[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim obeyed Erenor without a word. The steady way in which she had given the order came from the mind of a woman who has just worked out what they are against and does not want to panic anyone - including herself. And if an elf of thousands of years more experience of the world than he was worried, Faerim had a feeling that whatever he was imagining didn't even come close. Turning tail immediately, he ran backwards, closely followed by the other two elves, although he did not immediately draw his sword; the light in the caves was little enough as it was and with the torch in one hand, he could not risk stumbling and thereby both putting out the light and possibly stabbing himself - not, he mused, a particularly heroic death for anyone, even a seventeen year old boy who was probably thought of by half his companions as a fool already.

The pounding seemed to be getting closer and closer, louder and louder, the ominous, muffled beat becoming stronger and faster and thought growing in confidence as the elves ran from it, swelling with the victory. Was it his imagination, or was the floor even now pounding along with the beat? No, impossible, nothing could be so large as to shake these caverns - impossible.

Beneath Faerim, the floor trembled suddenly, the very pebbles leaping and, with a yelp, the boy stumbled forward, barely catching himself in time as he carried on running, the torch flickering.

Possible.

Fear suddenly caught up with Faerim and as he turned the corner he flinched away from a sudden flare of bright light. Drawing his sword, he blinked against the light, before recognising his fellow soldiers. Faerim barely even paused in his step as he continued in his headlong sprint. "Run, quickly! There is-"

Belegorn grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him back. "Faerim, what is this nonsense-"

The floor shook, and for a second, Faerim saw the impossible: through Belegorn's capable, unshakeable gaze flashed a sudden dart of fear. He swallowed, trying to catch his breath, as Belegorn stared down the tunnel as Angore and Ereglin burst into view, followed closely by Erenor, all three with sword drawn. The lieutenant didn't question the grim expressions on their faces, and neither could he question the drumming, now unmistakably real, that pounding stronger and stronger by the second. Turning to his men, he signalled them back down the tunnel. "Retreat, men! Retreat back down the tunnels!"

"Lieutenant Belegorn, wait." It was Angóre who spoke. "To take the men back that way - we are leading them directly back to your people. The unarmed Dunedain are sitting ducks for these foes."

"And what foes exactly are these?" Bethiril interjected this comment, appearing behind Belegorn, the only one in the tunnel without a weapon - a fact that Faerim immediately noted and which he doubted Angóre had dismissed either. Erenor answered her, looking directly at her companion with a steady, no-nonsense gaze. "That sound, in such a place? What would you guess, Bethiril?"

For the first time in Faerim's sight, the calm, smooth porcelain of Bethiril's face faltered and her eyes widened. "It cannot be," she whispered.

"You know it is, Lady Bethiril," Erenor almost snapped in reply. "That sound is all too familiar, and you know it as the dwarves would have."

"And what sound is that exactly?" Belegorn inquired exasperatedly. His sword was now out, ready to run or fight as he glanced repeatedly down the tunnel the way the elves had come from.

Bethiril's expression was haunted as she took a few steps down the tunnel away from the pounding. She turned wide eyes upon the lieutenant and gave a simple, unexplained answer, but one that would inspire fear into the heart of any who knew what it meant. "Trolls, Lieutenant. Trolls."

Belegorn's jaw dropped, the answer wreaking the same effect upon him as it had upon the elves. Behind him, a few of the older soldiers had stayed, unmoved by his orders as they had seen that their leader stayed, and one of them swore softly, spitting on the ground and taking to his heels unashamedly. A few stayed, themselves holding a torch, but they were as spooked as Belegorn. Faerim looked from Erenor to Belegorn, seeking some explanation as to what these things were, what Bethiril's answer implied, before he saw Erenor's grim expression and understood that now was not the time for explanations. The elven lady had her eyes fixed upon Belegorn. "What would you have us do, Lieutenant?"

A scream echoed down the corridor, then another, desperate, urgent, high pitched - female. Fear drenched Faerim as he realised what this meant: besides the elves, there were but two women in the party: his mother and Renedwen. And the realisation, along with the sound, shook him to the core. Without thinking, every nerve balanced on that scream's echoes, Faerim was within seconds sprinting full pelt down the tunnel, torch held high. As he turned the corner he came to a crossroads in the tunnels, he heard Erenor's cry, then something lunged at him out of the side tunnel, hissing viciously. With a yell, he fell sideways, tumbling head over heels; as the torch extinguished itself, Faerim's world was plunged into darkness...