[Amanaduial the archer]

Hearing no reply, Faerim swore under his breath and leapt towards the stairs, taking them three at a time. Why was Brander not replying? And where was his mother? The orcs had not yet reached their level, but... hearing footsteps, the youth spun around, his sword out and pointing in the direction of the noise as he paused mid-step.

"Son! Faerim! What is it?" Lissi's anxious face looked up at him from beneath him. Faerim sagged visibly with relief, grinning widely at his mother. "Mother...Brander, where is he?"

"I'm here." Brander's soft, reassuring voice came from the top of the stairs as the blind boy walked down them assuredly, but with his hand gripping the banister carefully. "You aren't hurt, Faerim?"

Faerim grinned, laughing breathlessly as he took his brother's hand to stop him, and clasping it in his own. "Me, brother? The orcs were running scared away from me!"


Brander smiled, his hand coming up to Faerim's face as if he was checking him over. But there wasn't a second to spare. "Your father, Faerim - did you see him?" Lissi sounded anxious, coming to the bottom of the stairs. Her eldest son turned to face her, coming down the stairs quickly as he shook his head, pushing his long, fine blonde hair out of his face as he did so, his expression impassive, still breathless. "He was on the ground level, mother; I was above, with the archers. I...I did not see Carthor when the orcs took the ground level."

Lissi's eyes opened wide and she raised a hand to her mouth. "They have already taken over the ground level."

Faerim clenched his jaw tightly as he nodded. He was about to speak when he heard a scream, very suddenly, from far closer than he would have expected, and his head snapped to the side, his fist clenching over the sword that he still held. Vaulting the banister, the youth landed hard on the wooden floor but took no notice of the jarring in his ankles as he ran to the window and looked through the slit between the shutters down the street. There, coming down the street, were at least half a dozen of the vile orcs: he could see them so closely, barely twenty feet away, their foul laughter echoing down the street as they battered their way into the houses. The screams of women came from the houses all around, the men being away fighting, and the orcs simply raised their heads and laughed. Faerim felt sick. How had they managed to get to this level? And the orcs were like a breaking dam: where there was a trickle, there would soon be a crushing torrent.

He couldn't help gasping quietly in horror, and his mother picked up on it, coming to his side. "What? What is the matter, Faerim?"

Faerim pushed his mother gently back, trying to keep her away so that she wouldn't see the vile creatures, shaking his head silently, but Lissi pushed past him, looking through the slit. As soon as she saw the orcs, she opened her mouth, making to speak, but Faerim put his finger to her lips, shaking his head urgently. "We need to get out as quietly as possible, mother - they cannot know we are here," he murmured softly. Lissi, her eyes wide and bright, nodded mutely. "Go, please, get a cloak for yourself and Brander - I will get the horses ready." With that, he was gone, sprinting out of the door quickly as Lissi, pausing only for a second, flew up the stairs in a whirlwind of skirts to prepare herself and Brander. Faerim was glad for his mother's sensibility: he needed it now, when he was required, for once in his life, to be responsible. It was something he had otherwise managed to pretty well avoid...

The family, unlike most, had their own stables in use, at the side of the house, joining through the cellar: you went down the stairs to the cellar and up those which led to the servant's quarters, almost seperate from the main house: by going up these steps, you entered the side of the stables. Not, of course, that they were particularly vibrant: there was space for a dozen horses in the high ceilinged, spacious stalls, but what use had they for a dozen horses? There was only an old widow next door with no interest in equine activities of any sort, and Carthor had gambled away much of the family's money - they had no excess for more than was needed. But despite their slowly dwindling fortune, Carthor had always held firm to one principle: that his horse was never to be sold, and that his sons were always going to be able to hold their heads high and ride their own horses. It was an ironic twist, then, when Carthor discovered that one of his sons would never be able to ride independantly, but his wife had persuaded him to keep the horse, being herself a keen horseman. Grudgingly, Carthor had agreed, doing simply what would please his delicate young wife and avoid hassle for himself. Faerim found himself especially thankful for this as he ascended the few steps quickly and tried to push open the door. It wouldn't move: locked, and the key probably knocked out by the thuds that shook the city and the houses. Rather than wasting time on looking in the dingy, unlit room, Faerim simply took a step backwards and kicked the door open with all his might. It splintered loudly and he winced at the noise, then entered the stables and quickly ran down to where the horses were kept.

Faerim's own horse, simply named North, had been a gift out of practicality when the boy was thirteen and had outgrown the docile, delicate steed that he had learnt to ride on as a boy. Both father and son had been determined that Faerim would join the military and so, as a sort of coming of age gift, the newly broken in, powerful black stallion had been given to him: and since then, with Faerim now seventeen and North the same, both steed and master had fleshed out nicely, the latter growing into the war horse that he had always been intended to be. North whinnied quietly as his master approached and stamped uneasily hay-strewn floor, tossing his great black head, nervous of the thumps and sudden flashes that could be seen dully through the dirty, high windows of the stables. Faerim laid a hand gently on his horse's muzzle, stroking his fingers down the long white stripe that ran down the horse's nose, making a soft, soothing 'shushing sound as he unbolted the stall door, and saddled and bridled North deftly. Coming out again, the boy now faced a hard decision.

His mother's wish to keep a horse of her own would serve them well now. The creature was a delicate looking mare, tailored to fit a growing boy and to teach him to ride well on a challenging steed. Brander had never used the horse independantly though, but the mare was perfect for Lissi: dappled grey, it's intelligent eyes dark and quiet, a good natured beast. But those eyes were now wide, the whites showing brightly as the horse neighed, terrified of the noises outside. In the stall beside this was another horse: Carthor's. To look at this horse, one could never be in doubt of it's purpose as a war-horse: as scarred and ancient as it's owner, the creature was as powerful a beast as ever walked Middle Earth, it's broad shoulders and wide, muscled girth having seen Carthor through very many long winters and expeditions. The horse barely fidgeted in it's stall, instead looking at Faerim with a deep, trusting understanding of the noises outside, quiet and calm.

The Dunedain youth hesitated, looking from his mother's mare to his father's war-horse. The latter would be more practical - a war horse would be more enduring, and there was less chance of it frighting as they rode through the streets. And what if Carthor returned? He would need his horse. But to ask Lissi to leave behind her mare... Faerim shook his head and unbolted the mare's door, taking only as brief a second as was possible to try to calm the horse before he began to saddle her up. He would have to take all three.

Having saddled up and bridled all three horses, Faerim tied together the bridles of North and Carthor's horse with a long piece of twine rope: long enough and strong so they would be able to ride together, but not so strong that one horse would not be able to break free of the other if one was injured or killed. Angry at the time he had wasted in deliberating which horse to choose, Faerim moved quickly, quickly packing up some horsefeed and lashing it to North's saddle. Then he stopped once more, as he reached the door, catching sight of what sat beside it...

"Mother, Brander!" Faerim immediately regretted shouting and clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms as he looked around alertly at the street at the back of the house. No sign of any orcs yet...

The door swung open and Lissiel and Brander ran out, Lissi guiding her son with a light hand. She held in her hand a sack, which looked alarmingly heavy and unwieldy to Faerim. "Mother, we can't take-"

Lissi shushed Faerim with a wave of her hand. "We'll take these, Faerim, it isn't much. Here-" She slipped a very full quiver of arrows of her back and handed it to her son. "I thought you might need these - you haven't any left there."

Faerim blushed at his foolishly, the red vivid against his pale skin, and counted his blessings for his mother's observant and practical nature, whilst simultaneously feeling ridiculous for not organising himself. His mother had also equipped herself with one of his father's weapons: a bladed staff. But Faerim nonetheless felt it his duty to give her what he had brought as well. He took a sheathed short sword from where he had hung it on North's saddle, and handed it to her. "Here: this would be more useful when riding. What on earth have you got in that sack? And can you use that staff well?" he added, eyeing the other weapon. Lissi simply smiled knowingly and raised her eyebrows before she turned to the grey mare and mounted smoothly. Faerim raised one of his own and grinned at her, despite their desperate situation, then turned to Brander, taking the other item he had picked up from the stables. "Brander - something for you to defend yourself..."

The younger boy took the weapon, his expression confused: they both knew that a blade would hardly help him in a desperate situation. But as he felt over the object, his face brightened in understanding, and Brander smiled at Faerim hesitantly. "A staff..."

"More like a club really: it can't hurt you but you're strong enough to fairly do some damage with it." Although Brander couldn't see it, Faerim's smile was audible in his voice, and Faerim saw his brother almost glowing with pride at the responsibility. Nodding, satisfied that they were ready and without a second to lose, Faerim helped his brother up into the saddle then mounted quickly in front of him. Settling them both, Brander's hands around his waist lightly, the quiver of arrows slung awkardly across his back with the bow, and his sword in the saddle-sheath, Faerim took a deep breath. He had been working on auto-mode so far: he was just waiting to fall apart. Looking across at his mother, Faerim noted the bright grey light that seemed to shine out of her eyes, making them almost otherworldly. Seeing him looking, Lissi turned to her son and smiled nervously, her calm nature reassuring without saying a word. Faerim took another deep breath, squeezed his brother's hand lightly, and, with that, the family began their exodus, making their way along the street from which they would head to the Inner Sanctum. Surely the orcs couldn't get there as well...