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Calimehtar reeled under the force of the blow. Sythric's dagger had caught him in the fleshy part of his upper right arm. Thankfully, the blade had not penetrated to the bone below, but the wound was bleeding profusely. More importantly, he had lost too many men to continue fighting.
Calimehtar gave the signal to retreat, the sign that his men should gather at the base of the hill on the east side. He scrambled down to the designated spot that they had agreed on ahead of time, but was dismayed to find that only three of his men had survived the onslaught. The results were even worse than he had thought. How could he have so misjudged the Rohirrim? The women had fought like banshees and the young men had made up in determination what they lacked in experience.
Calimehtar cursed under his breath. He would never make such a mistake again. Next time, he would come upon his enemy in the dead of night when he would have a clear advantage. It would not look good to have lost so many soldiers to such a tiny band. That could be fixed, he reasoned, by altering the circumstances ever so slightly. He would tell the Lord of Mordor that the men of Rohan had grossly outnumbered them (there would be no mention of women) and that they were lucky to come out alive. That should at least keep his own neck intact. One of the men tied a bandage around his lord's arm to staunch the flow of blood, and the small party set out in the woods, heading east to find a place to camp.
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