducked from the arrows that whistled overhead. For a moment even as he broke out of the ring he could see Del holding a mounted raider at bay with a broken spear pole and a double-edged sword.
One rider loomed into his view, and he slashed his steel down forcefully. But the blade struck the steely band of the Haradrim's armour and glanced off, notched. Iluvatar! Ferethor whispered but the warrior crumpled suddenly beneath a green-feathered arrow, presumably Roryn's.
Del dealt a death stroke to one of the other bandits, crying "Flee!" as he battled. His splintered shield of earthen-bornw lay beneath his feet as he faced the others. Yet Ferethor stood transfixed on the spot, safe for now against the bandits. He was proud and his youthful heart was kindled with battle-lust born of vengeance, and would not leave his fellow comrade in the hands of their enemy.
|