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The rescue had gone smoothly, though Angóre still held fears about the pursuing Orcs. Though they were not mounted, and the Elves' train could easily outpace them, Orcs were notoriously unshakeable and the Dúnedain encampment lay less than a days ride away. He had no wish to bring a hundred orcs down on the civilians in that camp.
And now they were fleeing those very Orcs. Angóre held tight the mane of Carthor's stallion, feeling the very unusual weight of another person with him. His horse had been lost in the ambush and there had been no time to recover it, which had left the party one short. The ancient war-horse was the strongest of the beasts brought by Faerim and so Angóre had in front of him lady Bethiril, seemingly much the worse for wear from her captivity. Her eyes were strangely unfocused and it was all Angóre could do to keep her from sliding off to the side as the big war-horse galloped on, flying before the orcish host. In truth, the orcs were still grouping, scurrying about by the light of their burning camp like an anthill exposed to the sun. But Angóre knew better than to trust that sight. He could sense, away and to the left, a group of small fast goblins very nearly keeping pace with the horses of the Elven train and horses tire before the soldiers of the Enemy. Before him, Bethiril shifted again, and slouched heavily against Angóre's arm, causing Carthor's horse to veer left before he could respond.
It was Faerim, in this group of keen-eyed Elves, who first spotted the Dúnedain host, and he cried aloud. The darkness hid the sloppyness of the rearguard's movements, and to the eyes of the rescuers they looked proud and mighty. "We are safe! Hírvigil! Hírvigil and the Dúnedain!" The lad cried, standing in his stirrups and raising his sword, and a seemingly echoing roar came from the host of Men as the plunged forward, spears lowered.
Angóre's joy turned to shock. "They cannot see us!" He cried. "They will ride us down! Ride left, and may the Valar turn them aside!" He did not wait for a response before wheeling his horse. But the sudden movement caused Bethiril to shift again, and she would have fallen had not Angóre's arm been there. His arm buckled with the unexpected weight, pulling on the horse's mane, and Carthor's well trained stallion turned obediently back to his right as Angóre fought with the weight in his arms. It took him long seconds; seconds he could ill afford to lose, but he got the emissary upright again, groaning softly, and turned his attention back to the horse.
Carthor's stallion was a veteran and had stood his ground in many combats. He trusted implicitly the warrior he carried, and this is perhaps why he stood his ground in the face of the Dúnedain charge while around him the horses of the others fled madly to the left. It very nearly cost him all he had to give. Angóre's eyes were wide as he urged the warhorse to a dead run. The Dúnedain charge was nearly upon them, and it seemed impossible that he should make the edge of the charge before it overwhelmed him.
The last spear actually passed over his head as he cleared the line, the spearman wide-eyed and sawing frantically at the reins of his enraged beast to try to avoid this lone Elf. The stallion's tail flickered briefly in the breeze of the passing host, and then he was past; the host thundered past him towards the Orcish camp.
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