[Amanaduial the archer]

As Faerim rose in his saddle and held his sword high to his kinsmen, he felt a rush of exhileration course through every inch of his self as the crowd of Dunedain roared back seemingly in reply. But his grin soon began to fade as the men lowered their spears and began to charge forward.

Towards the elves.

Faerim's grin slipped from his face in horror and his eyes widened before he gathered his senses and galloped to the side of the host, going as fast as he possibly good so as not to be run down by his own allies. The weight of the elf behind him felt strangely heavy although she was not ungainly: she sat well in the saddle, moving with his own movements, obviously an excellent horsewoman, but she seemed as unfamiliar as he in this way of riding - neither were used to travelling with another with them. But the newly rescued woman had determinedly mounted up on a horse of her own and had fled in a trice with her child, a boy of about ten - thereby leaving the elves and Faerim another mount short, and so meaning that the lady Erenor had to travel with Faerim: they had to get away as swiftly as possible and it had been the quickest way, the other spare horse having been with Gaeredhel. But at least she seemed awake, much more so than the other female elf, who was slumped across Carthor's mount with Angóre - indeed, Erenor had been the most alert of all, chillingly efficient in her cutting the throat of an orc who threatened to thwart the rescue attempt. Feeling her weight against his back as she leant forward to streamline their passage, Faerim glanced back for a split second, seeing the fair, noble face staring straight forward, keen eyes fixed on their target: the edge of the Dunedain line.

The horses of his own kinsmen were dangerously close now, travelling too fast to stop, and the pair of riders still had about twenty metres to the end of the line. Leaning over North's neck, his fingers woven white into the horse's mane, he dug his heels in and urged him on desperately at a dead run to the end of the line. Come on, come on, I cannot have got this far to be run down by my own cavlary...!

With a last spurt, North charged forward and was out of the way of the Dunedain line with barely a second to spare. As they thundered past, swords held high and in full armour, Faerim realised just how close it had been, feeling almost faint with relief. But there was no time to spare now: the line of Dunedain thundered on and, Erenor or no Erenor, this rescue mission was not over yet. Drawing his sword, he turned his head and had to yell over the furious drumming of horse hooves and the sound of battle for the elf behind him to hear. "This hardly seems practical, my Lady, but it seems we shall have to fight together," he yelled, trying to sound confident.

Faerim felt rather than heard her exasperated sigh, then the glint of silver rose so dangerously close to his eyes that the hairs on the back of his neck rose. "It shall have to do," she replied grimly. Faerim inclined his head and shifted his fingers nervously on the swore hilt, but Erenor interrupted his preparation, adding, "You may like to use your bow though: it is a more practical way of fighting when there are two of us: there is less chance of you hitting me."

Deciding not to take the comment as an insult, Faerim nodded once and wordlessly sheathed his sword, but loosely, ready to pull out in a second. His bow ready to hand, the youth steeled himself for the impact of his very first battle, and pulled hard on North's reins and gave a short, fierce yell, digging in his heels. With a whinny of delight, excitement and terror that reflected Faerim's own terrifying mix of emotions, the horse reared back then set off at a gallop through the Dunedain ranks and towards the battle.

North was a nimble horse, and fast, and although he carried two riders, he was spared all the extra weight of cumbersome armour that others wore, with Faerim crouched low over his neck, his face almost touching the horse's flyaway mane. They reached the front ranks fairly quickly, jostled though they were by other riders. As Erenor raised her vicious looking curved sword - both beautiful and dangerous, probably rather like the lady herself, Faerim mused uncomfortably - Faerim tightened his grip on the saddle between his legs and took his bow from his back, ready strung, and raised it to his face. The orcs were coming straight for them, a solid wall of stolen fur, fangs, gruesomely stained weapons and glaring, half-dead yellow eyes. Fighting the urge to whimper or run away, Faerim braced himself for the impact and let fly with the first arrow. But even his good aim could only delay impact for a moment of two and when it came, it was so sudden that the youth felt like he had been flung into a brick wall.

Inexperienced in battle as his rider, North reared up, lashing out with his hooves at the dark beasts that assailed him and doing his bit. Faerim did his best to hold on and continued to fire, against all odds, into the mass of creatures, focusing only on the tip of the arrow and it's intended target, barely even aware of Erenor behind him as she swung time after time, hewing down those who came too near. Taking a second to regain himself as he almost slipped from the saddle, Faerim snatched at North's reins and urged him on once more, moving him forward through the melee - and the horse obliged, trying to run from this sharp, jagged place, an assault on every one of his sensed. Erenor almost slipped at the sudden movement and Faerim grabbed her wrist to steady her, more as a reflex than anything else. As soon as she had regained her balance on the fast moving horse, Faerim let go and turned his attentions back to his bow, firing another three arrows into the melee around him. But it was too much concentration to keep up, and his eyes and both arms were tiring quickly from this method of fighting: he knew he couldn't keep it up.

As an orc charged towards them with an awful yell, Faerim turned, startled and unable to take it down at such a close range, and it's blade almost took off his leg before Erenor's blade arced across sliced it's head from it's shoulders at such a speed that the body of the orc did not stop for a moment afterwards. North danced out of the way, equine eyes wide and fearful, and so it was the unfortunate soldier close by to Faerim who bore the brunt of the orc's weight: the man was taken unawares as the heavy body of the orc slumped across him and the spiked armour caused his horse to rear in pain. With a yell, the hapless man fell from his horse onto the muddy, churned up ground and, despite Faerim's attempt to get to him, an orc got there first, cutting the soldier's throat in passing. Faerim drew back in horror but Erenor barely paused: seizing the now redundant horse's reins, she swung across onto it's back from North's and was settled in the saddle in an instant. Giving Faerim a brief, grim nod, she raised her sword once more and continued her attack.

Faerim hesitated, marvelled at the elf's cold, business like efficiency in taking the dead man's horse, and in that precious second he very nearly lost his life as an orc attacked from behind. Faerim turned in an instant, his hand finding his sword and plunging it backwards into the orc's thick torso with lightning quick speed, but the closeness of his death standing by had jerked the young man back to his senses: sword now ready in his hand, he swung it around in a wide circle and, surrounded by his kinsmen, he attacked.